The warrior
loomed over
the sleeping figure
of the fair maiden.

"Sleep tight,"
he whispered,
and drew from a pouch 'round his neck
a small phial
filled with a clear liquid.
He uncorked it
and downed the contents
in one gulp.

He leaned over the maiden
as if to kiss her,
and then suddenly
─he vanished.
But he didn't really disappear.
He shrank
to a size smaller
than a particle of dust,
and he fell through the air
until he was inhaled through the nose
of the sleeping maiden.

When he landed,
he found himself
in her bloodstream,
and was within seconds surrounded
by white cells of blood.
"Who are you,"
asked the cells,
moving in closer and closer,
"and what do you carry with you?"

"I am a warrior,"
he answered.
"On my left hand I carry
my shield named Goodness,
and on my right
my sword named Truth."

"And what do you seek here?"
asked the white cells.

"I seek
the dragon called Doubt,"
said the warrior.
"Show me the way to his lair,
so I may slay him
while he sleeps."

The white blood cells parted
to let the warrior pass.
"Follow this path,"
they pointed,
"until you reach
the heart.
There in the fourth chamber
dwells the dragon Doubt."

The warrior made his way
down the passage,
and soon he reached the heart.
He stumbled hazily
through the first three chambers,
which smelled of
dank and decay,
a fermenting tank
of evil energy.
And finally, in the fourth,
Doubt the dragon dozed
with one eye half-open.
He moved slowly across
the dragon's blind side,
and while holding up Goodness,
he unsheathed Truth from its scabbard
and lopped the beast's head off
with one swift stroke.

The dragon's headless body
convulsed and twitched,
and sensing that something
was about to go wrong,
the warrior fled full-speed,
running back the way he came,
flying out of the maiden's nose
just in time as a violent sneeze
shook the maiden awake.

When she opened her eyes,
the warrior was standing
by her bedside,
dripping head to toe
in sticky mucus,
which glistened in
the light of the sunrise.

"My beloved!"
she cried,
jumping up and
throwing her arms around
his neck.
And when she kissed him
on the lips,
the warrior knew that
Doubt was dead,
for the night before,
the maiden had cried herself to sleep,
cursing the warrior's name
to the seventh circle of hell.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

My Literary Side

"The Words come from the Divine; from the Muse the Idea. The Poet merely transcribes." ┼Old Sumerian proverb

(Kidding, I made that up. LOL)