There's No Dragons Here
A comet passing by in the night sky, Knowledge gained from rivers and what lives there. There is one story that is Fiction. Can you find it?
by
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Stranger: Aren't these Roses beautiful? (Julie looked at what the woman had bought; indeed, they were very special.) Julie: Those roses are exceptional! Stranger: I bought these for you! You remind me so much of my mother, who passed away years ago. I want to give them to you! Julie: How wonderful, are you sure? Stranger: Yes, I am sure! Julie: Thank you so much!" Stranger: Would you mind if I gave you a hug? Julie: Sure, my dear, come here! The stranger gave her a bear hug as tears ran down the stranger's cheek. Stranger: Can I ask you one last thing? After he had pushed the button to detonate the nuclear bomb, it was quiet, too quiet. Now, he had the pleasure of descending two miles down the hole and checking if a wire became disconnected It is 1952. George's company has just been overrun in Korea. Now, the Korean/Chinese army has fixed bayonets. One by one, the soldiers were stabbing the Americans dead, making sure everyone was dead. Up to this point, George has been pretending to be dead. Now, a soldier is standing above him, getting ready to run the bayonet through his heart. After the second class, he approached the instructor and said he was an artist and couldn't just sit there; he needed to create things with his hands. The instructor said, "You just don't get it, do you? You need to go "here" before the next class." and wrote down an address to the "Longshoreman's Union" near Pier 39 in San Francisco. When he arrived, many hippies were working on/painting a bus in bright colors and shapes. The bus has a destination on the front that reads "Further." Phil handed the note to one of the workers on the bus, and they directed him to an older man standing in the doorway of a building. When Phil walked over to this gentleman, introduced himself, and handed his note over for the gentleman to read, the man greeted him with a huge smile and said, "Hello, Phil! I am Ken Kesey!" It has been 2 ½ hours out here; my leg is broken with a tee-shirt and thin jacket; the cold and wind are numbing, and I am not thinking very clearly. Is this it? I freeze to death 15 feet from our back door? I take the branch and bang the deck loudly; surely Mary Beth can hear me in her sleep! Nothing… nothing at all, silence… I feel myself peacefully and quickly drifting off to sleep and death; I knock some more; I can't keep this up much longer. Minutes pass; the deck light comes on! I attempt to yell, no strength left! The lights go out…the lights went out!
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About the Book
Rob and I are friends from high school, and we are both musicians. After one night of practicing, we just felt like grabbing a beer and going for a walk. We walked for miles, discussing musical ideas and enjoying the night’s air and scenery. Thus was born the “Midnight Beer Walks.” Not for exercise, not for destination - just for the rhythm of the night and therapy it offered. Five, sometimes eight miles of uninterrupted conversation. The kind of talks that only happen when the world is asleep and the earth is listening. My house was located on the rural suburban edge. Light to no traffic. No streetlights. Just the wind blowing through the trees and our hair. That silence gave us space; not just to speak, but to hear ourselves think. We discussed everything; music, politics, heartbreak, and dreams. The beer was incidental. The walk was sacred. One night, Rob’s car wouldn’t start. I drove to pick him up. After our walk and drive back home, he fell asleep somewhere along the way. The roads were empty, the night thick with stars. I stopped at a red light. His eyes quickly opened. He sat up, looked straight ahead and said, “There’s no dragons here.” He then closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep seconds later. I didn’t say a word, just stared at the road ahead and wondering from which corner of his mind that sentence had come. It was absurd. It was profound. It was Rob. Forty years later, a psychic friend - well-known and deeply intuitive, mentioned dragons. She claimed they were absent in our location. That something about the land had pushed them away. I froze. That sentence, buried in my memory, came roaring back. There’s no dragons here. Rob had said it without knowing. Or maybe he did. His experience “Consciousness of My Life, Leaving,” and nearly freezing to death near the end of winter, is included. The echoes in the silence of those old roads, in the rustle of leaves, in the breadth of the earth at night, call out. Because when it’s just you and her - the world, she speaks in a different language. One that doesn’t need translation. One that knows your name.
About the Author
Thomas is a proud father of two sons and husband to a wonderful wife. A professional photographer by trade, he’s spent years capturing joy—paid to make people smile for a living. In his career, he’s tackled complex scientific and engineering challenges that others couldn’t crack, bringing quiet brilliance to difficult problems. His passions span motorcycles, fast cars, guitars, and the written word. His published poetry and storytelling offer glimpses into a life lived with curiosity, intensity, and heart.