Norris Eppes
© 2011 Norris Eppes
Published at Smashwords
Albert was a dragon who lived inside Crom’s head. Crom was a little boy who was thinking about running away from home. His Aunt Womple was a crotchety old lady, and a bane to other aunts as far as aunts go. Revolt was a common thought that popped up in his busy frisky black head. He would run through the woods fighting imaginary battles as Albert flew beside him. But this isn’t the story of Crom. This is the story of Albert, who took care of him. Crom was good friends with Albert, though Albert scared him. Albert didn’t like scaring Crom, and cried big salty dragon tears whenever he made Crom scared.
He would crawl up next to Crom’s bedroom window and stick his head through the glass – it wouldn’t break – and talk to Crom. But Crom was sleepy and got scared of the peering orange dragon.
So the dragon began up in the sky, flying. It was his favorite thing to do just spreading his orange dragon wings and flying - and he began spiraling downwards.
The circular motion of the shape of the swirling ocean stopped and started as he stared and saw them. Saw the wolves attack. But attack? Why attack? because they attacked with vengeance for the wrong Crom had done. But all he wanted to do was go to the bathroom? So he had, but the ocean attacked the wolves this is ridiculous and he sprinted down the narrow hallway as it grew narrower. But they chased. One too Three and he counted again and again sixty seconds waiting for a time to run back to bed and his bedroom.
Albert flew over the town, burning the trees because he liked doing that. The ocean approached Crom and he was older, a fisherman, but wait that would never happen. For his thread was about to SNIP. Snipped, cut, and it was actually Albert’s that was being snipped. He twirled and spun in circular twirls spiraling downward.
He put on armor to save his friends, and advanced against the enemy. The bigger enemy. The kid named Henry, who was a big boy and a bully and bompously-stupid and he hated him but then again there were many that he did (bully, not hate – or hate too).
He got sick often, not sick like sick slick sick vomit sick just sick of cosas. That was it, sick of things. Cosas. AND he was hungry. Very hungry as he stared down that tunnel with the wolves chasing him and flew downward. The wolves attacked him and the ocean engulfed him.
So he ran back to the bathroom or wait to his bedroom from the bathroom and was finally on top of the mountain. Well, he was on top of the mountain because he lived on top of a mountain, and he was flying. His family had built the house but then his father had died and his mother had died soon after cause of sadness and his mean Aunt Womple (though he didn’t know and didn’t care to know her real name, he just called her that) was now head honcho over his life. And she was one of those many that he did (hate or bully? I cant remember). But he was no bully physically, just mentally.
He could make things blow up. Stare at them and they’d burst into flames. He would breath fire and see trees burn up. But then again that made sense because Albert was a dragon and everybody knows dragons breath fire! Of course. So after running back to his mountain (bunk bed) he climbed the mountain and reached the top, but this was the beginning of his spiral downwards. Touched the stone on top of Currahee and next morning ran down it (still three miles, a long run to the kitchen and breakfast he would have to make his aunt). She was obnoxious, and he did her (bully or hate?). So one day he made up his mind. He would run away, and to begin running away he had to plan (he was still hungry – very hungry). So to plan he picked up every escape book he could find in the library and began to escape.
He escaped to foreign lands, because you can really escape that way (if you understand what’s going on, which is hard for him because he’s so young and only a little dragon and the books are hard to open with his big dragon claws). So he escaped with Swiss Family Robinson and Swallows and Amazons and Martin the Warrior and flew away to that island using his orange dragon wings, but when he thought about escaping really from that home which was! his home (though it was now Aunt Womple’s too) he cried big salty dragon tears. He misses his parents. They had been such nice dragons, nice and sweet and his father blue and his mother yellow and they had hailed from the Swedish Fjords and flown to Georgia to start their new dragon life. They did not him but just the opposite. And he definitely did not them but exactly the opposite. Then poachers shot them and Albert was alone. All alone. And he did that. Lots. Lots and lots. And he definitely did poachers. Those boys who lived in Clayton who were the meanest. He flew downward, circling, and climbed into his bunk bed.
