Aquila

Aquila is an avid writer, making a living off her lore. Some dragons just want to see their stories in black and white on parchment, you know? This dragon is patient and understanding, but her temper can blow up in the face of immense ignorance or stupidity. A select few dragons act stupid just to push her buttons, but most can get along with her amicably. If you've had the good fortune to spend an afternoon with her: mind you, her afternoons are very precious to her, consider it a privilege to keep her company in these sacred hours: you'll find yourself swallowed in good natured chatter, introspective discussions, and sometimes, companionable silence. And, of course, should you be a practitioner of one of the more…quiet arts, such as painting, consider those afternoons of one your most treasured moments.

A frequent contact of hers is Cyperus. They often arrange dates to draw and write, respectively, and take turns to choose the location of such an appointment. Cyperus usually chooses somewhere near to the forests, but he is aware of Aquila’s distaste for the wild (not that she doesn’t like it, she just doesn’t like sitting in it), he opts for a treehouse, sheltered and cosy amidst the branches of the oaks. Should Aquila choose, however, she would go with her balcony. Honestly, she would much rather write indoors, but she understands how Cyperus greatly enjoys the cool breeze tickling his feathers when sketching. Unfortunately, in almost all of their meetings, the air is found to be stagnant and unbearably hot, even, at times, forcing them to retreat to the much cooler, air-conditioner circulated indoors residence.

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Most recent work:

* Word count: 650 (ignored)
* Genre: Adventure
* Character: A fat baker
* Material: A truck
* Sentence: "Where'd you get that wound?"
* Bonus: The Sun is failing.

A baker plodded along on tired, weary feet. He had been rushing from place to place the whole morning, and it was all about bread. Bread, bread, bread. You’d think that if he were a baker he would bake something other than bread, like cakes or cookies. But, no! All he baked, and would ever bake, was bread. He called it a specialty, but really, that was just a cheap marketing tactic, the truth was that he had just been baking bread and only bread. In fact, the baker looked forward to luncheon very much! He would finally get to see something other than bread, god forbid. The baker began to daydream about the wonderful fantastical things he could consume during luncheon, and soon, his thoughts had even wandered to tea break. God, he had almost burnt the bread! The baker panicked and ripped the bread off the charcoal stoves and onto a metal tray to cool. His co-worker nudged him. “It’s time for your lunch break,” he smiled and pushed the baker gently towards the exit. He always wondered how his coworker never had to go for lunch break. Instead, he stayed to constantly bake bread, and eat bread. He supposed his colleague was simply more passionate about bread than he was. Sure, 20 years of living the bread life might be long and tedious, but apparently it wasn’t long enough for his co-worker.

The plump baker started humming a merry tune. On this fine day, what was there to be upset about? All those glum faces on the sidewalks…well, they’re all a bunch of downers! , the baker pouted to himself. All this unpleasantness and general gloominess just because the Sun was failing wasn’t justified at all. As he made his way to the quaint little diner, just two streets away, he heard yet another radio broadcast on the nearing end of the world. “The world would freeze as the Sun burnt out, or worse, exploded into a supernova. Very soon, the Earth would transform into a barren wasteland.” We’ve still got to remain optimistic, guys! The baker tried to cheer up his fellow pedestrians by the power of positive thought. If the Sun supernovas, at least we can say we lived to see the most spectacular fireworks in all of history! Oh look, there was his friend, at the newspaper stand. Joe? he called. Joe looked up, recognition flickering across his features. How’s busine- Joe! Where’d you get that wound? Joe shrugged it off and chuckled. “It’s nothing really, just a scratch, courtesy of my cat, the little devil.” The green eyed creature in question leapt into his lap, purring contentedly as its owner stroked its pitch black fur. Well I’ll best be off now, Joe, good luck with selling your papers! The baker cocked his head and gave a heartwarming smile as his friend reciprocated.

