Great wings, black as night, spread out across the sky, so vast that nothing could be seen through them, not even a shaft of starlight. Claws dug deep crevices in the dry earth and whole forests burnt, leaves glowing red and sun-bright, trees turning to ash, blown away on the breeze. Roars like thunder shook the world, making even the mountains quake.
But heroes came with their shining swords and one-by-one the dragons were slain. They fell before iron and reason. Perhaps they saw that there would be no place for them in the world to come.
Dragons can only exist in the untamed wild, in the unknown places on the maps. When the maps were filled out, their natural habitats slipped away, one after the other.
There came a day when not even their bones remained, the graves of these ancient giants forgotten under the foundations. They had been wiped almost entirely from the earth.
Yet they still remained: in pages of storybooks both old and new, in paintings vast and bold, in carved wood. Their talons were still sharp, their wings still vast, their fire still terrible.
And in these little things, we remember: there were dragons once.
Word Count: 200
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.