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It is the sound of fountains, of sand sliding down dunes. The dragons have digested the concrete and excreted sand. The tall concrete buildings have been replaced by dunes of white sand. The greenery is still there, although there have never been many trees in this small town. There are little gardens in the streets, pots of flowers on balconies, seductive little oases in the desert — no need for a mirage.
As the human population diminishes, the number of dragons increases. But the first generation dragons are now dying of hunger. The wind whittles away at their bodies till their bones fall higgledy-piggledy to the ground, the larger bones stacking up like giant bricks making a white dragon bone wall. Zhaishao watches as two new humans-turned-dragons emerge, one from a wooden building and one from a straw hut, look back at their shells and eat them. He understands immediately: a third generation of dragons is appearing.
The third-generation dragons can eat everything: plastic, glass, wood, rubbish.
The town is covered in the stuff, but before long everything has been cleaned up, even the last bits of greenery. The Dragonslayers have vowed to trace the dragons back to their source — the first human-turned-dragon, the Mutant Dragon. The final act will be an execution, elimination of the mutation.
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In Zhaishao's palm the bite marks ooze blood. His stigmata. His call of duty. Zhaishao has his suspicions. All the buildings in town have been eaten. The building opposite has also been pulverised, yet that window is still there, floating in the air.
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It is like an illusion, yet so real, and from time to time she appears there. The humans-turned-dragons must share his suspicion for a crowd has gathered beneath the window. There is yelling and shouting. Without stopping to get dressed, Zhaishao leaps into action. He must go to her rescue. Yes, she is the Mutant Dragon, but how did she become the first one? I am trying to work this out. Perhaps she really was sick, with an incurable disease, and had been lying in bed by the window. Turning her head on the pillow, she could see the back of his computer through the window.
At night-time, when all the lights in the building had gone out, she could see this single dark square with coloured lights shimmering around the edges, like a rectangular eclipse. The girl stared and wondered how she could go to see what it was. Her father was into bionics, and used the flat as a workshop in which to seek for the elixir of immortality, that lost ancestral art.
The girl simply wanted to know what was behind the lights.
She dreamed of putting her feet on the ground, of getting out of bed, walking into the sunshine, and across the footbridge. She drank the potion her father had made, turned into a dragon, and floated in the air by her window. Damn the legend of Chang Er drinking the elixir of immortality and flying to the moon!
How did I get caught up in this stuff?
Do I really have to explain how the girl became the first dragon? Does it matter if she was the first? Does it matter what she dreams? What matters is that she is at the heart of his troubled mind. Zhaishao has already endured the full range of impossibilities: through burning flames, across sheets of ice, past bolts of thunder, but he still has to get through the crowd of dragons.
They come up to him and bite at his body, ripping and tearing at his skin with their sharp teeth. They eat his T-shirt, his pants, his slippers. He runs naked towards the little dragon girl's window.
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When he sees her, he reaches up to her. She stretches out her leg with the coloured bands. Their fingertips touch. As the dragon claw turns into a hand, a wild outbreak of laughter explodes behind him. He looks round and sees the Dragonslayers brandishing their swords at the dragon girl. She's an illusion! She's living in your head, you've got to get rid of her, root out this madness, then everything can go back to how it was! Swords slice through the air. The little dragon girl leaps into the air. There is nowhere to land.
As the swords slash, my Zhaishao's heart begins to pound. He leaps up to block the swords.
He sees them slice at my shoulder, my leg, my waist. And at that moment the Dragonslayers change. They roar furiously as they turn into dragons. Their swords fall from their claws.
http://artesaniaenpiedrachile.cl/wp-content/vigo/3346.php They look up in amazement, mouths gaping, as though drinking in the air in which the dragon girl is floating. His friends have become the fourth generation of dragons. If the third generation dragons are indiscriminate omnivores of all material things, I wonder what the fourth generation dragons will eat? Perhaps they will feed on the nonmaterial assets of the twenty-first century: on visual images, and intangible things that are conceived in the brain.
This is something I had never imagined. Yes, I am tired of being surrounded by material things. Yes, I find the overconsumption in this world ridiculous. I think of myself as a materialist turned minimalist. So why shouldn't it be the same with conceptual stuff?