The Dragon's Sneeze

Sammy, perched precariously on a dew-kissed dandelion, surveyed the colossal, slumbering form of Bartholomew. The dragon was a mountain of emerald scales, snoring with a rumble that vibrated through the very roots of the ancient oak trees. Her tiny wings, usually a blur of iridescent motion, were still, her minuscule fists clenched. The glitter bombs had been a spectacular failure, a shimmering wave of disappointment that had merely dusted Bartholomew’s snout. And the tickle fight? Well, that had been even worse. She’d spent a good ten minutes attempting to wriggle her way under his massive chin, only to be accidentally nudged by a twitching eyelid, sending her spiraling into a patch of particularly prickly nettles. Her pride, if not her person, was smarting.

“Right,” she muttered, her voice a tiny, determined squeak against the dragon’s sonorous breaths. “Plan C. Or perhaps Plan D. I’ve lost count. This requires… finesse. A certain *je ne sais quoi*.” She puffed out her chest, which was barely a puff at all, and surveyed her surroundings. The meadow was her kingdom, a tapestry of wildflowers and buzzing insects, and Bartholomew, with his insatiable desire for a nap in the sunniest, most comfortable spot, was a rather significant, scaly blight upon it.

She considered her options. Perhaps a strategically placed, intensely annoying mosquito? No, too unpredictable. A swarm of very cross bees? Too much collateral damage to her beloved flora. What Bartholomew needed was… persuasion. A gentle nudge in the direction of… anywhere else. But Bartholomew was not a creature easily persuaded. He was, at his core, profoundly lazy. His interests were simple: sleep, warmth, and the utter absence of anything that might disturb his slumber.