Dan Rice - Dragons Walk Among Us

I march across the dark swath of wet grass interspersed with towering Douglas fir toward the lamplight in the distance.

Obscured by the surrounding shrubbery next to the base of a conifer is a blue tarp. I press my free hand against the brown bag, feeling the warmth radiating from the container of broth. Good. Id hate for the soup to be cold.

A gust of wind pushes me sideways. From somewhere overhead comes a loud crack like the bone of some gargantuan creature snapping. A widowmaker thumps to the earth. Gasping, I nearly drop the soup and freeze in place. Overhead, the trees sway in the wind, branches creaking and groaning. I scamper toward the encampment.

About half a dozen tents surround the base of the tall conifer. A wide man with hunched shoulders moves around the camp. I smile. Its Joe.

Dragons Walk Among Us

by

Dan Rice

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Dragons Walk Among Us

COPYRIGHT 2021 by Dan Rice

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2021

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3655-8

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3656-5

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

Dedicated to Crystal, Alex, and Anders who allow me to write. And Diana Rice, for reading every chapter Ive ever written.

Chapter 1

The buzz of conversation echoes inside the gymnasium of Cascadia Prep High School. People admire the photographs hanging on the walls snapped by students from across the school district. I stand in front of my image, a black-and-white portrait of a homeless veteran named Joe. The LED lighting is awful for viewing photographs, especially a black and white. It makes my photo look like its a split tone. Its not.

I see tons of photos, and thats a grand slam, Haji says.

Thanks, I reply, but I know the gangly boy only says so because hes my friend.

Then again, maybe hes right. The bad lighting doesnt detract too much. The glow of the fire Joe sits beside is reflected in his wise, sad eyes and highlights the seams etched into his face from years of living on the streets. He isnt much over forty, but he looks sixty. I turn away from the photo, unable to look at it for long. Joe is more than a photographic subject. Hes a friend.

Allison, whats wrong? Haji asks.

I blink my moist eyes. Nothing. Lets look at the other photos.

Haji escorts me around the gym, offering his criticism and approval of the photographs mounted on the walls. As the editor of the Cascadia Weekly , our schools online news source, he claims to see dozens of photographs every week from student photogs and insists Im the best. My shots of high school sporting events around the city grace the sites pages practically every week.

Weve gone about halfway around the gym when I spot Leslie Chapman surrounded by admirers. Leslie is a junior and is everything Im not, popular and beautiful and tall. Not just tall for a girl either, shes tall period, like six feet at least. In the most generous terms, Im only five foot two inches. When she sees me in the crowd, her blue eyes slide right over me as if Im invisible. I veer away.

Its Leslie, I hiss to Haji.

I dont know what she has against you, he says and follows me.

Leslie likes being the best at everything, I say, struggling not to clench my teeth. Its not enough for her to be the captain of the cross-country team and a 4.0 student. She wants to be the best photographer too. She just wants me to be the girl she makes fun of at cross-country practice.

Well, youre the best, Haji says. She has to accept that.

I smile, feeling a spark of confidence. Im glad Haji takes my side. In his words, having the two of us as his top photojournalists for the school news site is a sticky wicket.

The high-pitched voice of a district official pipes from the speakers mounted high on the walls. She summons everyone to gather around and face a podium at the front of the gym. Hardly anyone is glued to their phones. I shift my weight on my feet and rub my hands together.

Dont worry, Haji says. Your portrait of Joe is just as good as anything else on display, better than most. Even accounting for my bias, Id say you have a great chance at winning.

I dont know. What about that shot from the goalkeepers perspective? Diving. Hands outstretched to block the ball. Thats pretty dope.

Nah.

I elbow him in the ribs.

Hey. His smile shows off his tea-stained teeth. Its a dope shot, okay. Amazing, but yours is better. Yours captures something extra special, the whole enchilada.

I give him a toothless grin. Thanks for saying so.

Im totally serious.

I believe you.

That smile says you dont.

Whatever. I roll my eyes.

Silence, please. Silence, the official chirps, her clipped movements as birdlike as her voice.

A relative quiet falls over the gym as people finish maneuvering. The official spouts a boilerplate speech about the importance of education and a free press and how the contest is the synergy of these two crucial aspects of civil society. I tap my foot against the floor. Haji has pulled out his phone and is texting. So is about half the crowd. I stifle a sigh. All my dad allows me is an archaic pay-as-you-go flip phone. He is such a dinosaur about some things.

Once the speech ends, teachers are summoned to the podium to announce the winner from their schools. Just as I said, the photo from the goalkeepers perspective is a winner. It takes first place in the sports category. Next up is the documentary category. I rock back and forth on my heels.

Third place goes to a boy I dont recognize from a high school up north. His image is of the grisly aftermath of a street race gone wrong. The twisted metal is hard to look at, knowing that three high school students died in the accident.

I sigh when second place goes to Tammy Nguyen, a girl I know from elementary school. Her colorful picture of the lunar new-year celebration in Chinatown deserves recognition. I wave to Tammy, although I dont think she sees me in the crowd.

Next, Id like to call up Mr. Eldridge to give out the first-place award in the documentary category, the district official says and stands aside for the Cascadia Prep teacher to take the podium.

Mr. Eldridge, his bald head gleaming in the light, stands behind the podium and adjusts his glasses on his hooked nose. He peers out over the crowd, squinting. Im sure his gaze pauses on me. My breath catches in my throat, and my eyes go wide. Am I the winner? Then his head swivels away. My gaze flicks to Haji. He gives me a thumbs-up.

First place goes to an extremely talented photojournalist, Mr. Eldridge says in a voice raspy from years of smoking. Hes always entreating his students not to take up the habit. Please, join me in recognizing Leslie Chapman for her amazing photograph entitled Blaze at the Museum.

No way, I whisper as the gymnasium erupts in applause.

Everyone is clapping.

Everybody loves Leslie.