A new series where I offer previously rejected sections of prose, debate briefly any possible short-comings, perhaps with a viewing or a re-submission to myself and opportunity?
Dragon War 50 000 BC, 800 words
Battlefield arrived, and I stroded before my brave legionnaires,
‘Are we not all men in our tiny short skirts and breastplates,’ I said.
‘We are all men,’ came the proud response of my thousand brave warriors.
We faced two thousand angry dragons mounted upon military boars. The pigs squealed, chewed on their battle bits, reins held in the fists of the dragons.
‘We shall charge the dragons, kill the dragons, then kill the pigs, share roasted pig with all the women prisoners caged in the sties behind of the dragons. It’ll be great,’ I said.
My voice tired with oratory, yet before I had the opportunity to further motivate the team, a herd of dragons on pigs charged down the hillside. I swung my sword high above my head, ready for death, glory or a bowl of soup, and turned and ran away, overtaking even some of my own troops who had fallen. I did not stick around to watch. Let’s just say that the dragons suck out the eyeballs of victims, use man eyes as some kind of primitive currency. How disgusting.
We raced to the riverside, and swam across the river in our armour. Once secure on the far bank we jeered at the enemy and the vast spread of flared nostrils. One dragon taunted with an open claw. Its contents, the fresh eyes of men, still rooted on their stalks.
‘Ha ha ha,’ said the dragon. ‘Again tonight we shall copulate with your women, and dragon babies shall inherit the earth, ha ha.’ (he said) The dragon stepped from his pig, waved his huge dragon penis, and balls that slapped upon his chest and wings.
That night we held our breath, until at the river’s low tide we slithered on our bellies through mud, dried in the long grass, and circumvented the dragon encampment, approached from the rear and within scent of our caged ladies. We could hear the orgy of dragons surrounding the camp fire. Some kind of dragon jester performed on roller skates. The dragons laughed and passed naked women between them; each woman tickled in a dragon’s claw until exhausted she was passed to the next dragon and the agonising process was renewed.
I held my knuckle in my mouth, afraid I might scream, betray our position. We waited, and heard it rising, a chorus of snores: the bass vibrato of the dragons and the high pitched whinny of the pigs, dangerously indistinguishable from the snores of the women. Like an army of ants we crawled among the dragons, their talons glinted in the moonlight.
‘Death to the dragons,’ I cried and we plunged blades into heaving, scaly bellies of sleeping dragons. Others awoke, and startled reached for their dragon swords, jousted with the men at their flanks. However, I had calculated poorly and as I slayed a baby dragon in its pram I saw how the seniors overcame my men, pummelled lads with their heavy jaws and blasted the bodies with that fiery breath typically reserved for these moments of intense irritation. Men flamed and ran as berserkers through the night, their heads on fire. I reached for the horn at my waistband and called the hornpipe of retreat.
1.Well, I knew any sub-editor might struggle with my usage of new literary verb arrangement ‘stroded’ up there in top paragraph, still ‘that’s his problem’ i.e, was my motto throughout every phase of my writing careers.
2. Not visual enough, believable, lacks any ‘sense’ with which a reader might immerse into scene? Possible, quite possible, you rubbish, you are a liar.
3. Obviously the work of an individual who is, to put it delicate, and mild – ‘quite stupid.’ Again, I dismiss all your theory out of my palm.
4. Needs another few drafts? Yes, yes, definitely is the opening for a saga series/TV opportunity in draftage, thank you