I wrote this as a bad ghost writing challenge from an author I like. I won’t say who because I feel like a monkey throwing insults, and by insults I mean shite, and by shite, I mean what follows…
The beast was coming. The dew lay in its cut-flower silence awaiting the shout, and it felt the shift as the monster struck the ground in a thunderous crash, its sisters thrown in great rainbow sputtered arcs around the feet of the creature. As the maw of the dragon parted, its rows of teeth shown, wicked as sun baked bone under a desert sky, and the roar began. For the dew, time slowed to a moment so small it was like waiting for the final echo in deep caves, the slow susurrus spread out in prismatic constructive repetition.
The roar was the name of fire, and it was a fire of three parts. The first part was the spark that builds all flame, the sudden scream of heat that may flicker for a moment, but hides away smouldering unseen within its source, kindling. It was the birth of campfires, of candles, of hot breath in tangled embrace.
The second part was heat, but not a heat you would find welcoming, like a familiar inn on the road, or a smile of a finely regarded friend. No. This was the heat that suffocates you as it peels away your breath before you feel its blistering inferno. It is the heat found in forest fires and pillaged castles, a pervasive hopelessness building in counterpoint to the first part.
The last part was barely a whisper, but in this whisper was the sound of all things. It was a prayer, a mark of respect, and a kowtowing bow. It was the source of all heat, of flame, of light, of a fire so vast it filled the sky each day.
Time began and the shout ended. Still desperate, the dews last thought was of the wind, wishing it had joined its shifting shape.