papajohnscharsiu
(#91756187)
Level 1 Skydancer
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Male Skydancer
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.14 m
Wingspan
5.44 m
Weight
651.43 kg
Genetics
Black
Basic
Basic
Caramel
Foam
Foam
Grapefruit
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Skydancer
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
6
DEF
7
QCK
6
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
7
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- none
Biography
Your father would have spit a brown puddle at your boots if you called him a religious man. Although, he did do certain things as if compelled by an invisible hand. The hand of god, maybe. Or just the hand of age pushing everything forward. But he was never a religious man, except for when he was. And so, you were never religious either, except for when you were. Except for when you felt weak and unsteady, when your shoulders ache more than usual, more than shoulders your age should.
Then, you'd find yourself approaching the barn somewhat skittishly like it's a critter that you don't mean to scare away. You stand there, no light but the moon leaking in through the rafters. That old lightbulb had burst that night and, like so many other things, you couldn't bring yourself to replace it. So now you're there, in the darkness, head tipped up towards a hole that's no longer a hole but will always be a hole. It's a cavern of hunger dug deep inside and you won't know how to fill it, even with years of experience.
A few weeks after that night, you made your way to the feed store trying to add up numbers in a way that might mean neither you nor the cows have to starve. When you hear the old store owner yakking at a preacher.
What sort of folks go to a church of a lady preacher?
Oh, all kinds, says the preacher. You'd be surprised.
You linger at the conversation's edge, like sitting on the lip of a pool. You offer to carry her feed bags to the moonshine truck outside. She has goats and you mention yours. With the last of the bags heaved, you ask Your church believe in angels?
I suppose so. But not in a way a lot of other folk do.
Well, how do you?
I think they're up there. Along with St. Peter and our loved ones beyond the Pearly Gates, waiting to greet us with a big band choir.
You don't know what to say to this idea of angels marching through the clouds like a holy Mardi Gras parade.
Why? You believe in 'em?
You haven't thought about the angel since that night, by which you mean you never stopped thinking about the angel. Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so.
What else can you say? How you had never considered bending knee to some man in the sky who saw fit to create a calf born with a split skull? It had four eyes and two noses and two drooling mouths that nibbled on your fingers like a teat until your mother said The Natural Sciences Museum in Wichita would pay one-fifty, before he'd even lived a whole day?
You don't tell her about the angel and how he'd touched you just once, only briefly. His hand felt like a crescent moon against your face and suddenly, your ravaged body for the memory of pain. You don't tell her about how he couldn't talk. He was too new to his mouth, like a foal. You don't tell her you dressed him in your father's clothes and an old quilt. You don't tell her the last time you put your arms around someone like that, or how he sat so gingerly on your beat-up grandfathered sofa. He was so soft with everything he touched. The animals, the kitchen, the empty soup cans, you don't tell her anything.
So, how do you believe in 'em? asks the preacher.
How do you spit the truth out? You weren't really sure you believe in angels plural, but you sure believe in him—maybe that's religion. You think about the space he took up in your house. The air shifted itself around him and now you think an echo is left behind. You found yourself avoiding the side of the sofa that he sat himself on. You don't eat from his tin bowl. You don't use his quilt nor do you wash it. He kept your father's clothes, which you can't feel sorry for because at least now they prove useful again. You feel less foolish for keeping them.
They're... out there. They're around.
You had an encounter?
You rake your hair with dirty nails and think of crop circles and beams of light. How do you do that? Angel radio?
Suppose you can try praying.
Praying? your knees twinge. Young man's skin over an old man's soul. Like t'god?
You can pray to anything or anyone. Don't need to be in church or over food. Don't need to have focus either. Think of it as a letter and faith your stamp.
You've never sent a letter before. You thank the preacher for her time and watch her truck get swallowed by the Kansan dust. You buy your feed and calculate your net loss. It's been years since you were in the black. You might just have to sell another head to the meatpacking boys down the road.
You've known this day was coming ever since your dad proudly displayed his little patch of sour earth as if handing over keys to a new Camaro instead of a few dozen acres of a dying farm. You're the last of the family trying to keep heads above water. If anyone were to ask why you bothered—if your baby brother were to ask again, red-cheeked with grief and anger—you'd have no answer.
So, you go home. You lay down fresh hay and do a headcount. You think about whose head you won't count tomorrow. You lock the lowing herd, your meagre flock. The radio says something about a supermoon, so bright it'll look pink. You hunch over your bowl of cheese and grits and you think about people praying with their hands clasped and heads bowed. Maybe it's not prayer but desperate veneration. You don't feel desperate, so you keep your eyes open and your hand around the spoon.
Please...if you can hear this, please...
It's the sorriest excuse of a prayer and you know it. Not even the lick of a stamp.
You're washing the dishes when you see something move outside. It's too big to be a coyote, so maybe one of the cows got outside so you slink outside with a Rem for good measure. You almost don't recognize him; he's silhouetted against the light. He stood pillar-still on your dead grass, head tipped back, eyes on the primrose moon. He's still wearing your father's jeans and his old work boots. There's a new shirt and a long charcoal jacket. There's a tie that looks like someone knotted it around their neck before loosening it and slipping it onto the angel.
You're back.
You called.
Didn't think you'd hear.
