Dragon’s Blood
by Michael Hislop
Awaken the Dragon within…
Most imagine Writing some paragraphs or pages that will be Read as Important by another. Many then dabble at some stage with the pen in fits and starts and with stabbing motions. Only a few reach the hallowed goal of being Published. And one or two even reach The Pinnacle… international literary success, global renown, book contracts and screenplays, tabloids and riches.
Writing even welcomed its first Billionaire, Ms JK Rowling, confirming the occupation as at last eligible for The Rich List. And we all got to cheer her through a revolving line of tinted Jaguars, Award Dinners and extra-large cheques.
Thus commonly these days, The Writer is thought of as One who has Made It. The Word Master, living the High Life making large amounts of money by spouting Opinion, whilst hobnobbing with A-Listers.
Movies reinforce this, always seeming to show The Writer with bottle to hand, girl near, and cigarette dangling from agnostic lips.
The reality is vastly different, as Raff knew only too well. Whistling away, as he tapped incessantly at his computer keyboard for another whole night spent this way, the umpteenth in a row.
“Almost Done! Thank Heavens for that! And at two cents per word that will be twenty dollars earned… two thousand words for twenty dollars. Highway Robbery! Hmmmph Doesn’t even cover the cigarettes that I smoked this night.” Raff said aloud to himself shaking his head.
Yet at the end of the week, many twenty dollars added up to just enough for Raff to live. If you can call the life of The Writer living, in any proper sense. Denizen of the wee hours, eyes ringed sleepless, breath stained by oodles of coffee and cigarettes. And the hours and hours and hours spent doing what…
A seemingly endless procession of hours spent alone in frantic endeavour… feeling marooned like a ship, trying to keep words afloat amidst a sea of nonsense. And the only productive result appearing is an ocean of discarded paper.
There were still a few more hours till sunrise, and Raff didn’t want to waste them. So, he opened the file of the latest Book that he was working on… “Chapter 17 next.”
But despite trying and trying his hardest, Raff couldn’t bring himself to type another word. The words just wouldn’t come. Sometimes Words fail The Writer, and some days The Writer fails the Words.
So, after thirty minutes, intruding tasks got the better of him. Suddenly, Raff turned domestic and the laundry needed doing, the vacuuming just couldn’t wait either, and Raff had been meaning to bake cookies as a Thank You to the Girl Scouts for bringing theirs around the other day.
“And come to think of it, I haven’t cleaned the bedroom cabinets in a while” Raff remembered, just as his other domestic tasks were nearly completed. He knew from experience that the best thing to do when creatively blocked is to try to keep otherwise occupied.
Raff set to the task of attending to his intimates drawer. “Strange, even to I, that I the Writer, often try to do anything and everything other than writing. But, today, I just can’t bring forth another word. I just… I just can’t! It is like they have been sucked out of mind back into the nothingness from whence they come from.”
Raff had already written several tomes, which now gathered proverbial dust on a computer hard drive. And it was becoming increasingly hard for him to summon forth the words, the words that used to come pouring out.
It was especially hard after a solid week of… “No Thanks”; “Not for Me”; Try Foursquare Literary Agency instead.”
Thus these days, when he sat to work, Raff waged a relentless war with despairing. Rejection trends towards depression, and tonight these Shadows haunted Raff more than his evident lack of sleep.
Midst these ruminations, Raff found a small black pouch, rattling at the bottom of the drawer. Bringing It to Light, It became a soft velvet satchel, gleaming ebony, and tied in a weird series of knots.
It felt heavy to the touch too, like it might be really valuable.
“That is Strange, eerie really. I have never seen This before, yet It Is lodged in my intimates drawer.” Raff wondered, surely something to ponder.
Taking It, like a newfound treasure, to his living room, Raff sat to open the satchel. “Maybe here is My Fortune?” Raff mused. It certainly felt like gold and silver.
After wrestling the knots untied, Raff peeked inside… “Let’s See…” And reaching in he pulled out a single golden ring.
“MMMMMmmmmmmm” Raff noticed that It was surprisingly small for something so weighty. And he noticed Its extraordinary Beauty. Beaming brilliant… a golden dragon, with curling tail and diamond eyes, and scales of darkest sapphires.
“Wow! It is just so Beautiful…” And setting the ring down, Raff arose to light some incense. He found the aromas therapeutic, especially in moments of anxiety or excitement. And over the years, he had amassed quite the collection of oils and burners and sticks.
Without conscious thought, Raff selected an incense and bent to ignite the stick. Nursing it briefly until it flared, and then blowing it out. He stayed stooped to let the smoke waft over him, and It quickly wreathed him, flowing past him into the room.
GRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr… an almighty roar staggered Raff off his feet. On the floor before him, was the incense packet, which read… DRAGON’S BLOOD in bold red…
“What the Hell?” Raff yelled, turning to see a golden dragon, real and alive, uncurling and unfurling from the ring that he had just found. It was real, Raff knew, because his rug was now aflame, from the angry little dragon’s breath.
Before Raff’s eyes, the little dragon grew exponentially larger with every passing second…
In desperation, Raff made a lunge for the ring, which was now ringing the baby dragon’s tail. Diving past another flaming dragon’s breath, Raff’s eyebrows were singed, as he grabbed the ring and yanked It on his finger.
And as the ring came to rest on his forefinger, the growing golden dragon shrank in upon Itself, quickly forming again the solid shape of a golden dragon on the golden ring.
Just then, an odd sensation, burning and painful, gripped Raff’s wrist. Looking down he watched a tattoo of a matching golden dragon being etched too on his arm.
It was His Dragon all along…