The Unruly Tenant

A Polite Story Rudely Interrupted by a Dragon

The realm stretched wider than memory, which, frankly, is not saying much, since memory has never been a sturdy piece of furniture in my mental parlor. (Only last month I misplaced the whereabouts of my best pair of slacks, a catastrophe that nearly ruined my standing with the laundry committee.) Still, vast it was.

The forests sparkled in that overeager way of people who show up too early for parties, their dryads rustling in the branches with the unmistakable snicker of creatures who’ve had one cup of punch too many. Silver rivers curled across meadows where unicorns grazed with the air of society matrons faintly bored with the entire proceedings. Overhead, griffins patrolled like high-strung hall monitors, taking notes for some celestial disciplinary board.

Meanwhile, in the lakes, mermaids brushed their hair with a dedication suggesting they were hoping to win some sort of underwater pageant. In the old days they were famous for songs that could soften the hardest heart; now they mostly looked like they were waiting for somebody to invent waterproof karaoke.

Yes, it was a land positively dripping with Splendid Things. The only hitch—and you can always count on a hitch—was The Rule. Nobody was to say anything that might unsettle the general atmosphere. Not a peep. Not a whisper. Speak truth and, it was believed, the rivers would sulk and turn an unbecoming shade of brown. So everyone went about with fixed smiles and polite coughs, like distant cousins forced to share a parlor sofa.

Into this polite hush walked a woman. Perfectly respectable, hair tidy, shoes sensible. The sort of woman you’d trust to water your houseplants or balance your checkbook. And yet—inside her chest, she was harboring a tenant of a most unusual nature. A dragon.

Not the rude, smoke-belching variety that knocks over castles for kicks. This dragon was jade-green, silver-white at the scales, and extremely well turned out. Still, it had Opinions. Big ones. And the longer the woman swallowed her words, the more the dragon paced and swished its tail, like a board member waiting to be recognized at a meeting.

At night she dreamed of its wings unfurling—vast, magnificent things that could scatter the hush like a deck of badly shuffled cards. By day she kept her lips closed, nodding politely, while the dragon inside banged its tail against her ribs and muttered, Well? When’s my turn?

She wasn’t the only one who felt the weight of The Rule, though most had surrendered ages ago. The mermaids, once known for ballads that brought sailors to tears, now opened their mouths and produced nothing but bubbles. The unicorns, formerly the very picture of truth-telling, now grazed low, their horns hidden like embarrassed umbrellas. The dryads whispered only in leaves, never loud enough to reach human ears. And the griffins, who used to split the skies with their cries, flapped silently in endless circles, as though keeping up appearances for an invisible audience.

Everywhere she turned, beauty folded in on itself. And everywhere she turned, her dragon pressed harder against her bones, muttering unprintable things about the state of affairs.

The breaking point came under an ancient oak during a family gathering. The woman, bearing gifts and good cheer, was all set to enjoy herself when—bam!—a pack of lies slithered out of the shadows. They wrapped themselves around her kin like cheap perfume:

She meddles where she is not wanted.

She thrusts herself into stories that aren’t hers.

She rewrites sacred chapters without so much as a by-your-leave.

No one asked if this was true. No one gave her a chance to explain. In this land, once words were loosed—truth or falsehood—they stuck. Like gum under a church pew.

Her chest tightened. The dragon stretched. Its jade scales scraped, silver light leaked. The woman clenched her jaw, praying not to sneeze lest a fireball appear and ruin the potato salad.

Around her, the mermaids kept mum, the unicorns studied the grass, and the griffins suddenly found the horizon fascinating. The hush pressed down, smug as a cat in a sunbeam.

But inside her chest, the dragon bellowed: No more!

And then came the roar.

It started small, like an accidental hiccup. But quickly it grew into a full-throated tidal wave of flame, wind, jade, and silver. Trees bent. The lake sloshed. The mermaids’ hairdos were ruined. The unicorns startled, their horns flashing like stadium spotlights. Even the griffins flinched midair, suddenly reconsidering their career choices.

The lies shattered. The smoke dissolved. The meadow held its breath.

And there she stood, trembling but unscorched, the dragon coiled magnificently at her side. Not wrathful. Not monstrous. Simply undeniable, the way a marching band is undeniable when it accidentally comes through your living room.

For the first time in centuries, the mermaids sang again—shaky, off-key, but getting there. The unicorns raised their horns high, sparks flying as they stabbed falsehood like balloons at a birthday party. The dryads found their voices, shouting louder than the squirrels for once. And the griffins? They finally cut loose, splitting the skies with cries that sounded suspiciously like “Hallelujah!”

The hush cracked like an old casserole dish.

The woman felt the dragon’s breath warm in her lungs, silver fire flickering at her lips. She understood, with the clarity that comes only when you’ve finally said what needed saying: this was not destruction. It was revelation.

Yes, some would still whisper. Some would still fear her. But it was no longer her business to make herself small so that others could feel large. Her business was to be whole.

And in that wholeness—unicorns sparking, mermaids belting, griffins hollering overhead—the land began, at last, to heal.

Author’s Note

I first wrote this story in a serious, mythic style. Then I asked AI to rewrite it in the voice of P. G. Wodehouse — but if Wodehouse had been American. By that I mean whimsical, slightly aristocratic humor, but with “pants” instead of “trousers.”