Requiem for the Future

Part 2 Fantasy

Image created by ChatGPT with input from a former rider of dragons.

I was born to ride! My dad rode. My grandpa rode. I trained on horses, then graduated to elephants. Why? Because it was in my blood, or so I told myself. I even studied under Professor McCaffrey, a very knowledgeable dragon expert. I was ready.

Or so I thought.

It’s not what they teach you that matters; it’s what they forget to mention.

You ride a dragon bareback. No saddle. No reins. No harness. There are three ways to mount a dragon: the easy way, the hard way, and the way that’ll get you killed.

The easy way? Approach slowly, make sure the dragon sees you, and hope they’re in a good mood. If they are, they’ll lower their head. You climb up using a wing, settle just ahead of the wings, and grip their hair, what I call thorns. One rule: never, ever spur with your feet. You do that, you’ll wish for death. If the dragon accepts you, you steer by leaning. Simple.

The hard way? I call it the surprise approach. You sneak up, hop on from the side, and assert dominance. Don’t push them into flight. Just wait. If they’re cranky, tired, or napping, they’ll spike their thorns into you and lock you in place with barbs. Which hurts. A lot.

The deadly method? Have someone fly you above a dragon and jump onto its neck midair. Easy to miss. Easy to fall. Easy to die. And if you land on a dragon’s neck, your legs flail—spurring by accident—well, that’s how you become a cautionary tale.

“Dear oh dear!”

I didn’t try the airborne leap. I may be dumb, but not suicidal. Went with the hard way. Found myself in a peaceful field of dragons. So far, so good. They ignored me. I crept up behind a big one—head down, looking bored. Could’ve been a “she.” Never got close enough to ask for pronouns.

Quick as I could, I jumped on and grabbed two hairs. Instantly, they turned into thorns. Painful, but manageable—until the barbs popped out and impaled my butt cheeks. Both sides. At that point, I screamed. A lot.

The dragon ran, hopping over rocks. With every jump, my feet jabbed into his neck, accidentally spurring him. He did not appreciate that and took off.

I tried pulling my legs up to stop the spurring. Bad move. That shoved my back into him, which he took as a signal to climb. He went vertical. I panicked. My legs dropped. More spurring. Up we went, straight into the sky.

I never learned in the classroom that dragons, like sharks, attract hangers-on both in the air and on the ground. Remora birds latch onto their scales to feast on parasites and leftovers. Pilot birds clean their teeth and snatch the bits that fall. Bleeding now, I must’ve seemed like a parasite myself.

No saddle. No backrest. Eventually, I let go of the thorns to swat at the birds. Gravity took over. What kept me from falling? Just the barbs in my butt.

It was freezing. My ears popped. I saw the curvature of the earth and muttered, “Suck it, flat-earthers.” Then I leaned forward to grab the thorns again, just in time for the dive.

A near-vertical plummet. Wind roaring. Clouds screaming past.

That’s when he spit out his last meal, a half-digested antelope, and I got a horn to the forehead. Not through the skull, but close. I reached up, and it felt like the dragon made me into a unicorn.

At terminal velocity, the dragon slightly shifted his wings and slowed. At the same time, he retracted the barbs.

I flew forward past his head.

I swear he was grinning.

Then came the dragon spit. Thick, hot, and sticky. Then the fire.

Flaming, goo-covered, and screaming, I plummeted like a meteor—straight into the sharpest, most jagged mountain range in the kingdom. I bounced all the way down.

The wolves ate well that night.

They say the only thing left was my skull, preserved with the antelope horn still jammed in. It now hangs in the Rider’s Hall, a warning to all cadets.

“Dear oh dear!”