Baby Dragon (Sunday Photo Fiction)

Baby Dragon (Sunday Photo Fiction)

dragon-puppetThe little girl stood outside the giraffe pen, mesmerized by the mother and baby. The gigantic orange and white creatures stood in the distance, and she thought the baby looked just like the dragon puppet her grandmother brought from China. Suddenly, the pair began to make their way toward the little girl.

“Would you like to feed them?”

An old woman, dressed in a khaki gray zoo uniform, stood next to the little girl. She held a bucket in her hand, and offered the little girl a carrot.

“Don’t be afraid”, the kind woman said. “Hold out your hand and she will take it from you.”

The little girl placed the carrot in between her fingers and carefully reached out toward the mother giraffe. With her large, thick tongue, the mother giraffe snatched the carrot and began to chew. Delight replaced fear and the little girl laughed out loud.

She could have watched for hours but her mother was anxious to move on.

“Time to see the elephants,” her mother said, in a voice that meant there was no choice in the matter.  Sadly, with a backward glance, the little girl moved on.

In response to: Sunday Photo Fiction – February 19th 2017
Image credit: A Mixed Bag

Why I write

Why I write

Why do I write? That’s a very good question. I don’t proclaim, like other writers, to have stories swimming in my head, bursting to get out. I have maybe six ideas. Maybe. Does lack of ideas mean I am not a writer? Does wanting to be a writer count for anything?

Why do I Write?  Writing is the only way I feel comfortable communicating with the world. I express myself better through written words. It gives me a chance to review, revise, or even resist.

Why DO I write? Do I really want to share my intimate thoughts with strangers, or even worse, my familiars?  That’s scary. Writing means exposure. Do I really want that?

Maybe I write so I can examine the demons that prevent me from reaching my full potential. A form of therapy, so to speak.

Maybe I to write because I am tired of the world I live in. Who wouldn’t want to skip town in a literary sense.

If I were a real writer, I would write mysteries. Stories of intrigue, capturing the imagination of the reader. I would write a story they could not put down because they are compelled to keep reading until the very end. A story so good that as the reader approached those last few pages, they would be torn between finding out what really happened and having the story end.

If I could be any writer, I would be J.K. Rowling. I want her talent and her imagination. I want to sit in a coffee shop and write in the wee hours of the morning, to create a world that that is so totally real that we sometime wonder if there really are wizards among us.

I digress.

Why do I write? For all the wrong reasons: I want to be read, I want to be liked, I want to be great. I want fame and fortune and everything that goes with it.

Why do I write? No reason, I just like it. I like creating something new, to be God-like. To bring beauty to the page; to touch the life of the reader in a new and intimate ways. I like the flow of words, the magic of putting together nouns and verbs, adjective and adverbs, stringing them together in such a way that it takes the reader to places they have never traveled.

Why do I write? Because I can. Because I still have the mental faculties to put words to paper. There will come a day when that gift is taken from me, so for now, I write. And I will keep writing until the I can write no more.

Why do I write? It is who I am, who I want to be.   

This story was inspired by WordPress.Com Daily Inspiration.

Total word count 460.