Writing in Snow

Sunday afternoon, January 1, 2012

Daily Writing Prompt for Saturday, January 1, 2011 – Write about Sunday afternoon.
Word count: 506

Sitting up in bed, Lora stared at her reflection in the mirror. Odd, she thought pushing the covers from her sweating body; I don’t remember placing the dresser against that wall. I wander how long it’s been there? She extracted herself from the bed and looked around the room. None of the furniture was setting where she remembered placing them. Even the door was in a different wall.

Picking up a lavender cotton bathrobe from a chair sitting next to her bed, she stared at it as if seeing the robe for the first time. Then she put on the robe and tied its sash tightly around her waist. Walking to the window, Lora opened the lilac lace curtain. Well, she smiled looking down into the backyard; at least nothing in the yard has changed... except I seem to be on the second floor. She frowned and rubbed her eyes, this house doesn’t have a second floor.

Trembling, Lora staggered back to the bed and sit down on the chair. She closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten. Opening her eyes, she looked around the room, but nothing had changed. I must be dreaming, she rose from the chair, took off the robe and got back into bed. I’ll wake up in a few minutes and everything will be normal again.

Lora lying with her eyes closed, listened for the noises an old house makes. All she heard was the beat of gigantic wings and screech, which sounded like a cross between an eagle spotting its prey and a woman in extreme pain. Taking a deep breath, she got out of bed and went to the window.

Sitting in the middle of the backyard was a golden dragon preening. In the sky above the golden female, two bronze dragons, their claws glistening in the afternoon sun, screeched each other, each male attempting to scream louder then the other. At random intervals, the female looked up watching the mock battle for about five minutes before returning to her preening.

I will no longer, Lora thought returning to the bed celebrate the New Year by getting drunk on French Champaign. Closing her eyes, she attempted to go back to sleep, but without any luck.

I resolve that in 2013, I will do what any true descendant of Robert of Bruce should do. I will get plastered on one hundred year old Scotch whisky. After a few seconds of contemplating the noises outside her window, she pulled the bed covers over her head. Was Robert of... the Bruce Irish? Just to be on the safe side, maybe I’d better buy a bottle of one hundred year old Irish whisky as well. Tomorrow, after I sober up, I’ll go down town and buy a bottle of Irish whisky and a bottle of Scotch.

“Lora, honey,” come a male voice from the hall outside her bedroom, “are you all right. Did those damn dragons wake you up?”

“Uh... No,” she sat up as a man, wearing chainmail, entered her bedroom.