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"I

can't do this!" My retort against my

usually creative instinct sounds into the hallways from the bedroom,

accompanied by the sound of a laptop slamming shut. Then, after several minutes

of silence, I stumble out into the hallway: a grey Manx bobcat with black

stripes on a mission. I brace against the right-side wall with a paw, the

muscles in my legs not being strong enough to carry me on my own. Usually,

people would think of that as a detriment. Not me; I'm just... used to it,

that's all.

            I

look around now. The sunlight emanating from the living room ahead of me gives

contrast to the relative darkness of the doorway and the wheelchair that waits

in front of it, as if it is trying to warn me of the possible dangers of the

world outside.

            Not

that I care. In fact, if I, say,

bruise my knee up out there, I'd just laugh the pain off. That's just the kind

of person I am.

Anyways, just as I drop to my knees, my father

calls from the living room: "Twitchy, where're you going?"

            "Just

outside," I say, as I scoot towards my chair, both arms pulling my body forth,

my legs tucked underneath. For all of my life, that has been my main mode of

mobility throughout the house: push forth, stop, and push again. It's a steady rhythm

I have mastered, much to the chagrin of my tightened legs. As I reach my chair

and pull myself upright (with both paws on the armrests), dad calls me again.

            "What

are you gonna' do?"

            "I'm

just gonna'... go for a walk," I answer, turning myself around to sit on the seat

of my wheelchair. "It's just to clear my head." I spot my denim vest on the

coat rack nearby, the Metallicatz album cover (lightning chair and all) clearly

visible amid the sky blue of the garment's sides. The coppery tang of its buttons

makes me smirk in memory of all the concerts I've gone to over the years. 

            "Okay,"

I hear my father say, "Don't be gone for too long, alright?"

            "I

won't," I reply.  With a swiftness

of paw, I lean forward and snatch the vest, sliding it on over my evergreen

sweater. I leave it unbuttoned, since I figure that I look cooler like that

anyways. Deftly, I spin around and unlock the door, both feet firmly planted on

the footrests.

            "See

you later."

            "You

too, son."

            I

wheel outside, shutting the door behind me with my right arm. Wait, I think then, what about my music player?

            I

quickly check my breast pockets until I feel a familiar rectangular bump inside

my right one. Smiling, I unbutton the pocket and fish out the player and wired headphones,

the latter being tangled like a cluster of vines. "Ah," I say to myself,

untangling the puzzle of wires, "time to zone out."

            After

plugging my ears in, I check the device's battery life. 76%, it shows beside the battery symbol on the top right. Good

enough to last a while. Satisfied, I set it on shuffle, wheeling down the stone

ramp into the open as thundering drums drown out my hearing...

            What

I had told my father earlier was essentially a half-lie. Sure, clearing my head

was at least a part of why I was

heading outside, but it actually had more to do with finding an idea for a

story. You know the feeling when you sit down to create a narrative, but your

ideas run amok as soon as you've placed pen to paper (or, in my case, fingers

to keys)? Well, that's the feeling I'm having right now. Fortunately (as I push

forth on sidewalks, wind buffeting my whiskers), I have a plan to quash that

empty feeling, and it all starts with a short walk past the Wood of Legends.

The Wood of Legends (existing beyond the borders of my hometown) is so called

by locals because of the rare and splendid beasts that live there. Most people

assume that the beasts are pure poppycock, existing only in the minds of cubs,

kits and other young civilized folk. Well, I am here to tell you--as a visitor

to the Wood--that such things are not true, as the fauna are as real in fur,

flesh and scale. One of my dearest friends, in fact, is such a creature: a gold

Western dragon by the name of Aurelaxis.

            The

last time I saw him, I was barely out of puberty, and that had been for just a

short little visit in the summer. This time, I need him more than ever. As I

stop at the point where the suburbs give way to thick, thick forest, I imagine

his great lustrous form from all those years ago, wise and careful words

delivered in his soul penetrating voice. For

what could inspire imaginative thoughts more than a dragon?

            My wheels crunch and tread over leaves and dirt

as I enter the Wood between two giant maples, both ribald in shape but bursting

at branch-ends with color. In fact, this whole forest has the sky dominated with reds and oranges in autumn. A

path shaped like an 'S' winds through this area, and if my memory is correct, this

time of year is when the indigenous unicorn tribes begin to prepare for the big

migration southward. Many of the tribes of this area know me pretty well,

especially the Dadaelians, whose leader (a friendly chestnut giant by the name

of Kothar) has taken me up as a trusted friend and ally. Unfortunately, none of

them appear to be in the forest today, so I trudge on, brushing away my dark

bangs whenever I stop to rest my muscles. After several minutes of stopping to

probe for nearby sounds, I emerge into a clearing, having seen nor heard any

traces of beasts thus far.

