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By Howl — WoodFrog Hollow, 2025
“Every man faces dragons. The trick is remembering why you fight — and who you’re fighting for.”
The Dragons We Face
There comes a time in every man’s life when he must face dragons.
Not all of them breathe fire. Some breathe lies, curling their smoke through family and friendship. Others whisper quiet deceit, waiting for the moment you let your guard down.
And some — the hardest of all — live inside your own head, using your thoughts as weapons, turning doubt and fatigue into smoke and flame.
But there are other dragons too.
Real ones.
The kind that threaten what you’ve built, what you love — the kind that show up at 3 a.m. in the dark corners of your chicken coop.
The Battle Begins
This morning, I faced such a dragon.
From 3 a.m. until the first light crept over the pines, I waged a battle that would make even the old heroes raise a brow.
We fought beneath the cold light of a waning moon.
My first weapon was my BB gun — a modest tool, but every knight must start somewhere. The pellets pinged uselessly off his armor, not even a flinch. So I advanced to my machete, and the deadly dance began.
Around and around the chicken coop we circled — predator and protector — a midnight waltz between survival and exhaustion.
Finally, outside the coop, I caught him. Beneath the beams, I pinned him down with the paddle from my canoe.
Victory seemed near.
That was when the dragon retaliated.
The Dragon’s Counterattack
With a hiss like steam from a kettle and a glare like burning coal, it unleashed its weapon — a vile, yellow spray of venom, reeking of sulfur and war; thick and foul, burning the air around us.
The stench was unbearable — enough to stagger even the bravest knight. It clung to my clothes and turned my stomach. Yet I held firm, torn between retreating from the noxious fumes and keeping the beast pinned for the safety of my flocks.
Attack after attack, I endured.
I gritted my teeth.
I held.
When my first call for reinforcements went unanswered, I started talking to the dragon.
I swear he understood me. We locked eyes — equals in that moment — stubborn, scarred, two creatures born of the same earth, unwilling to yield.
But the paddle alone would not finish this fight.
Forging the Pike
Desperation sparked invention.
Scanning the ground, I found a sturdy branch — long, straight, and strong.
My shoelace became the binding. My machete, the blade.
I forged a crude pike fit for a knight of the homestead.
With renewed resolve, I lunged. The strike landed true… but my blade folded like tin against the dragon’s impervious hide. The armor held.
Thinking quickly, I wedged the machete so that its bent steel trapped the beast beneath the paddle, buying time to call for aid once more.
This time, my plea was answered.
The Final Strike
Reinforcements arrived — bearing a pitchfork.
They could smell the dragon’s poison from ten acres away — a testament to the beast’s foul power.
Fueled by the fury of a weary farmer and the resolve of a father protecting his flock, I charged once more.
With every thrust, I poured what little strength remained, until at last the tines of the pitchfork pierced four inches deep through scale and sinew.
The dragon shuddered, twisted, and hissed one final curse into the dawn — and went still.
The air cleared. The coop stood silent.
After three long hours, the battle was over.
The coop stood. The flock was safe again.
And the dragon — slain.
Though it left me weary, reeking, and covered in the spoils of combat — I stood victorious.
“Courage isn’t the absence of fear.
It’s the choice to show up anyway.”
Reflections at Dawn from the Hollow
As I watched the sun rise over the pasture, I thought about how many kinds of dragons a man must face in his life.
Not all come at night, and not all of them stink of sulfur.
Some threaten peace more quietly — they wear human faces, speak through screens, or live in the echo of your own thoughts, whispering that you aren’t strong enough, capable enough, or worthy of what you love.
But the fight is always the same — courage against chaos, patience against panic, love against loss.
And every battle, even one fought half-awake with a bent machete and a broken paddle, reminds us of the same truth:
Courage isn’t clean or glorious.
It’s muddy boots, shaking hands, and the will to keep showing up.
Afterword
When I finally stepped back into the morning light, hands trembling and clothes reeking of battle, I couldn’t help but laugh.
Because sometimes victory doesn’t look like glory.
Sometimes, it looks like a man standing alone in the dawn, staring down the remains of a skunk — armed with a broken paddle, a bent machete, and a story worth telling.
Even a skunk, under moonlight, can feel like a dragon.