RandomVanGloboii

I used to take care of you, my dearest dragon. We lived in our home, well fed and well warmed, reading books for you, you were happy, and I was too. We all lived together then, in our small town. You had dragon friends, I befriended keepers, we were a nice group, I'd laugh when your scaled friends booped you. Then you know too well what happened, my dear missed dragon. There was some bad stuff, because of one dragon, it was not your fault, but everyone now judged you all. Now we are no more allowed to meet each other. Beyond these skyscrapers, you're somewhere out there, flying above the trees, now undesired by my whole kin. Since then, my only nice moments, my dearest dragon, is when once a year I hike to your den and hug you once more, making sure that we are alone. I never dared ask if you're fine, living by yourself. I never talked 'bout how much I missed you; just reading our books is fine for me, like we used to. And then, when I get back my home, my dear missed dragon, I

“Food...food...food…” Zenkrich dragged his puny, scaly body through the green hill. His wings flapped uncontrollably, begging him to fly, despite being now useless. He hadn’t eaten for too long, and now hunger was winning over him. Beyond the top, the profile of tall, transparent towers emerged from he horizon, the sun setting down behind them. Zenkrich knew what they were. But he tried to suppress that knowledge. His young mind had tormented him enough reminding him of what they had done. They… They… A clash of multiple steps on the mountain rocks. Unbearably loud bangs. A smell of metal and sulphur, so overwhelming it nearly knocked him out. Dragons roaring in pain… “NO!” He shook his head violently. That didn’t happen. That didn’t happen. He didn’t remember at all what his life was before, only that his name was Zenkrich, and that was enough. There was more urgent stuff to think about. “Food...food...food…” He didn’t even know how he had crossed an entire mountain range and a

“You’re supposed to have your hands on your keyboard, Mr Tiamatson.” Drake turned his office armchair. He already knew who was there, but he couldn’t help it. The standing, suit-and-tie-wearing profile of his team manager was observing him from the top of his senior position, his eyes staring at his subordinate’s hands, which were daring being on a cup of coffee. Drake held a curse. He had been typing non-stop until just five seconds ago, there was nothing wrong with what he was doing. But Mr Karoshi had to step into the open space just now and conclude Drake was procrastinating. Out of instinct, he tried to defend himself. “I’ve been writing code the whole morning, you can see it here,” and he pointed at the monitor, showing off two windows of long series of lines in a monospaced font. Mr Karoshi gave it a quick look, and then concluded: “This was supposed to be completed yesterday. Why are you still working on it?” “We had that severe bug to correct yesterday.” “And then you went

There was a time our land was filled with dragons strong and mighty; but from grace they fell all at once because of one of them, a treacherous outsider who sold his draconity to dragons' biggest, fiercest foe; of that fall this' the tale. His name was Guang, a grandiose one, for in their tongue means 'light', but his whole life among his kind was dark and full of scars. A weak, an error, small and frail, one who lost all his fights; a hoardless and a coward was all that he got to be. Unable to win dragon fights, he flew away from home, the secret lair where all his kind hid from the knights' sharp blades. As he soared to the outside world he saw the humans' homes; but one stood out, stoney and big; the castle of the king. He landed on the castle's field, and knights were at his paws, pointing long, sharp swords at his neck, but Guang pitily growled them: "I've come in peace, I cannot fight, in fact, I shall reveal where my kind's hideout is located; just take me as your pet." The

Il manto nero di ciel senza stelle sovrasta sulla distesa di coppie di luci gialle che girano in centro. S'innalzan dai camini grigi fumi attraversando alte torri d'acciaio per riscaldare di carbonio l'aria. Or si riposa l'operosa gente, di concepir quiete non più capace; si riempiran d'altre cose le menti. Eppure i campi treman di silenzio; annusa intorno un lupo solitario e scappa di ritorno verso i monti.