Falareste

The dragons just kept getting cuter. I'd meant them to be scary, with snakelike heads and pearly fangs, but as my fingers gained more practice the dragons they shaped became younger and more innocent, their wings tiny and their eyes wide. Dull spikes lined their heads and tails, not yet sharpened by age. They lay on their bellies or sat up and watched with good-natured curiosity. They were friendly. They were sweet. They were flawed, and there were a lot of them. I experimented with color and pose, sculpting the way others would turn a stress ball. Every morning I baked the newcomers in my oven, and within a week my desk was overrun. Rows o

she has a wicked left hook. with a loose fist, she swings - room reeking of masculinity and fusty equipment. fierce lights and a deafening crowd - leather pummeled against flesh, striking the temple: the skull gave way and her opponent, hollowed and limp, collapsed to the canvas, staining the mat with sweat and blood; redemption. she swings again, clenching a heavy fist on impact. the bag buckles, harsh metal clanking.