So now with his boy he protected (Crom) he wanted to escape so he read. And so did Crom. So he planned his escape route – he would run to Clayton (of course that was the beginning of his downward spiral). That was it, he could do that. Well not run, but fly. Wouldn’t be a long flight, he figured, but he could ride his bike (dragon wings). So he began his epic, though its really a short story and doesn’t encompass all of humanity but only a dragonandaboy so its not really an epic. But to a little boy even short things seem tall. So it really was!
He began by praying before ascending. He dripped dragon blood on the earth in a libation and they who like blood were happy. There would be lots of that on this trip as he got did. And he read Swiss Family Robinson and Martin the Warrior, and as Martin fought so did he. And then he had to stop because he was tired and hungry and this is going nowhere. Irish coffee? He wished, but they were to poor so they stuck with Genesee. Yum. But that was no breakfast, so out in the woods as he made his escape he pulled strawberry pop tarts out of his backpack (which was breaking he destroyed backpacks) and gave them to Albert and ate one himself. Albert munched happily and then put the wrapper in his backpack and flew onward. The pop tarts were delicious and he needed more food so he decided to pull out the peanut butter.
Albert flew after his meal and alone wandered along the treetops. He was headed for Clayton, but first they had to cross the stream. It was a busy stream, frequented by otters and such (why were they here? He definitely didn’t them) so he set out in search of a big log to float over on. Mmmmm the food smells good from the next room. Yum. Yes yummy peanut butter. What the hell is going on here? The cop showed up and said. They jumped back, afraid, as the handcuffs were put on them. A dead boy lay on the ground.
So they had made the escape in their heads (books, Swiss Family What?) but had yet to actually execute it. It was April 22, and they figured that that was a good day to go ahead and make a run and fly for Clayton. Albert packed his dragon things and Crom packed his boy things - the two suitcases turned out very similar anyways - lots of peanut butter and poptarts. So that night Crom hopped on Albert’s back and started flying. The image of the ocean and wolves still lingered because they were going in circles downward and they always glanced up. They flew over hill and dale, but were lost, continually going down. They finally landed and decided to eat. So they ate poptarts and peanut butter. Then they came to a river (frequented by otters which Crom didn’t) and decided they had to cross.
They found a big log, and Crom sat on top of it while Albert picked it up with his dragon claws and flew them across the river. Huzzah! obstacle one passed.“
Albert, what are we going to do when we get to Clayton?” Crom was confused. But he was happy. Happy to be on the road again and happy to be covered in a big warm coat that circled about him like the circles of the swirling ocean that had surrounded him the night before. The peanut butter lid was also a circle - yea duh he said to himself as they flew downwards, closing in on the helpless little town. He could make things explode into flame, because he was a dragon.
Ominous - he realized something. They were going to Clayton (happy) but that was where the bigger boys lived (sad). They went to his school (when he had actually gone to school before Aunt Womple pulled him out of it to work for her) and had hated him. For rightful reasons, though. He had stabbed one of them with a pen knife one day when they tried to take his lunch. He didn't like other people stealing his food. At all. He did that. A lot. He figured he could take them though! He was optimistic (something told him he would run into them though - that something always there in the back of your mind and the hairs on the back of your neck).
Alright, time to get this thing going. He wandered to the outskirts of town. Like a cowboy staring into the empty streets of a Mexican Pueblo town. He had to find a place to live. Wait - should he live in the middle of town (close to food he could swipe) or on the outskirts, coming into town only when he had to eat? But wait, why is a little boy thinking this much into things? Hell, he only wanted to fly with his orange dragon wings above the town and see all the cool sights and burn things. Besides, it was the middle of a hot summer and it would be nice to walk through town, maybe find a place to buy a milkshake. (Oh yea, he had stole like two hundred bucks from Aunt Womple’s money box on his way out so he could buy milkshakes to sustain himself for a good long while hooray!). Should he escape, really escape? Yea, so he went to the bookstore. All this is in his head anyway, he’s just reading it. But really? How is the dragon there but not there? He’s not reading into the dragon, but he’s reading of it, even though he is the dragon and the dragon is his best friend as they flew down towards the town.