            However,

I know for a fact that the wait is over, because about thirty feet distant from

me exists a towering cavern, jutting out of the verdant grasses like a towering

teethed monument, its top not too dissimilar to a sharp-peaked mountain (or, if

you're a metal-head like me, the cover for Death's The Sound of Perseverance album). This, I remind myself now, is

where Aurelaxis resides. Pushing myself forth, I take note of how difficult

it is to move forward: each push feels like treading on a carpet--albeit chilled

and natural--making it harder and harder for me to reach the grotto. After about

what seems like fifteen more minutes, I give up, my paws slick with dampness

and cold. I unbuckle myself and leap down. I am careful not to land on my tiny

little stub of a tail.

            My

dash to the cave takes longer, but each time I look up to catch my breath, I

see it ever closer--a sign of my resilience. Once my path takes me over the

familiar stone stalagmites, I freeze, my heart racing with feverish

anticipation towards conversing with Aurelaxis. It is that first jolt of

excitement that always gets me: the chance to talk to a magnificent creature

full of wisdom and majesty. After that, I usually fall into the loop of the

conversation, treating him just as if he were a civilized species; in other

words, plain good old respect.

            I

hear a clinking and the soft, slow padding of talons against stone, accompanied

by the sight of lustrous blue eyes, their oval slits haunting in the darkness.

Then, an arrow of fire alights a beam-sized scone on one of the lair's smoothly

carved walls, revealing the dragon once and for all. He is just as I remember

him: middle-sized for his kind (about the weight of three elephants) and

gorgeous, his scales gleaming like the gold he sometimes hoards. As I take in

more of his utterly magnificent form, I notice that he's holding a great mug of

coffee in his left claw, finely crafted out of china. Wisps of heat-smoke

stream from the mug, and the strong aroma of fresh cocoa is everywhere.

            "Thaddeus,

my friend," the dragon starts with a smile, "how good is it to see you once

again!" The hugeness of his voice makes my ears twitch back a little, but I

remain calm, returning the grin on my shorter, more rounded muzzle.

            "You

too. How have things been?"

            He

settles down with a heavy sigh, drawing his long spiked tail closer to his

hindquarters.

"Over the past twelve years? Up and down." He

sips, and then drums his free claw against stone. "My mate--you know,

Dilanna--she passed away last fall."

My eyes widen in shock. "Really?" I scoot

towards the dragon's prodigious arm, touching the warm scales of its crook in

compassion. "Very sorry to hear that."

Aurelaxis looks down at me for a second, his

blue eyes glimmering with hints of firelight, before taking another sip of his

coffee. "It was a very peaceful passing, though." Setting down his mug, he eyes

me, left ear flicking expectantly. "Do you know what the term respiratory pneumonia means?"

"Yes," I say, nodding, "She died from that?"

Aurelaxis returns my gesture.

"Oh," I then say in response. My eyes lock on

to a tiny crack in the cavern floor, studying it. Maybe it's time to tell him why

I am here.

"Aurelaxis," I begin, not taking my eyes off of

the fissure, "there's a reason why I stopped by..."

"Mr-hm. What is it?"

I stop my studying to gaze back up at the

dragon, a sigh escaping my lips. "Well, I'm having a lotta' trouble with ideas

for my story." My heart pounds as I say this, making my fur prickle in

timidity.

The dragon gets up, a sudden lurch that

startles me greatly. "Yes? And?"

I watch him as he whirls around, padding away

into another more crudely carved chamber with the mug in his fore-claws. "I was

wondering if you could, y'know, inspire

me. Give me some... ideas."

I hear the gentle clink of china against

granite from the chamber behind me. After a second, Aurelaxis reappears, his

great winged form rejoining mine. Having heard my call, he answers, "How could

I do that, Thaddeus?"

My mouth opens, hesitates for a split second.

"I-I don't know. Magic. Um,"--I gulp

down, remembering that dragons never do such things--"telling a story, maybe?"

Out of all the things Aurelaxis could do, a simple tale telling was what

I remembered him doing best. He had an old storyteller's voice, the kind usually

accompanied by a fire and a nice cup of boiling hot tea. However, the dragon

isn't up for it at the moment, as he tells me that he is tired of repeating

tales that have already been told.

