"Hey guys! Look at Azlar, he can't even light a twig." Nazgib yelled to the rest of the dragonlings that were in the courtyard.

"Shut up dude, you know I'm just a late bloomer. I'm gonna be so much better than you when we're older, just you wait!" Azlar yelled back, water forming in his eyes, something that he wasn't even biologically supposed to do.

Azlar was much further behind than the rest of his nest mates in his ability to summon his fire. Nazgib was the furthest of them all, able to create a small campfire with his fire. The rest could light about a medium log.

Azlar hated being with the other dragonlings, they always made him feel terrible about himself. At least at home, his mother would try to help him cope with his disability. She would steal heat up his dinner and keep him warm at night, like he was a hatchling or something.

His father, like all dragon fathers, left his mother once she laid his egg. He would only come back when Azlar was fully grown and out of the nest. That way, he would be able to breed again.

Azlar liked the situation, he was afraid that if his father stayed around, he would only pick on him like everyone else did.

As soon as he could get away from Nazgib and the other dragonlings, Azlar flew back to his nest and hid himself from the world under the comfort of his mother’s wing.

—— —— ——

The dragon swooped down towards the burning human town, rage fueling his wings. With a mighty breath, water poured out of his mouth, calming the gaping wounds the fire had burned.

Azlar couldn’t believe that Nazgib was attacking humans. It broke every code the dragon tribes stood for, including the biggest one of all: to never reveal your presence to the small creatures that called themselves humans.

To attack the defenseless creatures was too much, the four tribes appointed Azlar to become the protector of humans. He was to hunt Nazgib to the ends of the four realms, for as long as it took, restoring peace wherever the former dragon broke it.

I am one of a kind. Unique in a way that makes me anything but special. A fairy is born to fly, spread her wings and take flight.

A fairy is born to fly. Every fairy, except me.

I’ve got no wings, so unlike the rest I am destined to stay put. Stuck in one place, useless in every way. Why was I cursed to forever remain on the ground, unable to feel free?

I walk while they float, I run while they soar. I’ve been ridiculed and harassed my whole life. No one ever has an answer for they way I am, just a joke or a hurtful word.

A fairy without wings. A babies laugh brings us life but maybe a baby’s cry brought me mine. Unfinished and imperfect is how I’ll always feel.

I am a fairy without wings, which begs the question, am I then a fairy at all?

If not a fairy, then I am me. Neither mythical or mortal, but not confined to a label. I am not a fairy without wings but instead I am me, someone who has yet to find out who they’re going to be

“Hello I’m Erica Martin, welcome to Toil & Trouble. Are you currently in the province of Magical Enchantment?” “Yes.” The voice was timid. The client fidgeted in his Norte Dame sweatshirt and khakis. “So what brings you here, Eamon? Have you been in counseling before?” Martin asked. “No, this is all new to me. My people don’t really ask for help. People always expect us to be happy. Unless they’ve watched those god-awful Leprechaun movies from the 90s then they expect us to be gold grubbing psychopaths. That was a rough time I tell you. No, I never saw the point in talking about your problems.” Eamon spluttered and fell silent. “I’ve worked with many mythical creatures, your unique history can present many challenges,” Martin said soothingly. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for help or focusing on your feelings. Think of it as maintenance.” Eamon raked his fine fingers through his coppery curls. “I don’t know how to begin. I’m just off. I don’t care about me gold . I haven’t visited the end of the rainbow in weeks. I’m restless. I can’t eat. None of the old things in my life still to matter much. My world is gray.” Erica Martin gave her client a warm smile. “Tell me about the new things in your life.” “Well things being the way they are, crazy and upside down like, I thought I would take up some new hobbies. I tried bread making until I got sick o the sight of sourdough. Then painting, then throwing clay pots and finally,” Eamon shimmered nervously in and out on Martin’s screen. The counselor leaned in. “I have taken up knitting. It’s just not done. If the lads knew what I was up to.” Eamon flushed bright red from the tips of his toes to the roots of his head. “Tell me what you like most about knitting. “ The sprite’s split in half from his grin. “O the colors you know. The reds and purples and gradients are to die for. I love cacophonous color combos when I make me socks. So much more interesting then making shoes. My teacher Coleen favors natural colors. She wants to teach me how to dye me own fibers, don’t cha know.” “You know your whole face lit up when you talked about knitting and Coleen.” Martin slipped on a pair of sunglasses to block Eamon’s green glittery glow. “Coleen is a lovely lass. When she’s not keening she’s cheerful and cheeky,” Eamon said. He looked off in the distance turning over a memory of the banshee’s warm arms reaching around his to correct his Kitchener stitch. Martin waited patiently again. Her wings swayed and she cocked her head watching the leprechaun’s iridescent aura. Martin took a sip of hot chocolate and listened to Eamon fall in love.

