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This week's writing is in the second person. Hope you enjoy it.
The horned, blue-black tail thrashes and disappears. A deafening roar fades, leaving you surrounded by destruction. Flames reign on the horizon, licking up and consuming buildings as if ravenous.
Your knees buckle. You crash to the ground, gripping your chest. You can barely breathe, barely see through the tears crowding your swollen eyes.
Your brother’s last words bullet through your flesh, wrap around your heart and squeeze. You are vaguely aware of shouting. You feel a jolt, pressure on your shoulders. You blink, lift your head, and see Lilian’s face inches from yours, screaming words you cannot hear over the ringing in your ears. Tear-streaked dirt mars her beauty. She shakes you. Your cheek stings as she strikes you.
“...hand...” is all you make out.
This is my fault. This is my fault. The words repeat in your head like an invasive song. You can’t look. He won’t look.
Lilian's burnt, ash caked fingers grab your hair and drag you forward. She manages a few steps before you dug your knees in. She releases you, yells profanities as she stalks away.
Conscious of movement and the villager’s voices calling out, you force your eyes open, wipe them and focus. A mound of rubble dominates where your brother’s house stood. You crawl forward and reach for the lifeless hand protruding out under the pile of rubble. You grab it, squeeze it, beg it to squeeze back. It doesn’t.
A screeching roar invades the quiet air. The dragon’s silhouette soars above the dusty, orange-tinted skyline. Lillian squats beside you and places a cool hand on your warming cheeks. But nothing can tame the fire building inside you. Heat swells in the pit of your stomach. It rises through your torso, igniting your desire to retaliate.
You feel your body elongate violently and you drop to your hands and knees. Bone-crushing fangs burst out and multiply under your snout. A thick, snaking tail lashes behind you. Great, bat-like wings sprout and expand across your back, marking the end of your shifting. A guttural roar explodes from your throat, and smoke streams out of your nostrils before you leap up and barrel towards the dragon.
That's it. This piece has since been reworked into a submission that incorporated the techniques of Charles Dickens. I changed it to third person past, since that is my preference, and added much more imagery. Once I get the essay scored and returned I can share that with you. I'm considering expanding that one since I am a wee bit proud of how it turned out.