How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [1]
An idea, that is, not the giant. Or a tree.
I screamed out a warning. The giant yawned. (It’s not that easy to capture the attention of a giant.)
That’s when I charged. Poor beast never even saw me coming. Imagine its surprise when I wedged my shoulder between two enormous toes and easily brought it to its knees.
Greg paused and held his pen to his chin. Truth was, he’d be lucky to survive a fight with a classmate, let alone one with a giant—compared to Greg, his classmates were giants—but the Greg Hart from his journal was capable of countless feats Greg would never take on himself, so he shrugged and scratched out an end to his tale.
A deafening roar shook the forest as the giant teetered first forward, then back, and dropped like a falling skyscraper, splaying the last of the trees. For twenty minutes the ground trembled, short in comparison to the hour it took to climb my way out of the newly formed cavern.
I didn’t mind. Small price to pay for saving yet another kingdom.
“Cool,” Greg told himself as he snapped his journal closed and crammed it into the pocket of his jeans. What he wouldn’t give to win a fight against a giant.
Of course, it’s not like he’d never been in a fight before. It’s just to date his experiences always leaned more toward getting beaten up rather than throwing any punches. About the only thing he had in common with the Greg Hart from his journal was that he could run really fast. Here he had plenty of experience—way more than any boy would have liked—but less, he feared, than he would need at his new school tomorrow.
No, Greg’s strength was simply not one of his strengths. His smile drained away, and he fell back against the wall of the tree house, ignoring the groan of the buckling lumber.
Greg had spent all morning exploring the woods behind his house, where it was not uncommon for every bush to hide a monster, for the trees to pick up and move when he wasn’t watching, and for animals to chase him at blinding speeds down the twisted paths, nipping at his heels with every step.
Imagining you’re a hero could be exhausting work.
Soon Greg’s eyelids began to droop and his head began to list, but his imagination was just getting its second wind. Before him appeared a courtyard filled with people, all shouting and waving their arms.
“Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart!” they cheered, and there was Greg at the center of it all, grinning so wide it looked as if his head might split in half. Eyes fully closed now, the daydreaming Greg smiled too. He’d have fought a giant twice the size for half the glory.
Gradually the picture blurred and reformed, until next to Greg stood a pretty young maiden in a long, flowing gown. A huge man in a
magenta robe and gold crown strode forward, a king, who spoke in a most grandiose tone.
“Our greatest thanks to you, young man. I must say, only the very bravest of heroes would have willingly marched into the lair of that fire-breathing dragon. No words can express our gratitude. No words at all. We shall remain forever in your debt.” In his mind Greg saw the maiden reach up on tiptoes to give him a grateful kiss, and the spectators threw their hats in the air and cheered even louder than before.
Greg woke with a start. Where would he ever find a young maiden who needed to stand on tiptoes to kiss him? Where would he find one willing to kiss him at all? He pushed the thought from his mind and tried to return to the courtyard, but the image wouldn’t come.
He was still straining when a sudden rustling outside caused him to jump. It was not the sound of a giant, or a dragon, or even some unthinkable monster lurking in the bushes. It was worse. It was the sound of a big kid.
Greg leapt to his feet and peered between two scrap boards at the trail below. Ogre!
If only.
Greg recognized the crooked jaw, the squashed nose and bulging red cheeks, the jet black eyes set deep beneath the single heavy brow. It was a face that would have been happy on a boxer, but no, the