On bended knee

He kissed her ring,

Gazing up into the eyes of his queen.

Her smile bared her fangs, though it was a tender smile

And her eyes held his gaze.

“Stand.”

Commanded the Dragon Queen, so he stood,

Still gazing into her fiery eyes.

“The time has come, my warrior. You must fly to Mesothalia and face the mighty armies of Ir-Ahn-Rah. If you fail to lead my dragon army to victory, his forces will soon enter our realm and I will have to lead my reserves against him.”

“I will not fail you, my Dragon Queen.”

She smiled.

“Then you will win your reward, as we agreed. You will take my hand in marriage and rule Dragonia at my side.”

He stepped forward.

“I will not fail.”

They smiled and she took his hand, pulling him to her and kissing his lips. Fire sparked in her throat and her wings, housed safely under her skin, throbbed in readiness.

He was the only mortal she had ever desired without wanting to devour completely.

Breaking the kiss, she gasped a flame of fire toward the ceiling as her head tossed back.

“Then go, Y-Garth! Go and lead my armies to victory!”

The warrior tipped his head to the queen and smiled before step-skip and jumping to the open window and leaping through it onto the back of his waiting dragon.

Below him in the skies massed a thousand dragon soldiers each carrying a human warrior.

A cheer went up as they saw their leader. He wheeled his dragon to the south and dug in his heels as the beast soared into action and led the massed warriors toward the battlefield.

Inside, the Dragon Queen sat on her throne.

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

(I used to read a little fantasy in my youth. Then I discovered Terry Pratchett. But I have never written in the genre, hence my attempt here. Obviously, there's a little romance, too... but who wouldn't fall in love with a Dragon Queen! :)

This wedding annoucement was submitted to the newspaper I work at:

"We the parents of Imran Hussain and Desiree Chatham would like to inform you with great uneasiness that Imran and Desiree have decided to tie the knot on November 10th, even after repeated attempts by both families to break them apart. Their love remains steadfast and their decision making skills, poor.

The wedding will not be held at a religious place as etiquette suggests, but at some boho-hippie lounge. The dress code is casual, but both families implore the guests to dress in formal cocktail attire in order to sabotage this wedding. They don't want presents, but please bring many extravagant ones as the parents can take them home. Food will not be served. Eat at home losers.

See you then you shameless twats."

She screamed at the sight of the alien. It raised its hands up and told her not to panic. The world became dizzy. It watched her body descend and hit the floor.

The alien used its mind to lift her off the ground & place her on her couch. After what seemed like almost an hour later, she slowly opened her eyes and hit the alien in its face. The alien rubbed its forehead and looked at the human.

Alien: (groans) I guess I had that coming. I apologize for just barging into your home like this, Devin.

Devin: Yeah~eh, how do you know my name? Who are you?

The alien moved its hand toward its wrist and then tapped something on its watch. She watched as the alien changed into a human being.

Devin: (gasps) Zack?

Zack: (smiles & waves) Hey. (chuckles)

Devin: Is this some kind of prank? Wait, this doesn’t make any sense. Are you telling me you’re an alien?

Zack: (nods) Yes, I am.

Devin: But why did you not say anything from the first day that we met.

Zack: I was afraid you’d want nothing to do with me, or that you would think I came to take over this planet. Uh, I blame the movies. Not all aliens want to take over earth, or any other part of the galaxy.

Devin: Um, okay. Well, now that I know you’re an alien, your secret is safe with me. I won’t inform the military. (smiles)

Zack: (smiles) Ha. Heh, they already know that I’m here.

Devin: Oh. Really?

Zack: Yep. Don’t worry. I told them I would not cause any harm to people, or any other life on this earth.

Devin: Humans can learn a lot from you then.

Zack: Hmm, maybe I should start a blog.

Devin: Are you sure about that?

Zack: I will use my human cover. Zack, a local environmentalist and youth activist. One of your friendly neighbors from right next door.

Devin: (laughs) Good luck with that.

Zack: Anyway, let me go start working on it. See you later. (walks to the front door)

Devin shakes her head and chuckles. She wondered if there were other aliens that she knows that are disguised as humans like Zack.

She was glad that Zack was not here to take over the world. Then again she thought what if this was their way of slowly taking over~ by getting to know about the humans peacefully right before killing them, or taking over their world.

Devin got up from the couch and told herself she was thinking too much about this and had nothing to worry about. Maybe it was just her mind cooking up ideas from all the films she had seen over the years about aliens.

