The Dragon Who Lost His Hearing

Once upon a time in a land far, far away lived a Dragon. His home, for it was a He, was 

in a cave near the top of a tall mountain. At the base of the mountain, surrounded by lush 

green fields and a mighty forest was a village of gentle country folk. They tended the land, 

ploughing the fields, growing wheat and raising sheep for their wool and meat, and cattle 

for milk to turn into cheese and butter.

All was peace and tranquillity. The dragon kept watch over the village ensuring no wild 

beasts or robbers harmed them. If ever danger threatened all the villagers had to do was 

call out:

‘Dragon, oh Dragon, please come and protect us’ and the Dragon would rouse from his 

slumbers, for he spent a great deal of time sleeping, and come roaring down the 

mountainside, scorching the earth before him with his fiery breath, chasing away any 

robbers and gobbling up any wild beasts.

In payment for this protection the villagers would leave coal and wood for the Dragon 

to keep his fires burning.  That’s all he ever asked for. The robbers had long ago learned 

to keep away from the village. The wolves and the bears kept well within the confines 

of the forest, even when the fields were fall of lambs, tempting the wolves to test their luck.

And so it went on until only the people of the village believed in the dragon for they 

were the only ones to see him. Eventually knowledge became rumour, then legend, in the 

wider world. The wild beasts of the forest didn’t forget, of course, because they saw the 

Dragon when he came to collect the coal and the wood. And every now and then one of 

their number would disappear for the Dragon was partial to a bit of meat.

So it came to pass that one dark night in the middle of winter some robbers crept into 

the village. They stole the silver from the church; money from the bank (no sympathy 

there for no one liked the bank manager); and precious things people had hidden under 

their mattresses. The people gathered together, trembling in fear as the robbers pillaged 

the entire village.

‘Dragon, oh, Dragon, please come and protect us,’ they cried.

To no avail. The Dragon did not come. The robbers laughed at their foolishness and 

left feeling pleased with a good night’s work.

The next day the mayor called a meeting of all the villagers in the inn, The Fiery Dragon.

‘The Dragon has deserted us,’ he declared. ‘Obviously the offerings we usually give him 

are not enough.’

‘What should we give instead?’ everyone asked.

‘I think he wants a proper sacrifice,’ someone said. ‘We must give him a young maiden. 

That’s the usual price, isn’t it?’

There was much nodding of heads and mutterings of dissent. The people who had sons 

thought this was a reasonable bequest. Those who had daughters were not so happy. 

But it was finally agreed. A lottery was held and a beautiful young maid was chosen as 

a sacrifice to the Dragon.

The day came and the girl, her name was Gilda by the way, was tied to a stake where 

the people usually left the coal and wood for the dragon. No one stayed to watch what 

happened next. No one wanted to see poor Gilda gobbled up by the Dragon.

What happened next was this.

Gilda was tied to the stake, trying very hard not to cry. Crying made her eyes red and 

she wanted to look pretty for the Dragon, maybe then he would not eat her.

The Dragon flew down from his cave and landed a few feet away from the stake, 

looking for the piles of coal and wood that should have been there. He didn’t seem to 

notice that Gilda was tied to a stake and with a lumbering gait he wandered closer to her.

‘Where is my food?’ he asked, for that’s what the coal and wood were to him.

‘I am your payment this year,’ Gilda said.

‘What, speak up, don’t mumble so.’

‘I said I am your payment this year,’ Gilda said raising her voice.

‘What? Why? What good is one little girl? Tasty maybe, but no more than … than a 

single lamb or bear cub. I would need a whole flock to keep me going.’

‘The villagers thought you wanted a blood sacrifice,’ Gilda told him, making sure her 

voice was loud and clear. The Dragon shook his head. A small ruby popped out of his 

ear and lay in the grass. He did not seem to notice.

‘Why would they think that?’ he asked.

‘The other night we were robbed. We called to you but you did not come. The village 

elders thought you were angry with us.’

The Dragon shook his head again. A diamond popped out of his other ear.

‘Why would I be angry with you? You give me coal and wood to keep my belly nice 

and warm. Those are far more useful than skinny little girls with no flesh on their bones. 

Or even fat ones, for that matter.’

‘Then why didn’t you come when we called. I know it’s been a while, but we thought 

that agreement still stood.’

The Dragon shook his head, quite emphatically this time. A whole shower of tiny 

gems filled the air.

‘You didn’t call. I would have come. I’m programmed to wake to the words. What 

did they say?’

Gilda looked down at the scattered gems that twinkled in the grass. The Dragon took 

no notice of them. A thought occurred to her. Keeping her head down she whispered:

‘Dragon, oh, Dragon, please come and protect us.’

‘What!’ roared the Dragon. ‘Speak up girl, tell me what they said.’

Gilda looked up at the Dragon who towered above her. He lowered his head to just 

a few feet from her. She could smell the strange Dragon-breath of burning coal and wood.

‘Dear Dragon, don’t be cross when I say this, but I think you are a little bit deaf.’ 

