Concerning dragons

He fixed me with a baleful stare as my pencil scratched.

No wings. Or flames.

Nevertheless, I still fancied myself a modern St George or Beowulf, heart hammering against my ribs, my sketchpad my sword.

Bored with his audience, he slunk away, leaving me to gloat about meeting a dragon.



The ‘pitch’ was full of holes. None of the players cared. About that or the biting cold, rain, or mud.

Time stopped for two white flags and one football.

Caroling, laughter, and merriment replaced the sounds of screaming, rifles, and mortars.

Orders be damned today.

It was Christmas, after all.