Lost the Last

By Taylor Nicolle

I lost it!

The one thing. The one responsibility I had in my care. And I lost it.

I raced down the corridor. My diamond-sharp claws dug into the floor, and my smooth, taut wings accelerated me forward. Suddenly, my shoulder slammed into a polished iron door. It swung back on its hinges and crashed against the rock wall behind it, sending a shrieking ring reverberating through the hall. I cringed, then bolted forward again.

The mefflen habitat was not one of the larger ones we had at the zoo—certainly not big enough to house a dragon such as myself. Mefflen look like Earth lions, but with six stocky legs, no tail, and ten eyes spaced around their heads. Their eyes always unnerved me, constantly watching you. Our largest mefflen stood just over half my height.

I peered through the tree branches crisscrossing the habitat, moving my head to check all angles. Dark leaves blocked my sight only a few yards in.

Barely slowing down, I ducked to avoid snagging my horns and wings on the branches. A scraping sound came from ahead. I hurried through the maze of trees, smacking my wings on every passing trunk as if they were dragon magnets.

A clearing opened up in front of me. Garlin—my best friend, coworker, and mentor—was bent over grabbing a squishy pile of rocks. He plopped them into the metal container next to him, threw back his head, and exhaled a gasping breath. “Why does poop have to be so smelly and squishy?”

“Garlin!” I galloped over. The nearby ground shook under my weight, the leaves and grass trembling. “I lost it! I’ve looked everywhere. What do I do? What do I do?”

Garlin turned my direction and removed thin black gloves from his paws. He grabbed my shoulder with a small shake. “Calm yourself before you set the whole mefflen enclosure on fire. What have you lost?”

I took a deep breath and focused on easing the pressure in my fire glands. “The human child. It’s the last human in the whole galaxy. I was told it likes to escape, and it’s so small and fragile.” I gasped. My eyes went so wide they felt like they’d pop from my head. “Oh no! What if I stepped on it? I could have single-pawedly destroyed an entire species. They’re all gone forever because of me!”

I lifted my paws one at a time and inspected them for any signs of squished pieces of small human.

“Calthus!”

I jerked my head up. “What?” A burst of fire erupted from my mouth and engulfed a tree over Garlin’s shoulder.

He flapped his weathered wings once and extinguished the fire, leaving some of the leaves and bark crispy. With a huff, he faced me again. His mouth opened, but instead of Garlin’s sharp ringing voice, I heard a high-pitched squeal coming from behind me.

I spun around, but I didn’t see anything, not even a mefflen.

Something squealed again, still from behind. I spun back, only to see Garlin’s wide eyes.

Abruptly, he let out a bellow of laughter.

“What are you doing? This is no time for laughing.” I tilted my head back and forth. How could he think this was funny?

Garlin fell to his side, rolled about, and guffawed. His eyes closed, and his sides heaved. Each scale glistened in the light as he writhed, every plate sparkled with no sign of cracking or wear.

What is his scale-care routine? He has the scales of a dragon half his age.

I shook my head. Now wasn’t the time, but I made a mental note to ask him later. “What are you doing? This is a crisis. I could get fired or worse or—”

The noise squealed behind me again. I turned. But, like before, nothing. Again and again, I spun.

Garlin’s cackling grew louder. “Calthus, please.”

I froze and turned to Garlin. “Now you can speak?”

That was debatable. Garlin was still breathless, and light smoke puffed from his mouth.

“Please, Calthus, stop for a moment and look behind you. Your tail…” Garlin chortled.

“My tail?” I turned my head. “Why do I need to look at…?”

Right there, holding onto one of my tail spikes, sat the last human in the galaxy, sporting a grin of rather dull teeth.

I reached around and grabbed the child, making sure to keep my claws from snagging on the creature’s removable covering. I brought the little male child to my face, and he patted my nose and made gibberish noises.

I started to smile as I listened to the small thing babble. The grin grew larger until it was one of my biggest ever. The human tried to speak our language, but biologically he didn’t have the voice for it, his resonance lacking volume and depth.

Still, the child tried.

“Come, small one.” I tucked the human close to my chest. “Let’s go play with the stuffed animal that you keep trying to give me.”

As we left the enclosure, Garlin fell over in another fit of laughter. I shook my head. I’d never understand that dragon.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Taylor Nicolle enjoys the company of her ever-ready-energizer-piranha dog named Nugget, though griffins are her favorite creature. When she is not writing, or day dreaming about writing, she’s most likely pursuing one of her many hobbies or interests. Her favorite stories always have some element of whimsicalness in them.

---

Author Website | Instagram