Diary of a Dragon

Diary of a Dragon
Copyright © 2013 

by Beale-Williams Enterprise. 

All rights reserved.

Cover and interior illustrations Copyright © 2013 

by William Eakin. 

All rights reserved.

Print version interior design Copyright © 2013 

by Desert Isle Design. 

All rights reserved.

Electronic Edition

ISBN

978-1-59606-559-8

Subterranean Press

PO Box 190106

Burton, MI 48519

www.subterraneanpress.com

Dear Diary

Went out shopping today. Picked up half a dozen sheep, two pigs, and a princess. The sheep are rather depressingly thin, the pigs and princess only slightly less so. The wind off the mountains was very cold and my joints ache. I am growing too old for this flying-around nonsense.

Later:

I have discovered a nasty-looking arrow lodged in the scales of my armpit. Someone from that castle, no doubt. As if they did not have three or four more princesses waiting around the place, and dozens more to be had from other castles. I just know it will fester. Even if I am lucky and it does not turn gangrenous, it will certainly itch. Mean-spirited little humans. I have never, ever liked them.

Dear Diary

The sheep were stringy, as I feared. If someone is going to leave mutton standing around in a field masquerading as early spring lamb, they should hang a large sign on it saying “mutton,” so a poor old soul like myself does not strain his aching pinions carrying it back.

The pigs look more hopeful. I will have one of them tomorrow, and the princess for dessert. Before I eat her, I will make her look at this arrow-spite under my arm so she feels properly guilty.

Dear Diary

The princess is a horrible creature. She has crawled into the back of my cave where I cannot reach her and will not come out and be eaten. I could roast her with my fiery breath, I suppose, but then she would just stay there and the old den would never feel quite clean again. (Reminder to self: sweep sheep bones to midden. One preserved here to remind me not to visit that pasture again.)

I have tried to reason with her, but it is useless. Not for the first time, I wonder that such a profoundly stupid species should have such a wonderful way with sheep. (Although whichever tribe this princess belongs to appears to have lagged behind the rest in their husbandry skills, if the quality of what I picked up yesterday is any indication.)

Later:

Horrible princess sang songs all night. My old bones ache and my eyes feel like I have flown through a sandstorm. I threatened to roast her, but she just sang louder. To add to my irritation, the remaining pig has fouled the floor. I have scrubbed and scrubbed with a wet birch tree, but I can still smell it. My stomach has gone all goozly, and I do not think I would enjoy the princess just now even if she did the right thing and came out.

Also, I will now have to find some place to wash this pig before I can bear to eat it, but if I leave the den, the horrible princess creature will run away and I will have a tedious time swooping around in the cold wind until I find her. I am
very
cross.

Dear Diary

The princess saw me writing in my Diary yesterday afternoon and said, “Can dragons read and write?”  To which I responded (a little testily) “Better than princesses can sing.” It is depressing to descend to that level, but I did not sleep well last night, either. I do not know who has taught this horrid girl to make music, but whoever it is should be immediately killed. Twice, if possible.

Dear Diary

It is miserable outside. Here is a frozen bear. It is the very stupid one I wrote about back in the autumn—the one who had become confused about when to hibernate.

Dear Diary

The wretched, wretched creature is blackmailing me! She has told me that she is bored and wants to draw, and that if I do not give her my Diary and ink, she will sing every night, all night. And I am to feed her, too. I am speechless with rage, and furious with myself for leaving that alcove in the back of the den which is too narrow for me to get into with my bad back and whatnot. Again I am tempted to flame her to a cinder, but the thought of then continuing indefinitely with a singed princess just out of reach…

Dreadful. Yes, I am truly furious. If I can solve the running-away problem, I think I will go out and find something to kill, which would make me feel better.

Later:

I blocked the cave entrance with a boulder (and of course pulled a muscle in my foreleg, which is now throbbing miserably) and went outside. I chased a deer, but it ran into a thicket and I scratched myself. While I was putting snow on the wounds (and waiting for the thicket to stop burning) I decided that it would be easier to give her what she wants. If we develop some trust, some mutual understanding, perhaps at some point she will come out, and then I can eat her.

Dear Diary

The princess-thing is making pictures. To my horror, I have discovered she is one of those people who sings while she draws.

I could not give her
you
, of course, dear Diary. But I have given her a few old sheepskins and a bit of ink and a quill. When I tossed them into her hidey-hole, she said “thank you.” Thank you! As though I were some kindly old human who had given her sugar-candy, instead of a lordly dragon being forced to comply with the threats and menaces of a delinquent child. The snooty baggage. Just a moment, she’s saying something.

Hah. She wants to know if I can think of a way to stretch the skins on something to make them flatter. “When you have a moment or two,” she said.

I will eat her very, very slowly.