I got the idea for this story from a meme a friend posted, about the things you lie awake worrying about. How, he asked, does a dragon blow out the candles on a birthday cake? This is my answer to that vexing conundrum.
How a Dragon Blows Out Candles
There was no way to dodge the problem. Every time one of
Flick’s fellow students had a birthday they had a party, and at every party
there was a cake. Flick liked cake, especially chocolate cake with lots of
frosting. The cake wasn’t the problem.
The problem was the candles. Every one of those cakes came
with a bunch of candles burning on top, and the excited birthday ogre,
gargoyle, gremlin, elf, fairy, or human child made a wish—and blew out the
candles.
Flick’s birthday would be one of the last, but it would come,
and he couldn’t concentrate in class on account of the one, all-important
question: How could a dragon blow out candles?
Flick sat in a desk an extra three feet away from all his
classmates, because while he didn’t flame—much—when he breathed normally, there
were sparks when he got excited. And once he sneezed and burned up his own
homework. He was working on it, but it was hard. It was why dragons lived in
bare, rocky places. Huffing and puffing like the others did to blow out their
candles would be a disaster, because huffing and puffing was how Flick lit
fires.
Grown dragons could control their flames. Some could even
sneeze without so much as a spark. But controlling flame was an advanced level
of dragon studies, and not something you learned in primary school. Grown
dragons might travel and even live in forests and fields, but young dragons
kept to the barren places. Flick attending school with the other young of the region
was a daring experiment. It was important.
The experiment was important to the grown dragons because
they wanted to prove they could be part of society. Managing his cake without
disaster was even more important to Flick, because he liked cake and didn’t
want to burn it up and disappoint the other students. Flick’s flammable sneezing
fit had already raised some doubts about the experiment. If he incinerated his
birthday cake, it would be all over, plus there would be no cake.
Mother was no help. She just said, “What’s cake?” When she
found out, she said he shouldn’t be eating that stuff and had he done his math
homework.
Dad was more sympathetic, having once eaten cake. He offered
some very complicated explanations of how dragons controlled their flames.
Flick couldn’t understand the directions at all, and couldn’t follow them even
if he tried.
It was Grandfather Dragon who at last listened to Flick,
really listened, and determined to solve the problem.
“It won’t be easy,” Grandfather said. “But you can learn.
All of us do, though it’s easier after we reach, hmmm, a certain age.”
Flick didn’t care what “a certain age” was. He wanted to
control his flame.
Grandfather tried to explain the mechanism. He tried to
teach Flick the way grown dragons did it. None of that worked. But school was
on a holiday, and Grandfather had nothing better to do—they’d thrown him off
the Draconic Council for arguing that gargoyles were people. He was interested
to learn that the gargoyles weren’t convinced dragons were people. He became as
determined as Flick that the birthday cake should be a success.
They experimented. Flick tried puffing through a damp cloth,
but if it was wet enough not to burn, it blocked too much breath and the
candles wouldn’t go out.
He tried blowing on a spot near the “cake” they had made out of sticks and mud, but again, if
he blew hard enough to put out the candles, the cake got singed.
“It’s no use,” Flick said, two boiling tears running down
his face.
“There’s always a way. But it looks like you’ll have to do
it the hard way.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll have to learn to meditate, then to control all your
bodily functions, and that will teach you to stop the flame when you don’t want
it. You’ve started learning that, though you might not know it. What you do with
Master Smoke on Saturdays.”
“But Master Smoke said it takes years to learn control!”
Flick cried, setting fire to the fake cake.
He started crying harder as he thought about all the
birthday cakes he wouldn’t get to eat after they threw him out of school. And
he liked being with the other children, even if they did all have to keep a
safe distance from him. Some of them were brave enough to play with him, and he
was getting pretty good at tag, though he still sometimes forgot to keep his
tail out of reach.
The more Flick cried, the more flames came out, and the more
tears boiled from his eyes. When they grew too hot to bear, Flick dunked his
head in the bucket of water they’d kept handy in case of fire. He kept it there
until he couldn’t hold his breath another second.
Raising his head, Flick let out his held breath in a great whoosh—and nothing happened. There was
no flame.
“I put out my flame!” Flick didn’t know if he was pleased or
scared. He wanted to control his flame; he didn’t want it to go away
altogether. A dragon without a flame was just a big flying snake.
“Try the candles,” Grandfather urged, hastily setting up and
lighting the “cake.”
Flick gave a great puff. The candles went out, and not a
flame escaped his nose or mouth. A few minutes later, while they weighed the
plusses and minuses of a dragon of having no flames, Grandfather noticed a
trickle of smoke leaking from Flick’s nose. A few minutes after that, Flick
sneezed and set the cake on fire again. Grandfather handed him a flame-proof
handkerchief. Flick grinned a little uncertainly as he and Grandfather stomped
out the fire.
And that is why dragons always bob for apples at birthday
parties right before they blow out the candles.
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©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2021
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