**************************************

#ALVORE©️ #ChangeYourGenre

https://theprose.com/challenge/9184

25 Oct., 2019.

Her eyes flung open as she drew in breath. The flickering firelight danced with her irises as her mind drifted off into the sultry melodies of a nearby phonograph. The smell of sweet rose petals and dark chocolate filled her lungs. “Good evening, my lovely bride,” a voice suddenly rang out. She looked to find a handsome man standing in the doorway. Her heart jumped in shock, then froze completely at the sight of his gorgeous face and stunning physique. Before she could finish sizing him up, he started towards her. “I’ve been waiting all day long,” he exhaled, loosening his tie. “You have?” she stuttered, watching him continue onward. He rolled his neck as he unbuttoned his shirt. “Oh, yes,” he whispered. Her lip quivered at the sight of his tantalizing abs. Pausing right in front of her seat at the edge of the bed, he took hold of her sleeves and ran his hands up to her cold shoulders. “You’re so beautiful,” he sighed, fingering her silky dress in threats to remove it. “Not too shabby yourself,” she breathed as he cupped her face in his hands. Their lips caressed each other’s as their eyes got lost deep in the back of their heads. Just then, he pulled away. “Are you ready?” he asked. She nodded impatiently, struggling to keep her hands from grabbing him. He loosened his belt then continued the smooch. In a swift motion, he swept her onto her back. “I love you so much,” he moaned, planting kisses down her neck and into her bosom. Her muscles tensed in surprise and delight as his lips returned to hers. Her hands found their way up his back and into his soft hair, while his found the zipper to her wedding gown. Dropping the last of their clothing to the floor, he passionately intertwined with her. His warm breath on her neck and strong hands grasping her sides caused her to shiver in ecstasy. She threw her head back with a blissful gasp as rhythmic pleasure pulsed through her body. Her heart rate increased rapidly, her breaths became shallow, and her hands clenched onto his shoulder blades. Every fiber of her being longed to scream out his name, but, for the life of her, she couldn’t seem to remember it.

I forgot about homework, yes truly

Then remembered, but forgot once again

I’m surprised how poor mem’ry, it threw me

To a panic, yet I managed to pen

One quatrain while I sang in the shower

A few more lines while I combed through my hair

A couplet while crying in rush hour

And some more rhymes that I plucked from thin air

Should my sonnet be filled with delusions

Or brimming over with loves sad and true

I’m not sure, but I’ll tie up the loose ends

I mean, it’s just homework I’ve got to do

Hey, look, everyone! Ten beats ’til we’re done!

Ten, nine, eight, seven, five, four, three, two, one

In the back of the auditorium during every highschool party, there lives a lonely trashcan, home to at least one bouquet of roses. Whether it was the boy or girlfriend of a stereotypical heterosexual relationship that had been friendzoned or straight up dumped right then and there, we'll never know. All that's present is the aftermath, the calm after the storm, the archeological remains of a teenage dream that never was.

Pretty sad, right?

Me and my friends, we look for life after death. We call ourselves the RRC (Rejection Roses Club), or sometimes the FFG (Friendship Flowers Gang), depending on the scenerio. We, a pack of misfit lesbians and one token straight (sorry, Amy), take your forsaken flowers out of the bin and turn them into something beautiful.

And by beautiful, we mean distributing them amongst ourselves and others to impress girls, or just have fun with it. And by have fun with it, that could be anything from throwing the petals at more unsuspecting strangers or breaking them up into little pieces and snorting them (whatever floats your boat, Amy).

After seeing us collect their thrown out bouquets and act feral with them, the entire school knows who we are.

They know us as the group who asked the principal out for a polyamorous relationship (to which she responded by giving us afterschool detention; learn to take a joke Miss Flats). They know us as the girls who leave flower petals in random paths around the school, and sometimes even letting them rain down on people in the stairwell.

For some, we bless them with a spare rose to give to their beloved. For others, we curse them with constant allergies.

Many don't recognize us among other theater or art kids, but if you look closely at us, we've used our art skills to add small flowers on our clothes. (I myself have some sunflowers drawn on my Vans and pansies embroidered on my cap.)

Aside from the flowers, we make other mayhem around school. Ever seen pet rocks in random locations in classrooms, or the pictures on Mr. Sharp's desk that have (unknowingly to him) been replaced by ones of Shrek? Thank me later.

Normally, Holly High is suburban public school hell.

The RRC makes things more interesting (whether people ask for it or not)!

The walk along the warf of Chelsea Piers was anything but quiet. Vendors shouting, children screaming and bumping past my shaking knees - I couldn't hear my own thoughts. Just as well, because I never wanted to hear them.

Each step along the sidewalk sent a shudder through my frail body, following a rhythm of three taps for each stride. As another child nearly knocked me into yesteryear, I grunted and tightened the grasp over my cane. I was getting too old for this.

I remembered a time when I was once young enough to race those children down to the docks. I'd laugh and skip with my longer limbs, giving them a handicap. Life was much simpler in those times, before the market crashed. Parties were frequent, business was booming. Everything was a game we were winning.