The Dragon frowned, if Dragon’s could frown. ‘I don’t think it’s permanent or anything 

to do with how old you are. I think your ears need cleaning out. Every time you shake 

your head things fall out of your ears. Look at the ground.’

The Dragon turned his head and looked at the ground.

‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ he said. ‘I sleep on my pile of treasure. Could be some has got 

in my ears. What can we do?’

‘Release me and I’ll look,’ Gilda said.

The Dragon couldn’t untie the rope that held Gilda to the stake, but he took the stake in 

his strong jaws and pulled it out of the ground, gobbling it down with a few snaps of his 

mighty jaws. Gilda climbed up onto the Dragon’s back and along his scaly neck until she 

reached his left ear. Dragon ears aren’t like other ears, they are just a hole with nothing 

around them. Gilda gently pulled the skin on either side of the hole apart and peered in. 

Indeed it was packed with tiny gems.

‘Let me get some tongs and I’ll clear them out. Wait here.’

The Dragon stretched out on the grass and waited. Gilda returned with her father who 

had brought a ladder with him and a big basket. Gilda climbed the ladder and with the 

tongs she carefully plucked the gems from each ear, dropping the offending gems into 

the basket. By the time she had finished there were enough gems to make a crown!

‘Now can you hear me?’ she asked in the softest of tones.

‘You don’t have to shout, I’m not deaf!’ the Dragon replied.

Gilda showed him the basket of gems and offered it to him.

‘These are rightly yours,’ she said.

‘No, they are yours now,’ the Dragon said. ‘Payment for restoring my hearing.’

The village rejoiced that night. They gave the Dragon all the coal and wood he could 

eat. The ladies of the sewing circle decided they would make him a giant blanket to 

cover his treasure so that never again would the small gems get into his ears while he 

slept and make him deaf.    

All was well again and they all lived happily ever after.  

The End.

Copyright©Kristen Stone 2017

The Island of Hope

He paddled the small boat in the darkness, following the star he had been told would lead 

him to the island. The island of his salvation. The island of dreams. The island where the 

streets were paved with gold. The island where all you ever need is there for you. It 

had been a long journey but it was almost over.

Paddling in the dark kept the dreams away. He didn’t like to sleep these days. Sleep 

brought reminders of the nightmare he had lived through. The war that had raged in 

his country, a war he did not understand. The bombing and the gunfire. The men who 

charged into his shelled home who raped and killed his mother and sister. They had 

not seen him buried under the rubble of the house, but he had seen them. He wished 

he hadn’t. He wished the falling wall had knocked him unconscious. No. he wished 

the falling wall had killed him.

Amazingly he had not been hurt but he was now alone. The menfolk of his wider 

family had either been killed or conscripted into fighting for the war whether they 

wanted to or not. It was mere luck that he had avoided this for they took everyone, 

even boys younger than him. All the women had fled or had suffered the same fate 

as his mother and sister. He did not know where to go for safety.

He wandered the ravaged city for days, scavenging food from bombed out houses, 

until time and the heat had turned all the food bad. He joined a line of people with 

all their possessions in packs on their head heading for what they thought would 

be shelter and safety. A refugee camp, although he didn’t know what that meant.

At the camp he told his story to strange people who spoke a different tongue 

which he didn’t understand. They filled in forms and gave him a label then sent 

him to join other boys who had arrived on their own, all lost, all without family, 

without hope.

It was here that he first heard about the island. It sounded like a myth, a fairy story 

you told children. But people spoke of it as being real. It sounded like a good place. 

A place without war. A place of prosperity, where you could get food every day. 

And work. He wasn’t afraid of work. He had frequently helped his father in the 

shop, had risen early to go to the warehouse to collect what goods they needed 

before the shop opened. He was not stupid. He could do his sums. He could read 

his own language.

Some of the older boys and young men who had escaped the war began to talk 

about going to the island. They didn’t really know where it was or how to get 

there but it seemed like a good idea. Better than sitting around in the camp all 

day. They let him join them. All they knew was it was towards the setting sun 

and so they set off in that direction. Some were lost in skirmishes they encountered, 

the war ever present. Some were lost to the heat of the desert as they crossed the 

wasteland. Some simply gave up, turned back or went to join the fighting for

whatever side would have them. By the time they reached the coast there were 

only three of them left.

The island was in the sea. It would be, one of the three explained, that’s what an 

island is. They found a small boat, a rowing boat, but as none of them had ever 

seen a boat before, they paddled it facing the direction they wanted instead of 

rowing it. They paddled for three days before the storm came and two were taken 

by the sea. Now he was on his own, unsure of where he was, unsure of where 

the island was, exhausted but afraid to sleep.

Up ahead something loomed out of the sea, something solid and still. The island. 

Weeping with joy he paddled harder. As dawn lit the sky he was confronted by 

steep cliffs which gave him no landing site so he followed the contour of the 

island until he reached a beach.

He guided the small boat up to the beach and all but fell onto the shore. He had 

been paddling for so long his body had forgotten how to stand, at least that’s 

what it felt like. He crawled up the sand to where the land became firmer. 

Dunes covered in grass. He stood up and walked through the dunes. He could 

see houses in the distance and wandered towards them.

