Ashes To Ashes

Dino Sparks – or just Dino, now that he had finally ran away, once and for all – held the lit cigarette in his hand, staring at the glowing cinder with a blank expression on his face. “Yo, ya smokin’ that?” one of the other street kids asked, and he just stared silently. “Che. Ah hate it when ya get yer hands on a lighter, man. Fuckin’ scary, them empty eyes.” The speaker continued, muttering under his breath.

He didn’t care what the others think, not really. He’s just waiting for his dragon to appear (reappear? Dino doesn’t know anymore).

His dragon is red like the glowing embers, and he wears a denim jacket (Dino felt retarded. Dragons don’t wear clothes, you dumb shit!) A horn jutted out of his snout, and his wings are pure flame. Dino even made up a name for him – but it felt more like remembering – and it was Gre – Gree? Greg? Gre – (God damn. Goddamnit! Fuck his memory! Dino wanted to cry.) Gre-something. It felt familiar, and right, even though Dino couldn’t explain it – couldn’t even remember it.

Damn. The weed – or whatever the hell it was – must have gone straight to my head, Dino thought wryly.

Already, half of the cigarette had dissolved into ashes. Dino absently flicked it away, and felt like he was killing something precious, the half-buried memory fragile and delicate as a butterfly’s wing.

So he sat, staring, until the amber glow died like his memory, dissolving into ashes.