“You should get a job Crom,” Albert said. “What? Im nine years old? What can I do to get paid besides steal money. Wait. “Thats what I can do! Steal money!” And so he wandered through houses at night - stalking the streets, creeping into houses through the back doors and sliding through windows, going through rich folk’s jewelry boxes and making a living for himself. He’d go to the next town over or even a few towns over and sell what he had stolen. Jeb was pretty sure he knew the kid was a thief, but the jewelry and stuff that kid brought in kept his pawn shop in business, so Jeb didnt mind. Jeb was a Jew and liked jelly sandwiches (and wore jeans all the time) but he was a happy old Jew. He loved life and he figured it loved him, cause he was alive and kicking and that was just fine for him. He had life figured out and was happy about it.
He worked at his pawn shop and made money but saved the money or else sent it to his stupidsilly sister who was in an asylum with some “deesees” or something. The flame tore up the body of the boy as they cremated him in the woods, and Jeb was sad that day. Very sad. Wait, when was that again? He couldn't really remember, for he was old now.
So Crom was a robber and a thief and he loved it and he was no longer with Aunt Womple and Aunt Womple was short two hundred big ones and most of the town of Clayton was short a bunch of big ones and the powlice couldnt figure out where their jewelry (most of it jewelry from when their daddies and maws had emigrated from overseas) had gone. They didnt even suspect the kid that wandered around at night glancing over his shoulder and sometimes pretended to run and jump and fly around. But they did whoever it was. Folks just thought he was a crazy orphan (which he was) but he seemed harmless enough. Anyways, Albert was a good robber and made money that way. Money he was saving up to go get himself an hotomobile.
So he had made a goodly sum of money (Albert had, robbing) and had been getting a bit more cocky and big for his britches. Why’d you do that idiot Albert was screaming at him in a scared dragon scream wait Ive gotten ahead of myself SO anyways they went to the biggest house in the city. Well it wasnt in the city, it was a big ole plantation house that lived or wait they lived in it he lived in and his brothers. They were bigger meaner brothers than any big mean group of brothers you had or he had or Albert had ever seen. And they were mean, yea, really mean. Like, they would take squirrels and torture them and he’d heard (rumors?) that they'd even hung a cat in their basement. But he was inclined to believe it.
AND he wanted to get back at them. Back at them for giving him that black eye when he was 5. They had been mean and punched him while he was on the playground, making him fall off the pirate ship and bash his head against the ground. That was right after his parents died and he’d never been right in the head since. A little funny, and he talked to himself lots. But it was soothing. And he had a pet dragon! Now, how many boys do you know of that have pet dragons? Thats pretty cool.
And he only needed a few hundred more bucks to buy a really cheap hotomobile (yea kids could drive them back then, but then again he wasnt really that little - it had been a few years since running away from Aunt Womple and they’d spiraled down a bit more). He was 15 now. So he decided to make a really big steal. Like, Ocean’s steal. He had heard tales of the wealth of these folks. Then again, he had gotten too big for his britches and needed ole Jeb who liked jelly sandwiches to sell his stuff off for him for that hotomobile. Anyways, he would give it a go. So, still spiraling, Albert flew towards the house. That was it - his goal.
The night was moonlit. Moonlit and bright, and there was a bright halo around the moonlit moon and it lit up the fields that surrounded the big plantation house. He wondered if they had dogs. Big dogs that would bark and run at you. But it was okay, cause he’d got himself a knife. A bigger knife then the pen knife he’d stabbed one o’ them with before. This one could slit their throats and pick locks for it was thin and small but sharp like a razor. He’d gotten ole Jeb to sharpen it and he could slice a thick piece of paper clean in two with it. They were bigger, meaner brothers than any other group of big mean brothers. He figured they were in their twenties now.
So he scampered across the field and the stalks of grass swayed in the cool breeze of April 22 (six years later) and his bare feet dug into the soft seed planted brown ground. The house stared at him, its grey shuttered windows peering at him and warning him to go away. But the dragon didnt care, he flew in circles closer to it - closing and closing in on the house which he would burn and steal their jewelry. He needed the money to buy an hotomobile so he could fly away. Albert wanted to move to Colorado. He poached around the side of the house, looking for a cellar entrance or anything of the sort which would be outta the way of guard dogs. And he found one. There was a little window that led to the basement.