It’s a terrible thing, to be a siren without a voice. Now before you get all pitying, just take a moment to think about all the life dreams you’ve never achieved. See? It happens to the best of us.

I’ve never really let it bother me, if I’m honest. I mean, I keep away from the siren crowd as much as I can - they’re all a bunch of stuck ups anyway - and live, what I guess most would call a secluded life.

My castle - yes, you heard me right, I own a castle - is perched atop a wind-beaten cliff overlooking a cerulean sea. Every morning carries the tang of salt on the breeze. Every night is lit by the blush of the stars.

Jealous?

Well … if I’m being honest, the life of a hermit isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. When you’ve seen the ocean from your window once, it hardly changes much. You get tired of the stench of fish, and burning your fingertips lighting candles every night. Routine becomes all that you know; when you’re trained not to see the unexpected, it can really sock you in the jaw.

So that’s probably why it takes me a day to realised the sea’s disappeared.

I don’t look up, My head is down. When I must, Go into town.

I have an extra eye, you see, Than all my other peers. Who have the same correct amount, Of mouth and nose and ears.

I hate this extra eye so much, I want to look the same. Everyone all looked alike, Until I finally came.

I wish this thing would go away, So I didn’t want to cry. For being the only cyclops, Without only one eye.

No one told me life would be this hard. It wasn’t my choice to make. I’m not as grand as the Golden Phoenix, Or as mighty as the Majestic Thunderbird, Or wise as the Gilded Gryphon. I’m just a dragon the size of your pinky And a heart the size of an ocean.

I’d sailed this route a hundred times, been hired by dozens of captains eager to save time cutting straight across the Siren Sea instead of taking the longer, safer route. They say you can’t hear the sirens if you stick close to shore, that they can only lure you to your doom in the middle of the sea, where it’s deep enough to sink your entire ship in one piece. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never heard their song at all. I’ve been deaf since birth.

My parents refused to consider it a detriment, and taught me to sail just like all my siblings. With a cooperative crew, willing to learn sign language and treat me as capable, I could sail any sea. And then, in my early twenties, someone realized the truth of that phrase - I could sail any sea, even the one that not even the most skilled sailors would survive.

And so it began. They would hire me, and as we neared the sirens’ rocks, the rest of the crew would go down into the hold, and I would lock the door behind them. From there I would steer the ship on my own, paying the swaying fish-tailed maidens no mind. There’s no magic in a siren’s flowing hair, or sparkling scales, or in the way they bat their eyelashes and hold out their hands in pleading gestures. A siren’s magic lies in her song. And once the rocks were far behind me, I would unlock the door and let out the crew - disoriented, but alive.

I’d sailed this route a hundred times, bringing every ship there and back again, and with my share of the grateful captains’ profits, I had made more money for my family than my father ever did, or my mother, or any of my elder siblings. I suppose I’d grown cocky.

When the blue-scaled siren pulled herself up onto the prow, I felt no fear. She opened her mouth, but there was no effect, besides causing me to raise my eyebrows at her in amusement as I kept the ship’s wheel steady.

The siren pursed her lips into a frown. Then another climbed up next to her, this one with green scales. The blue one looked down at her and said something, her mouth’s movements indistinguishable at this distance. The green siren did not reply. Instead, she pulled herself over the railing and crawled along the deck, coming towards me in the slow, flopping way sirens move in those rare times they come onto land. I glanced down at my belt to make sure my sword was there - sirens have sharp teeth, and they will use them if they get close enough. But I knew from experience that the best thing to do was to keep on sailing. The siren would not dare go far from her home, and once she realized I would not turn for her, she would leave.

Sure enough, the blue siren looked back towards the rocks and dove from the prow. And so I kept my eyes on my compass and the horizon as the green siren continued to cross the deck. She came to the stairs leading from the boat deck to the bridge, and she heaved herself up them, one step at a time, until finally she sat coiled in the floor in front of me. She was very still there, for a while, until finally I looked at her, curious.

