Developing a Taste for Bumfluff: Enter the Dragon. What if Writing Challenge.


This is Janey Macken Street’s first go at the what if writing challenge from the prompt – what if a dragon attacks?

This might be a bit late, but hey ho, I’ll  post nevertheless, as the bishop said to the altar boy.

dragon pic

Title: Developing a Taste for Bumfluff: Enter the Dragon

On her first day in the job, the dragon nearly puffed my head on fire. Whoosh. Now remember, this was in the days before I developed a taste for bum-fluff.

Yip. Yip. Yip. Yip.

She hiccupped between the third and fourth mouthfuls of her mid-morning scone and coffee,  on the opposite side of the canteen roundtable, causing sparks to fly from both sides of her mouth at the same time, like fleeing budgerigars.

I jumped.

However, she brought a fist up to cover her mouth just in time before even an eyebrow of mine – or hers – were as much as singed or slightly ruffled.

She then told me I had to take a substantial pay cut. There was no other way for the good of the company. It had to survive. In the light caressing us from the ceiling windows, she looked remarkably like someone that I could have sworn had died only earlier that summer. And here was that blonde hairstyle, that facial harshness, that ugly blackness all over again in real life coming at me.

When the news erupted people in their thousands instantly celebrated, had street parties, sang, danced, juggled. God damn it, I’d finished work that day and went straight to a pub for a glass of wine to mark the occasion, yes, I admit it, to celebrate her demise. It was a very happy occasion. For some. It was all over the media.

‘A pay cut?’ I nearly dropped my scone down the front of my white blouse and onto my skirt but didn’t. I argued the pay-cut with her but she just threatened to hiccup again and ordered another scone getting ready to burp, trying to force it. We could all go up in flames like unleaded petrol if I wasn’t too careful. Don’t upset. So, all right, I said, grand, it’s fine with me, I told her, a pay cut, whoop-de-do. Sorted.

The following week she sacked me and was eating canteen pancakes this time, piling them up high on her plate, forking one after the other after the other. Her stomach started to grumble louder and louder getting ready to blow. It wasn’t worth arguing with her this particular time either. I had to remain healthy for my kids, I could, on no account, go on fire.


I’d get another job. The sooner I was out and about and safe on the streets the better.
She phoned me the following month, in the very same week my kids went hungry for a few days, and said she might have something up her sleeve if I came in to see her.

She locked the door to the office as soon as I was inside, and asked me to pleasure her, and if I did, she’d put my son in the new intern position opening up soon. I lifted her skirt and obliged. My son would do well now. We all would.

We were eating regularly for three months afterwards, my entire family, on the food my son was allowed bring home. It was just enough to get up and about in the mornings for our exercises and job-seeking without black dots before the eyes.

Eventually, my son came home and told me he couldn’t pleasure the dragon any more at work, and that he was sorry, but the food would stop coming from here on in. He had walked out, quit. His nerves couldn’t handle the  high anxiety of the threat of being set on fire whilst pleasuring her.

On hearing this news I went nuts. Berserk even. For I  had been pleasuring her too on a weekly basis for keeping him on in his intern job. That was the deal. We’d shook hands. That was always the deal. That’s why I now wear a blonde wig, she’d burned all my real hair in orgasm months ago. I had black dots for god’s sake!

I marched straight to her office and kicked her door wide open. I walked right up to her face and breathed fire into her that set her alight. She burned down in five minutes flat. I didn’t know I had it in me, the fire like. My son was taken into hospital any way.


‘It’s too late Ma. Thanks anyway, I do love you.’

He’s still there. He can’t cope. He shivers all the time and can never sleep.
I’m thinking of breathing on him whenever I can get up the strength the next time I visit. Let him burn it all away.

Any time now I’ll get the fool parcel, she said. It’s in the post. She told me in a letter. I’ve no internet access. She’s back again and in charge of public health these days, or someone quite similar looking, there’s lots of them actually. But  I’m not too sure any more to be honest since I lost the concentration to read words last week.


8 thoughts on “Developing a Taste for Bumfluff: Enter the Dragon. What if Writing Challenge.

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