The baker yawned. He hadn’t been getting enough sleep recently, he had realised, much to his chagrin. He was going to develop dark eye bags if he failed to overcome his recent insomnia. But the sight of his enthusiastic buddy waving energetically from a distance perked his spirit. She was the only one who could ever hope to match his usual optimism levels, cheerful and bubbly as she was. He quickened his step, eager to meet his lovely friend Gracie. A warm greeting escaped his lips as he paused at the entrance of her flower shop. Before he could say anything, the words had already tumbled from his throat, as he blurted, ‘Where’d you get that wound?!”

A deep, wide gash lay bare across her thigh, un-bandaged and uncleaned. Blood still trickled down her skin, staining it a vibrant crimson. Gracie grinned. “A little old cut like this can’t keep a girl like me down! Truth is, I kinda went and dropped my new mirror as i tried to hang it up. Then I stupidly knelt down and tried to sweep the broken shards with my bare hands. And so here we are. “ Her dimples showed through her bright exuberant smile. The baker looked horrified, in stark contrast to his usual self. Gracie’s beaming smile faltered. “What’s wrong? You aren’t normally this… I dunno, glum?” The baker hastened to fix a steady smile on his face. Ah yes, where were we? he asked, quickly collecting his scattered thoughts. “Nothing much,” The florist turned around and fished out her first aid kit. “I was just about to bandage the wound, see?” The baker nodded, numb. I-I’ll just leave you to it, yes? he offered, already stepping back onto the pavement. Gracie waved farewell and continued to attend to her injury, head bobbing to the rhythm of the radio.

The baker hurried on. At this rate, he would never get to lunch! He chastised himself for worrying about lunch instead of about his friends. But still, lunch was important to him. He knew how most people said breakfast was the most important meal of the day. Not in this baker’s day it wasn’t. Lunch was. Why had he chosen to take this route, so full of acquaintances and familiar faces, causing so much delay? Just another one of his bad life decisions. Not that his life decisions would matter for long, seeing how the Sun isn’t doing its job and all. At least, he consoled himself, should the sun explode tomorrow, he would have eaten his last lunch, content.

He neared the end of the lane. Suppose he drop in on the last of his friends down this path? That old grouch didn’t smile often (“What’s there to smile about? he always replied), but the baker felt obliged to check in on him anyway. So he ducked into the dainty trinket shop, which sold all kinds of interesting things, knick knacks, little heres and theres. It was always interesting to admire, but the owner’s personality was not. Chad? You there? the baker called out, a little worried. A groan issued from the back storeroom. He took that as permission to enter and pushed open the door. Lying on a bed was the man in question, noticeably in a terribly foul mood. What was even more noticeable was the bandage wrapping his entire head. Hints of red were beginning to seep through the sterile gauze, revealing the severity of the injury hidden. Chad! Oh god, what happened, where’d you get that wound? Are you alright? What happened? The baker sent himself into a anxious fluster, terrified at the thought of the wound beneath the bandage. This was terrible! he cried out, pacing and knocking over things. “For goodness sake, please stop moving! My head hurts… a lot.” Chad shifted slightly, wincing. “I’ll tell you the story if you stop ruining my possessions.” The baker complied instantly, and froze up like a statue. Chad continued. “I was just sweeping the damned floor, god, it was so dusty, even the broom itself was dusty; then I slipped on one of the silk handkerchiefs lying around, lost my balance, my head hit the counter, and before I knew it I was in the hospital begging to be let out because of the sky high bills.” The baker stood rooted as he took in the story. He nodded, slowly and solemnly. Well then, I hope you get better soon. his meaningless words of comfort were pitiful in light of the circumstances. Chad blinked. He knew he meant well. What else could you say to someone badly injured? The baker patted the man’s arm twice, then left, on his way to his intended destination.

What misfortune his friends had, he thought, hoping that they would all get better soon. Or at least, in time to see the supernova fireworks. Or even, just to have a hearty lunch. He wished they could all have one last lunch together; they all loved lunches, but he loved them most of all. Just across the road would be his final destination; they served the best pasta in town, and he revelled in the thought of the savoury dish. So different from plain, dry bread. He took a step onto the road. Bread, bread, bread, he thought to himself. After lunch, he would scurry back to the bakery and bake even more bread. Did people even want to buy brea-

His musings were halted jarringly by the blare of a horn as the bright red truck slammed into him, too late to swerve.