She lifted her hands, holding them both palm-down in front of her, her left hand hovering over the right. Then she moved her right hand in small circles under her left hand. I recognized the gesture. It was sign language for “below.” And she continued to sign:

“Below the sparkling foaming sea / Is where I make my home / Amongst the currents I am free / To ever dance and roam…”

I didn’t know what music was, really. I understood it had something to do with changing how your voice vibrates, and of course I knew what rhythm was, both in poetry and in the clapping of hands. Singing itself meant nothing to me. Or so I had thought. Now, I stared at the siren’s hands as she signed:

“There’s treasure in the warming depths / Adventure and travails / You need only take three steps / To join our epic tales…”

My hands were slack on the wheel, my mouth gaping open, my gaze stuck on her hands. I felt warm, warm enough to want to shed my coat, and at the same time more comfortable than I had ever felt in my life.

“We fear no storms beneath the waves / The weather’s always fair / We’d sleep in shining ocean caves / If you would join me there…”

One of my arms shifted, and the wheel turned. So did the ship, leaving our previous course. But I couldn’t remember why I’d been going that way anymore, anyway. For money, maybe? Who needed money? There was treasure enough in the sea…

“Have me, sailor, as your bride / And stay here where I dwell / Let the sea take you aside / For she will treat you well…”

My eyes flickered away from the siren’s hands, just enough to see that my ship was now heading straight towards the rocks. Something in my gut felt off about that. But then I looked down again, at her hands, at her face. She was smiling at me, my voiceless siren. And I would never need anything again but her song.

For hundreds and thousands of years dragons were said to to be blood thirsty killers with a breath hot enough to melt metal within seconds. We’ve also been told that trained and heavily armoured Warriors have gone up against these creatures and failed. We have listened to these stories and myths all our lives that they’ve been imprinted in our Brains, but what if I told you that dragons were not blood thirsty killers with a flame hotter then the sun, what if I told you I found them and they were gentle and wise creatures that only kill to survive like us humans. These dragons are exactly how you’d imagine them to be except there missing the one thing you would expect a dragon to have. Unlike the myths dragons do not breath fire instead they have the ability to control your mind and they always use it for good or to protect themselves against evil. I’m the only human to have found these magical creatures and I must protect them against other humans because what we humans forget to mention in our stories is that we are the monsters. We can find beauty within the world and tear it apart the moment we find it and we destroy everything we touch and we don’t even give it a second thought. I know that if people find out about these dragons we will kill or experiment on these poor reptiles and when we mess with things we don’t understand it doesn’t normally go well. I’ve been around the dragons long enough to know they will do what ever it takes to survive even if that means endings he human race.

The beauty was untold of. A creature with everything you could desire. They are something you wish to look upon, until you see them.

Vampires are said to be one of the most beautiful creatures that you will ever see. They have flawless skin that is soft like satin. They have voices like a siren to call draw you. Yet when you approach, you’ll notice something wrong.

They won’t look at you. They call you close, refusing to open their eyes. When they do, you know why.

They have no eyes. They find you from your smell. Blood pumping in veins, exuding a sweet aroma. They hear your heart beating near. Thumping in your chest like a bass drum.

Without their eyes they find you. Once they have you, you cannot leave. They trap you in their eyeless gaze. Frozen in your spot, the vampire comes near.

Smelling your neck. Listening to your heart. Brushing their teeth near your vein. Chomping down on your pulse. Drinking your blood. Making you their meal.

Griffin: A fabulous beast with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion.

When it emerged from the noisome indefinite darkness of the spell from which it had been summoned, and a gold and purple dawn spread itself lustrously with the piercing, cold contrast of a winter morning, the Beast knew that its crippling deficiency was both ironic and critical. Also, the Beast knew that it was intentional. The malicious witches who had summoned him had failed to give him wings. The gods had allowed this.

Rearing up on its hind legs, sniffing and pawing at the fresh, sharp air, a newly born creature, it felt the joy of life and the excitement of a new day deep in its heart, and the lusty desire for adventure burning in its belly; but it also felt its missing wings. Frustrated, outraged, angry, eager as a war horse for battle, its first moment of life ruined the beautiful monster’s existence and blackened its lofty mind with thoughts of a single goal: Revenge.