"C'mon," I plead, lacing fingers together as

kits do to their mothers, "just do it. You know

you're good at it! Just one story for me, please."

The dragon, having just plopped down beside me,

considers, rubbing his chin with the thumb of his talon. "Alright," he says,

standing up once more, "it shall be done." He cranes his neck around to spy me.

"Which one do you want to hear?"

I blink, not thinking for a moment. "Oh! Ummm..."

I rub my muzzle in contemplation, fingering my whiskers softly. There are so

many tales to take inspiration from, all great in their morals and adventures.

My personal favorites are (naturally) the ones with dragons as the

protagonists. As it happens, my mind focuses on the image of a familiar red

wyrm, his claws sharp and striking, descending upon a wooden ship, bearing a

vulpine rider on his back.

"Tell me of Thanos the Scarlet," I say,

snapping out of my reverie, "and his pact with the foxes of Thumbria to

overthrow their Daelan overlords." A smile breaks on my lips as I remember

flashes from the tale's plot: Thanos' speech to the citizens, his ambush, the

Great Battle that occurred thereafter. The dragon grins as well.

"You have always loved that tale, have you not?"

"Yep."

"Alright, then." He takes a few steps forward,

unfurling his wings, which veil the sun, itself smothered by the clouds hanging

over the clearing and the surrounding Wood. The last thing he tells me before

he takes flight is a confirmation that yes, he is indeed going hunting, and yes, he will

tell the tale when he returns. I nod at the news, smiling, and watch him glide

far, far above the treetops, wishing that I could be a dragon myself.

"Ahem,"

the dragon starts later on, having brought me dinner: a freshly killed rat,

along with an ox for himself. He stops, eyeing me sinking my canines into the

grey furred carcass. "Are you enjoying that?"

I rip off a piece, chewing and nodding. "Yesh,"

I say, spitting inattentively, "go on."

Aurelaxis clears his throat again, and promptly

starts his tale. "Long, long ago, there was a drake named Thanos. His scales

were the color of blood and war, and his eyes shone like the stars and the

land's twin suns. Despite his scales, he was a peaceful sort of fellow..."

Before I know it, my eyes are closed, the fur

and whiskers of my cheek planted into the stone floor. But another story rises

in my dreams: one of a similar-hued drake rising out of a pool in his lair,

scales dripping as he ventures out, catching sight of a raccoon standing far

below, looking a lot like my friend Dashaen, red hoodie and all--

"Thaddeus!"

I am shaken awake, my head throbbing from the sheer cacophony of Aurelaxis'

call. I look up; he is staring down at me, his brows furrowed, his lips

slightly parted in annoyance. "Why did you doze off, my friend? Do you not want

to hear the tale, or what?"

I exhale a breath, half-realizing my heart's

violent thudding. "I did," I say

after a moment of silent hesitation, "but I only wanted to draw inspiration

from it."

The dragon scanned me, as if I were suddenly a

thing to be eaten, then sighed. "So has it been renewed?"       

I get up to my knees, a grin forming across my

muzzle. "Yup." I rub my eyes, yawned before looking at the outside world: the

sky was darkening, I realized, into a navy blue. "I should really get going," I

say, partly to myself, "before my dad scolds me for being out too long."

"Truthfully, I don't think that will happen,"

Aurelaxis replies, "and here's why." His sigh catches my attention, holding it

there as he explains. "Your father... he is an intelligent feline being. He knows you are more mature now than when

I last saw you. So I say this," he

offers with a claw outstretched: "Tell him where you have been. It never hurts

to do so." The dragon nods, emphasizing his point.

"Really?"

"Of course."

I turn and bid adieu to my good friend,

Aurelaxis the Golden, before making the long crawl back to my wheelchair. My

fur suffers a few cuts and scrapes along the way, but in the end I make it. My

paws caked with grime, I unlock my brakes and head back, keeping the dragon's

suggestion in my head all the while.

When I make it home, it is half past midnight.

The house is silent and dark, but the door to my room is still open. So I push

valiantly onwards, wheeling myself into the chambers of my own personal domain.

The laptop is there, closed. I venture up to the desk and open it. Light floods

from the device; apparently I had left it on. I sight, purring slightly, and

start typing, full of fresh ideas. I type about the rising dragon, the familiar

raccoon, all of it. 

As for my father wondering about me, I reminded

myself to inform him tomorrow morning, with renewed confidence.