short story – Page 15 – Jordyn Saelor

Mind

You don’t need an astral plane, Sliptide said, eating her fish. You need to recover from whatever you did and saw on that stone mesa. And I said, I spent seventy years learning what took most demons and

7- Muse my dragon

If you poke a sleeping dragon they don’t wake. Why do I know? Cuz Sliptide poked her lover fifty times in her sleep the first night I was there. So I left the den, realizing otherwise

I asked Sliptide

I asked Sliptide one night under the spinning moons and planet’s rings if she’d ever met a witch before. Not because I wondered about you, Clarissa; mountain dragons and green dragons have fundamentally different

Welcome to the Realm of Green Dragons

acid souls, dreamer knolls, emerald scales, shale-tough tails. Forest peaks, spruce-blue trees, poison shrouds, wing-swept clouds. My green dragon ride called herself Sliptide, or the equivalent in her slippery serpent language. I practiced her

6- up again

(slight trigger warning for this poem: short descriptions of death and carnage) *** The green dragon almost didn’t want to go back home, she wanted to fly past the desert I’d never crossed and find a sea and eat the

5- down with

how long do you think it took me to leave? Not just leave The City, but leave the icy sun, stone mesa and copper domes where people and rats lived? The kid who

Rails

Rails, Rails, Off the Rails, hear her wails–Rails, Rails, she must fail, fall to

Training barrage

Studying amongst immortal demons and dragons–keeping myself alive on life force and blood–must’ve messed up my sense of time, cuz Rails sped like a rumbling train before I had time to look back. She didn’t spend seventy-something years at a witch school, but she learned what I taught her about

Strings of Fate

My two elective Strings of Fate classes had the names “divining the weave of the future” and “karma as a lens for interpreting the past.” In my fifteenth year I studied karma and in my seventeenth I studied weaves; yes, I know the stereotypical approach would be to

Pocket of Rage

Sorry, sorry, my bad, I don’t have the words for why. Make a mistake break a cake freak out and shout end the tear duct drought stab Gacks and slay racks, I’m so angry I could just cry the whole time.