He took his slim sharp knife and stuck it into the paste that shut the window into the little frame. It sliced away clean, and he was easing the glass away from the frame when he heard something behind him. Voices in the woods, and shadows and bodies moving closer to him. Dark figures as they approached, hooded, cloaked. They were speaking to him, but Albert the orange dragon told him and didnt listen to them. But they had distracted him, and the glass pane slipped and cut into his middle finger. Blood streamed down his finger and coated the glass in shimmery red. They liked blood they did, and they who liked blood were happy. Yea that “fool” had sacrificed his daughter and blood blood blood to appease the gods and just for wind so they could travel across that ocean. How dumb. Hey now, he needed that hotomobile so he flew downwards as the circular ocean engulfed him. He really did this place.
So he put the glass down carefully on the wet dew covered grass and wiped his hands along the grass, spreading the red across the green grass. Yea he had had no family for last Christmas and nobody got him presents. Course, cause his parents had died and he’d left Aunt Womple. He slipped though the window and dropped a few feet onto the cold stone basement floor. Hey now, wine cellar. He could steal some wine, so he grabbed a few bottles and chucked them out of the window. He uncorked one and dumped some of the hot liquid onto his finger. It stung, and he made his finger burst into flame. The wolves were still around, but this time he was descending the mountain in big circles, instead of climbing up into his bunk bed. He lifted his middle finger to the sky and examined it streaming blood in the moonlit basement.
He tried not to make noise as he climbed up the stairs into the dining room. He saw the silver cabinet, and walked over to it. Lots of silver. Old silver. Silver worth lots of money. And yea, then he heard the dog. Great, but he was still flying. Flying lower and lower in those big ole spiraling circles. So he slit the dog’s throat, carving a perfect circle around the round neck of the big ole dog. There, that wont wake them. The blood of his finger left stains on the brown-golden-black-white fur of the mutt.
He picked the lock and began putting silver into his backpack. Round silver plates. Same backpack he had run away with, he remembered fondly, and Albert stuck his head through the glass and peered inside to see what his boy was up to. Or down to, cause they were still flying lower. He heard footsteps. Footsteps walking down the stairs, and he heard the click of a pistol. Hunters had shot Albert’s parents, so he was scared. He flew out the window, crashing, jumping out into the lawn, but they saw him and jumped in their old truck. He slipped on the wine bottles he had thrown outside and grabbed one as he ran. Running through the woods and they followed him and as the trees whizzed by so the shotgun pellets stung the trees beside him. One caught him in the leg, and he fell down, hitting his head on a tree.
Albert was scared. The bigger boys were running at him and he was frightened. Crom turned and tried to run, and so did Albert (well, he tried to fly). Through the playground Crom ran, around the swings and then jumped the fence. Something hit Albert’s back. It felt like a rock, and the pain of the strike stung him through his orange scales. His wings got caught on a tree, and he fell to the ground, hitting his head on the tree as the shotgun pellet lodged itself in his leg. He cursed in his dragon language as the bigger boys pounced on him. They’d gotten out of their truck and run at him, whoopin and hollering. He screamed and Crom tried to fight back. He grabbed his knife and slit one across the face, cutting down through his eyeball. But they punched and hit and picked up rocks. The wine bottle was still in his hand and he shattered it over the fat one’s head, killing him, the blood from his skull splattering on Albert’s chest as the gook from the sliced eyeball squirted in Crom’s eye. Crom tried to squirm away but they just kept on flying downwards in those big old circles. The bigger boys started bashing his face with rocks they held. Blood spurted from his nose as it cracked in two, and they began gouging out his eyes with their fingers. Crom screamed and the dragon kept on flying downwards. He was close to the ground now. He got caught in the trees above the town of Clayton and his dragon wings folded and broke and he was stuck in the trees crying big salty dragon tears.