by cheri block
Alonzo saw, in his mirror, a young virile dragon with bright golden eyes, orbs surrounded by firm blue skin and symmetrical scales. Not a blemish on his nose, not a scar on his cheek, not a bag under an eye did he see in that reflective moment.
He stepped back from the mirror and surveyed his body.
His physique too, looked as if he weren’t over 50 years old. The arch in his back still taut, the grip of his talons still intense, the muscles in his haunches still able to launch him skyward in a moment’s notice.
In his magnificent mind’s golden eye, staying with this moment, he had led his young band of dragons to a Purple Ribbon in the Air Show over Copenhagen just a few years ago.
His spirit, at this moment of recall, surged outside of reality, inadvertently and reflexively generating a fire moment deep within his lungs: in his ecstasy, he singed his mirror with an orange blast of heat that left all reflective glass covered with soot and steam.
Oh goodness, the cleaning lady is going to kill me, Alonzo sighed, weak from all the energy expended.
He picked up his terry towel from the floor and blotted the mirror clear, so he could finish combing what was left of his hair.
There again, in the mirror, he faced himself: an old but sagacious dragon, full of creative ideas and meaningful history, of exciting debuts and deep bows, of military duty and of familial resolve.
He waxed philosophic, tilting his head and drawing in his limbs, close to his body.
Suddenly he felt a buzz in his ear.
Alonzo, come to breakfast, old chap, my liege. The cook has prepared a waffle-pancake-omelet for the residents that is sure to make you feel like a kid again, Edmund dictated in that buzzy high-pitched mini-screech of his.
Alonzo slipped his friendship ring on, buttoned his vest, tucked in his hankie, and two-stepped out the door and just for good measure, singed the mirror once again.