English story — Original Fiction
The Dragon’s Receipt
Estimated from scroll position, not proof that every word was read.
The dragon arrived at the council office carrying a notice between two claws.
“Three hundred gold pieces,” it said. “For ridding the valley of its dragon.”
Edith looked past its shoulder. A wing had knocked the gutter loose.
“The entrance is round the side.”
“I tried. Your side entrance is smaller.”
She fetched the payments ledger.
“Where is the dragon now?”
“Here.”
“Then the valley still has one.”
“Pay me and it won’t.”
Edith had worked for the council for twenty-two years. She read the notice twice. It said nothing about swords, severed heads or who could claim the reward.
“Where would you go?”
“The coast. There’s a quarry for rent.”
“Why three hundred?”
“Deposit. First month. Removal costs.”
“You have wings.”
“I also have furniture.”
The dragon laid a folded rental agreement on her desk. The quarry’s owner had insisted on payment before occupation. Previous tenants had left teeth in the drains.
Edith took the papers to the mayor.
He was eating a pear.
“We can’t pay the dragon,” he said.
“Why?”
“It would look ridiculous.”
“Less ridiculous than the seven knights we’ve paid travelling expenses?”
“They made an effort.”
“One never left the inn.”
“He was assessing the situation.”
Outside, the dragon sneezed. The office curtains curled at the edges.
The mayor put down his pear.
“We’ll pay after it leaves.”
“It can’t secure the quarry without the deposit.”
“Then we have a difficulty.”
Edith returned to her desk. The dragon was trying to sit on two visitor chairs. Neither was enjoying it.
She spread the agreement flat.
“Would the quarry owner accept payment directly from us?”
The dragon considered this.
“Probably. He distrusts cash. Says it’s usually stolen.”
“Is yours?”
“Some. I inherited it.”
By four o’clock Edith had arranged the payment, amended the reward form and obtained the mayor’s signature. She added a departure date and a clause requiring the dragon to repair the gutter.
At five, the dragon signed with a claw. Its signature went through three sheets and a corner of the desk.
“Sorry.”
“That’s another repair.”
For the next week, villagers watched furniture leave the mountain: a brass bed, six wardrobes and an enormous blue armchair. On Friday the dragon flew west carrying the armchair beneath its belly.
The mayor gave a speech about decisive leadership.
Edith stayed in the office and filed the receipt.
A month later, a postcard arrived.
The dragon was standing in shallow water, holding an ice cream no larger than its tooth.
On the back it had written:
The quarry is damp, but the neighbours are pleasant. Could you send proof that I left voluntarily? The landlord wants a reference.
Edith took out a clean sheet.
Then she checked whether the gutter had been repaired.
Behind the story — editorial note
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