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Short story with randomly generated first sentence:

Outside the cabin, the wind howled through the trees, while inside, the old woman's fire was nearly out. She sat completely still, the only sign of movement coming from the steaming cup in her trembling hands. The aroma of hot chocolate and melted marshmallow wafted through the little log cabin and pervaded its fine, handcrafted wood. Frost seeped through the cracks in the floorboard, threatening to brush against the old woman’s toes, chilling her from the bottom up. She was seated by the flickering fireplace, snuggled underneath her woollen blanket. I knitted it myself, you know, she would say proudly, when the occasional visitor dropped by. And there was reason for her to be proud, for it was a good, solid blanket, neatly knitted with a certain softness that only practiced hands could. The old woman curled up tighter in her large armchair, brows knitted with worry, tender hands cradling the scalding porcelain cup. She gazed at the dying embers, and the few blackened coals littered at the sides in the fireplace. The blizzard outside battered at the walls of the cabin, but it held fast, as it did through countless storms.

This snowstorm was different. It had suddenly started up with no warning at all. One moment, fresh, light snow was drifting calmly across the plains, like a snow globe rocked gently. The next moment, a ferocious gale whistled, screeching and snarling, crashing through the trees and tossing pine needles haphazardly. The branches of the weaker trees lay, slain on the icy battlefield, as sound was overpowered by the ripping gusts of wind that buffeted the leaves and slammed at the windows. The old woman huddled tighter into herself, immense concern taking over her natural fear. She had almost lost her parents in a snowstorm when she was little. All she could see was a blurry, white mess as the snowflakes stung her eyes, leaving them exposed and raw. When they finally found her, her tear streaks were frozen to her violently scarlet cheeks, and there was frost on her chin.

The fire glowed softly, casting a dimming orange light around the cabin. The old woman gazed at the hearth with a dying desperation. Give me a sign, she prayed, to no one in particular. Keep the fire going until he returns home.

Her bottom lip quivered, eyes watering from the meagre steam rising from her now-empty ceramic mug. She looked out of the window, but all she could see was the young pine tree they had planted together, right outside their house. Its leaves were stripped bare, and it’s ghastly branches twisted into menacing claws, wind whipping at its thin trunk. The old woman rose shakily to her feet, gripping the armrest for support. Her brittle bones shook with effort and anxiety, a thousand creases spanning her forehead. Slowly, step by step, clutching the mug, she headed towards the window, pale eyes staring into the chilly darkness, willing a silhouette to appear. He wasn’t wearing proper winter gear, she agonised, shaking her head. Her husband had simply tossed a coat on and winded a thin scarf around his neck, hardly protection from the harsh cold. Even his shoes were nothing more than cheap leather boots. And with that pathetic coat of armour he had plodded off into the snow with an axe and a wheelbarrow, in valiant pursuit of pillaging the forests for firewood.

She bore a hole in the window with her gaze, and her dainty fingers reached out to touch their tips against the cool glass. Her palm soon followed, pressing against the glass, as if some magnetic force emanated from it that could draw her husband home. She remembered the loving, gentle squeeze of his calloused hands, the light embrace he offered, full of feeling, and the quick peck on her lips he gave before he turned away and headed out with the intent of chopping more firewood. I’ll be back soon, he had promised, laughing at her pleas to continue to keep her company. Make sure your signature hot chocolate’s ready for my return, he joked, as his face brightened with an amused smile, lips partially hidden by a thin scarf. The old woman thought about how much she loved her husband, and how much she would give just to have him in the cabin with her now, fire roaring, safe, and warm.

She turned around just as the last of the embers fizzled out, plunging the room into pitch black darkness. The sound of porcelain shattering was the only thing that broke the silence.