And then the crash hit, crumbling our empire. The United States plummeting from it's high tower.

"Ramblings of a fool," I muttered to myself, wheezing a little as the sidewalk started to slope downward. "You were drunk in the thirties anyway, that's nothing you would remember."

My destination was much quieter than the main part of the pier. There were less people gathered, the crowd thinning just a bit. Thankfully the slope evened out, and I could catch my breath. Looming brick buildings stood like sentries in the waning light, the gold halo of lamps slowly becoming lit as the sun dipped behind Lady Liberty. I paid no mind - my eyes were too bad to enjoy it like I used to.

At the edge of the pier, tucked away like a child's forgotten toy, stood the skeletal remains of a boathouse. I remembered it from its hayday, when its body was full and nearly a mile long. Like a long warehouse meant to stretch over the Hudson Bay. As the years passed, more and more of it became delapidated from lack of use, as the company went out of business. Now all that was left was the front door. A large arch with an empty metal grid over the face, the burnished red of rust staining the edges.

At least a hundred feet away, embossed in brass like most plaques in New York, was a cement slab for a memorial. I drew as close as I could, the ache in my chest faint, but still throbbing like an infection.

TITANIC DISASTER

RMS Carpathia at Pier 54

I hadn't cried in front of the plaque in over twenty years, but it seemed I was getting sentimental in my old age. Ancient feelings I thought I had lost to years of visits and alcohol suddenly came rushing back, along with memories I wished time had erased. Aching loss, burning lips, hazel eyes. The cold, cold water, and splashing bodies that struggled until their muscles froze. A child screaming for their mother, and their voice growing quieter and quieter. I remembered my own skin coated in salt and frost. The light that left my lover's eyes as the water claimed her soul.

It must be disconcerting to see someone crying over a building's skeleton, let alone someone of my age. Though, I must clarify that some of the tears were of relief.

I knew this would be my last visit to the pier.

He had been walking through the treacherous desert for days. His feet had several blisters, forehead was beaded with sweat. His throat longed to feel cold, sweet water, stomach desired a proper meal. His heart had turned cold, eyes fixed on the horizon. Mirages, his brain had adapted to. Home; the only word which escaped his mouth had once been a shout which had now been reduced to barely a whisper.

The sand was his enemy for it streched out for miles. He could almost hear it’s laugh, an evil and wicked one. For he was the sands prisoner, the most hostile enemy of all. He had been outwitted by the tiny specks, he knew that. If only I ccan escape, retrace my steps, he thought. He had been walking in circles wondering how huge the place was.

The sun had been bitter and inhospitable as well. It’s rays neearly blinded the man. Several times he had called for help, but Apollo was too busy to even acknowledge him. The sun was supposed to be friendly and light up his way, instead it made everything hot.

The only friend he had was the moon. It always had a friendly smile and shimmered brightly. It changed it’s form everyday. It had even sent a star to guide him and sent cool winds which blew across his face. He thanked the moon every night for it’s friendliness. It laid a blanket of stars everyday. He looked intensely at them till his neck would start to cramp. He wondered, perhaps someone around the world is looking at them thinking of me. It was his motivation.

It was on his seventh day when he started to see something swirling in the sand. At first he mistook them for a mirage, then he realized his time had come. They had come for him. A cry of fear escaped his mouth, but he was quick to understand and accept his destiny. His friend was quick to understand his pain and sent waves of cool air to comfort him. His knees buckled as his soul was pulled away from him. He fell to the ground. His eyes looking at the blanket of stars, he uttered one last word ‘home,’ before his eyes rolled back in his head. His breathing stopped, while his heart stopped beating. The moon and stars saluted him, for this was the end of the road for him.

Vanaja came to the dance class.

Vanaja: Who had come to my house?

Vanitha: You should know who came to your house. How will we know?

Everybody laughed

Vanaja: To give saree somebody had come from the group it seems. I was not there. That’s why I asked.

Vanitha: You should have told that first know! Otherwise, who will understand?

I often wonder why I can never flirt with a stranger - in the supermarket, across the room at a party, at a wedding or at a funeral - anywhere.

Men look at me with some interest I think. I can see them periperally. But like a snobbish person I refuse to look in their direction. I have been told I am attractive, even beautiful; that the color of my eyes is mesmerizing; and my smile is unforgettable.

Am I too shy or maybe afraid? I know women who flirt with every man they are around, even the married ones. But they are only playing a game, just to see how many men will fall into their traps. Total insincererity.

Is it the insincerity that I cannot fake? Do I not want to join in the game? Truth is of utmost importance to me. Truthfulness from me and expected truthfulness from others. Does my obsession about truth hold me back from having casual fun, like most other people enjoy? Is it because I have been betrayed by those I trusted the most?

I just wonder.

Sallyjane