My Dragon Army

Allow me to introduce my Dragon Army or as I affectionately call them, The Mystical Seven. ;-)

The newest recruit to join the ranks is Fury Infernicus Brimstone, a wishing dragon. Inside his chest beats a golden star that grants his chosen one all their dreams. Luckily for me, he's sworn his loyalty to me forever.

This relaxed fellow is Blazerous Coaldun-Mistrach. An amiable soul who rarely rouses from his dreams but when provoked, reduces any irritant to a pile of cinders. Blazerous is also known as guardian of the writerly cave.

 Smaller in scale but no less lethal, this feisty beast is Charconus Smee. A bit sensitive about his diminutive size, Charconus tends to sizzle first and ask questions later. His duties include guarding the sacred ink cartridges and ensuring all printer cables are not sabotaged by marauders.

 Wee Poof makes up the junior ranks while he excitedly awaits the grand day when he's able to produce his first flame. He's unable to assume any major assignments at this time but serves the purpose of tattling to command whenever the other dragons shirk their duties. Yes. Poof is not favored among the senior ranks.

 Raucous Firestrom is the founder of the army. As shown here, Raucous represents the core belief of the Mystical Seven: Never allow anyone to tell you you'll never make it. If you believe you can, you will.

 Seamus Puck is an agreeable soul able to see across the web of time and either nod or shake his head to predict the outcome of any venture.

And last but far from least is Virgilious Amoratio, better known as Virgil the Preener. He adores the ladies and never misses an opportunity to flaunt his colorful scales and belch sparkling flames.

By the way, the troops asked me to pass along that they're always looking to increase the ranks. Gifted dragons are always welcome but snakes and lizards need not apply. 

Superstitious or just plain crazy?

My family thinks I’m nuts. They’re loving and supportive but 99% of the time they shake their heads in amused pity whenever I share my revelations.

For instance, if you’ve ever met me or seen my image somewhere on the web, you’ll notice my hair is long. It falls down my back about even with my shoulder blades. At one time, it was much longer but I had to chop it off for safety reasons. I kept catching my braid in the car door whenever I slammed it shut. Don’t think THAT won’t jerk you right off your feet. Whew! Anyway, I relented a bit and now keep it trimmed to the safe “can’t get caught in the car door” length.

One day, while brushing my hair, my granddaughter asked me why I didn’t cut it. At the tender age of six years old, she’d already formed the opinion that OLD people were supposed to have short hair trimmed well above their ears. I told her I couldn’t cut my hair. If I did, I’d never be able to write another story because my hair held the magic of words.

My daughter snorted and shook her head. “Mom. You are crazy.”

I shook my finger at her and reminded her of Samson and Delilah. Crazy? Maybe. But I won’t cut my hair short –just in case.

And then there’s this thing I have about dreams. My family tends to fuss at me about my health –or they used to until I informed them that I’ve got a pretty good idea of when I’m going to die, stop fussing over me, I’ve got it covered. THAT stalled their nattering about my should and shouldn’t “do list”. My oldest daughter took the bait and asked how I knew when I was going to die and would I mind sharing the date with them?

I informed them that I have a recurring dream that is more real than any other dream I’ve ever had. In the dream, I’m about eighty-seven years old. (And I might add that I look GOOD) The way I know my age in the dream is because it always starts with a picturesque wall calendar opened to the month of January in the year 2048.

Deep snow covers the ground and I’m upset because I can’t find my little dog. I bundle up, grab a walking stick and forge off into the woods, determined to find my four-legged friend. I’ve walked those woods many times, both in reality and in my dreams, but this time seems much more difficult because of the brutal cold. I finally find my yapping little dog at the base of a sprawling oak. The massive tree grows alongside a washed out gully, its roots exposed and hanging over the creek bed like long arthritic-knotted fingers. The dog won’t come to my call. Not unusual. Every dog I’ve ever loved has always tested my patience. Anyway, there’s something up under those tree roots that’s much more interesting than me. So, I start down the slippery embankment to retrieve the hard-headed little scamp. Yep. You guessed it. The snow and ice layered atop the clay embankment ignore the pointy end of my walking stick and sling me to the base of the gully. I can’t get up. I vaguely remember a painful throbbing in my right hip. It’s funny. Anytime I have the dream, my right hip is always sore the next day. Anyway, I manage to roll myself up against the washed out wall of the embankment because huge fluffy snowflakes have started falling again. First, I’m cold and shivering but then I suddenly feel a delicious drowsy warmth and exhale one last soul-releasing breath with my little dog clutched to my chest. Then I wake up.

Yep. She informed me I was crazy –again.

I told her that if I’m wrong and I die sooner or later than age 87, she can do the “I told you so” dance.

Combine all of the above with the fact that when I write I always wear amethysts and my silver Celtic bracelet. I firmly believe the amethysts help me focus and my bracelet brings me luck. In fact, I usually wear my Celtic bracelet every day. When I don’t, I seem to always end up having a bad day.

So, what do you think? Am I superstitious or just plain crazy? Do you have any quirks…*ahem*…superstitions you’d like to share?

Inspiration or over-active imagination?

Sights? Sounds? Scents? What triggers your dream-state? What tickles your muse? We've all heard the expression, "a picture's worth a thousand words".  Do pictures send your mind reeling, make your palms itch to jot down the story before it escapes?

Consider these ruins atop the Rock of Cashel in Ireland. After I snapped this shot, I lowered the camera and though I stood among several other tourists, I was all alone.  My mind whirled through the ruins, searched over the landscape like a bloodhound led by a scent.  Hubby had to touch my shoulder to break my reverie because I wasn't there.  I was watching ghosts of the past fit together chiseled stones and build walls without mortar.

Or what about this woman playing the harp along the path winding up the Cliffs of Moher? My mind painted her as a trapped soul, unable to communicate in any other way than the magical sound released by her instrument.  Perhaps she waited for a hero?  A hero to break the curse and release her from the prison of silence.

 Did this gentleman ride his pony to the town square each day waiting for a lost love who promised she'd someday return? 






You see? I'm hopeless.  Ever the dreamer, I never know when it will hit.  And it doesn't take far away places to send me into my own little world.



 

The sight of my granddaughter singing her heart out at the Christmas play triggered visions of a self-assured young woman waiting in the future.













Her serious admonition while singing this song showed me the headstrong side to the young lady coming in the years ahead.






 

And then there's the little wood imp, hiding in the forest among the trees just itching to whisk away a passerbye and sweep them through the gateway into the land of Fae.

Sights? Sounds? Scents?  What sends YOU into a dream?