The first people he saw were not friendly. They threw stones at him and shouted 

in a strange tongue he didn’t understand, just like the people at the refugee camp. 

Some big men came and dragged him away. They did give him some food, something

to drink and some clean clothes. But that was all. After that they took him away and 

locked him up in another camp with more strangers.

This must be the wrong island, he decided. There were no streets paved with gold. 

No opportunities. None of the things his former companions had told him about. 

The island he wanted was still a myth.

Copyright©Kristen Stone 2017

Imagination

Imagination,  we all have it. If you tell someone you are a writer, they will probably say 'I 

couldn't do that I have no imagination.' They have, they just don't know how to use it.

Child home late for  school. 

Imagination - something has happened, they have been kidnapped, never did like 

the look of that person who just moved in down the road.

Reality - dawdled home with friend from class and spent 30 minutes at the end of 

the street talking about nothing and needs to phone her friend as soon as she gets home.

Partner late home from work. 

Imagination - has had an accident on the way home. Or run off with the new receptionist.

Reality - was held up in a meeting with the boss then caught in a traffic jam. 

Phone battery ran out so couldn't let you know. 

Want to believe but imagination still playing up.

Unexpected telephone call. 

Imagination - it's Camelot telling me I've won the Euromillions roll over lottery!

Reality - Have you checked if you are eligible for a PPI  refund or 

Have you recently beeninvolved in an accident that wasn't your fault? 

To be honest you have to buy a lottery ticket before you can win!

Answer phone message from Doctor. 

Imagination - oh my God I'm dying, that blood test showed I have any and all 

fatal diseases known to mankind.

Reality - blood tests were fine. No action required.

Knock on the door. 

Imagination - Long lost relative calling to share an expected inheritance.

Reality - Have you found God? Didn't know he was missing, close door quickly.

Everyday we are faced with such situations. Doesn't everyone immediately have 

their imagination spring into action or do the non-Writers of the world walk around 

with completely empty heads? 

Don't answer that! 

Copyright©Kristen Stone 2017

Only In America

I have recently joined a group of writers in my local town. It's a very informal bunch of random people who like to put things down on paper for no particular reason. I'm not expecting to find any great knowledge there, I'm possibly the second most experienced writer there, but I do feel the need for some social interaction with real, not virtual, people. I'm not saying my Facebook friends aren't wonderful, they are, but I'm getting too isolated in the virtual world.

The thing about this group is they meet every week, not monthly, and they meet during the day. That maybe says something about the members, no one has to be at work, but what does that matter? The weekly thing is great because you have to get on with the task in hand instead of putting it off until, oh my god, it's the meeting tomorrow. Not that it is compulsory to do anything, neither is it compulsory to attend, but the challenge is there if you want to take it up. Every week a topic is chosen and we go away and think about it.

I have decided to share what I have done for this group with a wider audience, ie my blogging readers, if I have any, still.

This was my first offering on the subject of Only In America.

I know a lot of fellow indie authors from America through Facebook,  so I am aware, maybe 
more than most, of what is happening over there. A good friend has also travelled extensively
to many parts of the States and has given me extensive insight into the varying levels of
society there. The contrasts in that conglomeration are enough to make the sane mind boggle.
It must be remembered that America is not one country. It is a collection of separate states
that have their own laws, their own education systems to name just a couple of things.
So maybe it is not so surprising that only in America you can find the following contrasts.
Although it is some time ago now, I also visited in 1995 when my husband was secondment
with his job.

Only in America can you find some of the world's top scientists, doctors, engineers, 
innovative technology pioneers and yet have the most backward and ignorant people in
the western world. People who believe and promote the idea that dinosaur bones were
planted by God to test a person's faith.

Only in America will you find a space program with scientists who want to go to Mars 
alongside people who claim the moon landings were fake, global warming is a conspiracy
and burning fossil fuels is fine.

Only in America do people wear wristbands telling bystanders not to call an ambulance 
if they are found unconscious because they cannot afford the costs involved in using an
ambulance, while at the same time American doctors lead the way in innovative treatments,
surgeries and therapies.

Only in America are corporations running roughshod over the health and safety of the 
citizens of said country...well maybe the same can be said in some less desirable parts 
of the world,  but America is quickly becoming one of those less desirable places instead
of the leader of the world to be admired.

The world often views America through the eyes of the TV shows it produces, but real 
life varies from state to state, town to town. In many places it is lagging behind much
of the Western world in terms of infrastructure,  technology and knowledge. The
level of general ignorance amongst even those in power is staggering. I read a cringe
making post from an Air America service desk worker at Washington airport not so
long ago quoting questions that had been posed by Senators. I can't remember them
all but one that stands out in my memory was one complaint from someone who 

doesn't like flying because they couldn't get a train to Hawaii.

When you hear these things it is no wonder that in America you can have someone
like Donald Trump elected as President. Sad, very sad. But the saddest thing seems
to me that our own government seems to admire the American health system and
would love to privatise our own. Let's hope we don't start saying 'only in the uk'!

No offence meant to any sensible Americans who may read this!

Copyright©Kristen Stone 2017