The Fifth Dragons of Creativity- The Dragon of Putrefaction, Part Five of Seven

The Depths of Darkness

*****

Children were dark flashes down the sidewalk, the whir of their skateboards like electric knives cutting through meat.

Winged things fluttered by; screeching shadows stuck in thin branches that caught them like garrotes.

From the corner of my eye I saw something that looked like a gray dustball scurry across the room. A streak of white blurred by me and I saw her land next to the intruder. Her paw slapped it flat and I heard a quick squeal.

The next morning, I found a bloody mouse head on my keyboard and tucked it into my right hip pocket. As the hours passed, I tried to write but instead I kept taking out the tiny head and staring at its empty eye sockets.

excerpted from "The Companion," by Ferrel D. Moore

*****

The curtains were closed in the kitchen, but orange-yellow light pressed against them from the outside dusk. The sink was filled with food-crusted dishes the color of dark mold. The wastebasket lay on its side and a puddle of curdled milk wound toward me like an albino snake wriggling across the mottled yellow linoleum. The smell of old bacon and buttermilk suffused the room and clung to my skin.

I opened the cabinet over the sink and felt around inside with stiff fingers. I found the open bottle and pulled it out. The label said that there were ninety ibuprofens inside, but that was a lie, since I had taken twelve every day for the last week.

Leaning back against the stove, I threw back a handful of tablets into my mouth, and followed that by gulping warm water as I pushed aside dishes and held my head tilted back beneath the faucet. I closed an eye as I twisted my neck to run water over one side of side of my face, and I saw that the only thing clean and shiny in my dish drainer was the long butcher knife whose blade reflected back a distorted, dark, demonized caricature of my face.

When I stood up, I felt a deep pressure hard against the inside of my head, like something was trying to escape by pushing through my skull. I brought my hands up toward the pain but stopped when I saw how red and swollen they were. My pulse throbbed beneath my fingernails. I noticed dark scabs crusted over puncture wounds on my knuckles.

“I should put something on that,” I said.

The phone rang like a fire alarm in the other room, but I pretended I didn’t hear it and leaned forward to lick the back of my hands.

excerpted from "The Companion," by Rerrel D. Moore

*****

I stand before the hoary skull entrance and hold tight to my torch. Broken bones lay scattered along the steps, as though they have been gnawed by something within and then cast back out when the marrow was sucked clean. There is no light at all past the skull entrance. It is a place where light is not allowed.

"What is the place?" I ask. "It is like nothing we have ever seen on this journey."

I seen the lines in your face; it is though you have aged ten years or more in the last few days.

"Tell me," I plead.

"Most stories are simple things," you say. "They amuse us in one way or another. Some are filled with light and power, darkness and despair, but they are not... timeless. They are the stories you tell now."

Even in the flickering darkness, I bridle at this.

"But people like my stories," I counter. "What more is there to write about than things that people wish to listen to? I only came down this hideous tunnel because I thought it would be easy to face the Dragon of Putrefaction."

You smile your knowing smile, and I hate you for it.

"Hah! I see you have no answer to that. Further, what difference does it make? We are here together to find the Dragon Master and then to face the Dragon of Putrefaction. All I asked you is what this place is and you give me another riddle. I am tired of riddles."

You stare at me as though I am a simpleton. But I am not. I have survived the first four Dragons of Creative Writing, and am now a Storyteller. I should have stopped right there and returned home to weave stories for crowds gathered around me. They would have hung on my every word and perhaps applauded at the end.

"Inside the Depths of Darkness is the Dragon's Mirror, and within that mirror, you will find the Dragon Master."

"But there is no light beyond this entrance," I point outj. "We will find nothing because we cannot see in the darkness. If perchance we stumble around and find a mirror, it will be by accident. How will we see anything in a mirror in total darkness? This cave is confusing your thoughts."

"All great stories are birthed in darkness. The Dragon of Second Light arises from the First Death."

I have descended into this cave with a mad woman.

"Who are you? Where is the woman I first began my journey with?"

"Women birth the Divine Madness. Without the Divine Madness the Dragon of Second Light will not arise."

"Have you no practical advice?" I demand. Your constant stream of generalities is maddening.

"We must hurry. If the Dragon wakes before you enter, all might be lost."

I notice suddenly that though the air in this cave is still, the torch flames seem drawn to the skull opening. It is as though it is sucking the very air out of the opening in which we stand. I, too, feel its pull.

"Id rather stay where we are. I don't want to know about Death and Rebirth. I just want to tell stories that everyone likes. I've had enough of Dragons."

From within its depths comes an angry roar that reverberates throughout the entire tunnel. I step back and fall backwards. Flames burst forth from the Skull entrance, and the air that rushes over me smells of burnt flesh.

"Too late," you say, and then disappear.

*****

Mardie's heart beat faster. With a flick of the shovel, he moved the bone aside and dug deeper. Water welled up aground the blade. Steam seemed to fume from it like from a simmering pot. He scooped another shovelful and slopped it up and over the edge. The flashlight shone on the oily water like a searchlight.

A skeleton hand seemed to lurk below the surface. He bent over again and fished out a tangle of bones. He felt his stomach lurch as he pulled them out. Three hands intertwined together like twisted hangars broke free.

Three hands?

He shuddered and threw them aside.

How was that possible? That would mean that more than one body. More than one person.

Fear seized him and he suddenly felt claustrophobic. The piles of dirt that he had piled high around the pit were like prison walls. He stood and stared up at the shadowed figure of Lily Treach.

“Can I make a confession?” she asked.

excerpted from "The Coal Room," by Ferrel D. Moore

*****

The Dragon Master's Mirror