Isobel H EPPSA

The Dragon Strikes Again

Like a deadly parachute descending through the polar vortex, the dragon’s turquoise sheen pierced the deafening silence.

A portal of nightmares, the eyes fixed on its oblivious prey, masquerading as beady, emerald gems glistening in the dark, dank, miserable night sky.

Its skin was as dry and thirsty as the extreme desert of Death Valley, where only dead carcasses live, twisting and turning every way the dragon moved.

As strong as a mechanical press, the jaws were poised to strike unimaginable fear into its terrified victim, screeching to announce their arrival and with a stench of rotten eggs.

Razor-sharp teeth, like a chainsaw grinding its contents down into the torturous abyss that was his lava-like stomach below.

A tongue forked and snake-like, whipping around its doomed prey.

Diamond studded earrings scales shimmered like cat’s eyes on a desolate road to nowhere.

Angry spikes like a tarantula’s fierce fangs, crashing like waves over its spine in the moonlit sky.

With wings leathery, transparent, green and veined, the size of enormous kites whooshing in the still, icy wind as a huge release of energy propels them back and forth.

Talons as piercing and deadly as a poisonous dart, coming together under intense pressure to form a vice like grip.

A clenched, skeletal fist of claws about to erupt like a violent volcano.

And then, just like an instantaneous bolt of lightning, the dragon struck once again, devouring its paralysed quarry with all of its might, unleashing its power of death and destruction.