Dreaming of Dragons

“Dreaming of Dragons” came about through Furious Fiction, from the Australian Writers’ Centre. Each edition of Furious Fiction introduces prompts that add to the challenge and also the fun. In addition to the permanent cap of 500 words, there are requirements about how the story must begin or end, three words that must appear (in some form) in the body of the story, and some narrative element that must be included. Also, your submission must be completed before the weekend ends in Australia, which is mighty early Sunday morning for those of us on the East Coast in the States!

Furious Fiction is a delight, mostly because the folks at the Australian Writers’ Centre foster an encouraging, positive mood. Everyone involved makes it a pleasure to be a part of the experience. It’s just good fun.

“Dreaming of Dragons” is a little story that (like most fiction, I believe) emerges from a kernel of truth that popped many years ago. Names have been changed, of course, and events have been significantly altered for purposes of a good yarn, but at it’s heart is a memory that has never left me. I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether it’s a good one or not.

“What'll it be?" Uncle Teddy asks. "A funny story or a scary story?"

He stands by the side of my bed, patiently awaiting my decision. His unguarded smile and shining brown eyes promise something unrivaled no matter which choice I make. I waver at an emotional precipice. It's the same queasy feeling I get when I stand on a ledge, like someone tied a string to my guts and now they're slowly, steadily drawing me forward.

Uncle Teddy is the funniest guy in the whole family, but he is also the family’s master of horror. And tonight he occupies another role: favorite babysitter. Mom and Dad won't be back until after midnight.

When my uncle visits each summer, the living room television fills the house with screams and grating soundtracks, made evermore intoxicating by the scent of freshly popped popcorn. Mom never tells Uncle Teddy to turn it down. But I am only seven and not allowed to see the images that accompany what I smell and hear after bedtime on those endless nights.

I have to lie there next to my open window, trying not to imagine what the adults see. What's in my head is always worse than what's really going on, like the time I thought my grandma's dog was dying, but it was really just stuck outside the house and crying to get back in.

Opening my mouth, intending to ask Uncle Teddy to frighten me, I hear myself say, “A funny story.”

“Okay,” he says. He's already laughing. This one is so good he can't keep it in. He settles on the side of my bed. “Here we go.”

Though my cowardice shames me, I inwardly thrill at the fact that Uncle Teddy will end my day with a smile. He smiles easily, and it lights up his eyes in a way my dad's never does; it's the smile of someone who knows every punchline, who has seen the ending and knows it all comes out right. My excitement doubles when I realize tonight's story is a slow burn.

A friend at school just told me the one about the terrified undertaker whose life is spared when a friend gives him some cough drops to stop the coffin that has chased him all over the graveyard, through the forest, and across town. This one is going to be like that.

Uncle Teddy builds suspense, weaving a story about a little boy whose mother enters the forest behind their house and doesn't come back. Then, following the familiar path of story-jokes, the boy’s father and eventually his brave uncle follow after, also never returning. Finally, the boy has to walk into the forest, all alone, to find out what's happening.

I see the shadows beneath the boughs, hear owls hooting and the croaking of frogs. Uncle Teddy leans closer, describing the branches scraping, the leaves crunching underfoot, the birds flying the other way. Sometimes the only difference between comedy and horror is the punchline, I realize, leaning into the vision with an expectant smile on my face.

Finally, the moment arrives. Uncle Teddy rears back, throwing up his hands, and yells, “And then the boy stepped into the clearing and found a huge, fire-breathing dragon!”

I jerk away. Tears flood my eyes as Uncle Teddy continues, each word biting deeper than the last: “It had toasted his parents and his uncle, and now it’s going to eat…YOU!”

Roaring with laughter, he thrusts out his hands to tickle me but stops with inches to go. His laughter chokes off. His smile lingers in a rictus.

“What?” he asks. “Too scary?”

“I said…”

I can barely whisper.

“A funny story.”

Uncle Teddy groans. “I thought you said a scary story.”

I wipe my eyes, staring at nothing at all, still seeing the dragon lunge, all claws and teeth, still smelling the acrid smoke trailing from his jaws.

“I’m sorry, buddy.”

I shift uncomfortably. I hear regret in his voice and understand that I’ve ruined his night by getting scared over the very bedtime story I’d secretly wanted to hear. I really am just a kid, not ready for grown-up movies. The realization stings worst of all.

“I’ll tell you a funny story,” he offers. “Help you forget this one.”

I shake my head.

“Leave the light on?”

I shake my head again.

Uncle Teddy leaves. When the television comes on, it isn’t horror. It's a Bill Murray movie, one of his favorites. I won’t remember getting out of bed or walking down the hall, clutching my stuffed Chewbacca as if I'm only half my actual age, but I’ll never forget the moment he looks over and sees me next to the couch. He doesn’t speak. Just waves. Then he pats the cushion beside him.

I sit down and he tilts the popcorn my way. I take my first handful, breathing in both its scent and his, letting bedtime slip farther behind on a night when sleep no longer awaits. I'd seen the truth in his eyes when he almost tickled me. I saw his own fear for just a second. Because the dragon is real, and Mom and Dad are still miles from home.