You still smell like the dish soap he changed from a generic bouquet of chemicals to the smell of molasses heating up on the stove.
I can always hear you, he's walking towards you now, each step kicking your heart, that beatdown dog. It always bit the hand that feeds. The angel reached out, same as before, and just like before, it fit you perfectly.
What in God's name, you think to yourself, am I supposed to do with this?
Then, you'd find yourself approaching the barn somewhat skittishly like it's a critter that you don't mean to scare away. You stand there, no light but the moon leaking in through the rafters. That old lightbulb had burst that night and, like so many other things, you couldn't bring yourself to replace it. So now you're there, in the darkness, head tipped up towards a hole that's no longer a hole but will always be a hole. It's a cavern of hunger dug deep inside and you won't know how to fill it, even with years of experience.
A few weeks after that night, you made your way to the feed store trying to add up numbers in a way that might mean neither you nor the cows have to starve. When you hear the old store owner yakking at a preacher.
What sort of folks go to a church of a lady preacher?
Oh, all kinds, says the preacher. You'd be surprised.
You linger at the conversation's edge, like sitting on the lip of a pool. You offer to carry her feed bags to the moonshine truck outside. She has goats and you mention yours. With the last of the bags heaved, you ask Your church believe in angels?
I suppose so. But not in a way a lot of other folk do.
Well, how do you?
I think they're up there. Along with St. Peter and our loved ones beyond the Pearly Gates, waiting to greet us with a big band choir.
You don't know what to say to this idea of angels marching through the clouds like a holy Mardi Gras parade.
Why? You believe in 'em?
You haven't thought about the angel since that night, by which you mean you never stopped thinking about the angel. Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so.
What else can you say? How you had never considered bending knee to some man in the sky who saw fit to create a calf born with a split skull? It had four eyes and two noses and two drooling mouths that nibbled on your fingers like a teat until your mother said The Natural Sciences Museum in Wichita would pay one-fifty, before he'd even lived a whole day?
You don't tell her about the angel and how he'd touched you just once, only briefly. His hand felt like a crescent moon against your face and suddenly, your ravaged body for the memory of pain. You don't tell her about how he couldn't talk. He was too new to his mouth, like a foal. You don't tell her you dressed him in your father's clothes and an old quilt. You don't tell her the last time you put your arms around someone like that, or how he sat so gingerly on your beat-up grandfathered sofa. He was so soft with everything he touched. The animals, the kitchen, the empty soup cans, you don't tell her anything.
So, how do you believe in 'em? asks the preacher.
How do you spit the truth out? You weren't really sure you believe in angels plural, but you sure believe in him—maybe that's religion. You think about the space he took up in your house. The air shifted itself around him and now you think an echo is left behind. You found yourself avoiding the side of the sofa that he sat himself on. You don't eat from his tin bowl. You don't use his quilt nor do you wash it. He kept your father's clothes, which you can't feel sorry for because at least now they prove useful again. You feel less foolish for keeping them.
They're... out there. They're around.
You had an encounter?
You rake your hair with dirty nails and think of crop circles and beams of light. How do you do that? Angel radio?
Suppose you can try praying.
Praying? your knees twinge. Young man's skin over an old man's soul. Like t'god?
You can pray to anything or anyone. Don't need to be in church or over food. Don't need to have focus either. Think of it as a letter and faith your stamp.
You've never sent a letter before. You thank the preacher for her time and watch her truck get swallowed by the Kansan dust. You buy your feed and calculate your net loss. It's been years since you were in the black. You might just have to sell another head to the meatpacking boys down the road.
You've known this day was coming ever since your dad proudly displayed his little patch of sour earth as if handing over keys to a new Camaro instead of a few dozen acres of a dying farm. You're the last of the family trying to keep heads above water. If anyone were to ask why you bothered—if your baby brother were to ask again, red-cheeked with grief and anger—you'd have no answer.
So, you go home. You lay down fresh hay and do a headcount. You think about whose head you won't count tomorrow. You lock the lowing herd, your meagre flock. The radio says something about a supermoon, so bright it'll look pink. You hunch over your bowl of cheese and grits and you think about people praying with their hands clasped and heads bowed. Maybe it's not prayer but desperate veneration. You don't feel desperate, so you keep your eyes open and your hand around the spoon.
Please...if you can hear this, please...
It's the sorriest excuse of a prayer and you know it. Not even the lick of a stamp.
You're washing the dishes when you see something move outside. It's too big to be a coyote, so maybe one of the cows got outside so you slink outside with a Rem for good measure. You almost don't recognize him; he's silhouetted against the light. He stood pillar-still on your dead grass, head tipped back, eyes on the primrose moon. He's still wearing your father's jeans and his old work boots. There's a new shirt and a long charcoal jacket. There's a tie that looks like someone knotted it around their neck before loosening it and slipping it onto the angel.
You're back.
You called.
Didn't think you'd hear.
You still smell like the dish soap he changed from a generic bouquet of chemicals to the smell of molasses heating up on the stove.
I can always hear you, he's walking towards you now, each step kicking your heart, that beatdown dog. It always bit the hand that feeds. The angel reached out, same as before, and just like before, it fit you perfectly.
What in God's name, you think to yourself, am I supposed to do with this?
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