Give a Smile at Ye Old Photographie Shoppe

Mal keeps his scaly dragon lips tight when customers walk in, ensuring his generous spread of teeth remains hidden. Don’t smile.

Even so, this customer’s discomfort steams off her, wisps of a bitter scent rising with each shuffle of her feet. She’s maybe twenty, with hair that curves around her face like flaming tendrils. Her sideways glances toward the door make Mal wonder if her friends goaded her to enter.

We dare you! Get your picture with the dragon!

Still, she’s standing in Ye Old Photographie Shoppe. A paying customer, and by brimstone, he needs one. Mal lowers his barrel-shaped body to the ground and pulls in his neck to compact his immense size. He still towers over her.

His voice is soft when describing the array of historical and regional armor she can choose from. He keeps his claws hidden when pointing.

She picks the Saint George replica—they always choose Saint George—and emerges from the dressing room with a lopsided grin beneath her silver visor. From the weapons rack, she chooses the long-spear—also a common choice, as it lets people keep their distance. She’s giving off a relaxed, tea-leaf-like scent now. Most customers are calmer once they’ve donned the armor, weapon in hand, even though the spear’s tipped with plastic and the cheap armor would shred into slivers beneath his claws.

The studio has scattered fake rocks, a mountainscape backdrop. Mal helps the woman point the spear at his heart. She smiles for the camera. Mal bares teeth too, his snaking tongue draping out. He bends his neck in an uncomfortable fake-death pose and thumbs a button hidden in his claws.

Click! Pop! The bulb’s flash fades, and he hides his teeth. 

While she removes the armor, he uploads the photo and adds filters: lightening colors, adding scratches, and giving it a slight painting-like overlay. The filters are rather silly, as no one’s ever photographed a real dragon battle. Those happened a thousand years ago, or more, before cameras. Now, dragons live in peace as farmers and construction workers; they haven’t battled humans in ages.

But with one click of the print icon, there’s an old-timey photo of “Saint George” with a lopsided grin as she slays the dragon. Mal slips the print into a folder, obscuring it from his narrowed yellow eyes, and remembers to hide the curl of distaste on his lips before heading back to the customer.

This is Mal’s favorite part. He hands the folder to the woman, and her feet are bouncing; she’s smelling of excitement and sweet toast. She did it! She had an encounter with a dragon. Despite them living side by side for centuries, there’s still the novelty of it all. Still, she’s not thinking, EEEK! DRAGON! She’s not holding a spear. She’s happy standing by him, and he’s just being himself.

He wants to Click! Pop! the moment in his mind. 

What if he actually clicked?

He inhales his nervous nose-smoke, asking, Want a free portrait? When she nods, his claws maneuver his portable camera. Click! and he’s captured her smile, no filters. He prints her a copy using the finer paper.

He hides his teeth when handing her the portrait, but joy bubbles off his scales, smelling like warm caverns and melted gold.

* * *

The woman returns the next day with a friend, as though to say, See what it’s like! The man smells of acrid earth and repeatedly brushes hair from his eyes. Although the studio’s tall ceilings let Mal stroll comfortably, the dragon walks pressed close to the ground.

The customer chooses Saint George’s armor and a sword. He points the weapon with a shaking hand, plastic digging in a little too hard. Mal doesn’t mention that dragons bruise, too, forming dark spots beneath their brownish scales.

The woman frowns, “Not so hard, Sam. Don’t piss off the dragon.”

Like Mal would do anything. He only attacks pepperoni pizzas and root beers—his favorite foods, but no one ever asks about that.

He bares his teeth.

Click! Pop! 

After some filtering, Mal slips the photo into a folder. The man is grinning, holding the woman’s hand. “Sorry if I jabbed too hard.”

Mal wants to smile a real smile, but he keeps his lips tight and shrugs. No problem. Want a free portrait?

The man agrees, and one Click! later, there’s another image of joy for the dragon’s memory. But Mal gives off doubt with a burnt-oven odor. He stares at silver armor, plastic-tipped weapons. Does he always have to play-act for these moments? Mal imagines skipping the whole Saint George experience.

Well, why not?

* * *

Ye Old Photographie Shoppe has brown boxes where armor once lined the walls. A customer shuffles feet as Mal explains he doesn’t do reenactments anymore. No more Saint George; just portraits. The customer stomps away with a disappointed pungent scent.

The shop’s as quiet as a dragon’s hibernation. Maybe he made the wrong choice. Maybe he needs to unbox everything, bend into his death-pose again.

As he rubs claws over cardboard lids, a woman marches in, hair in a tight bun. She requests an upcoming photo session for her preschoolers. Mal blinks. He’s never photographed kids before—parents usually keep little ones far from his teeth—but nods acceptance.

At the appointment, little humans, and also little dragons, parade into the shop, the tight-bun woman calling, “Remember, kids, no silly poses.” She adds a pointed glace at Mal. He understands. He needs to photograph these dragons as children, not novelties.

The kids smell of spring rain, grass, and adventure as they scramble onto fake rocks. No one stares at how tall he is. The woman herds them straight and looks to Mal for instructions.

Mal directs a young dragon, scales soft and green, before the backdrop. 

“Smile!”

The youngster’s lips remain tight.

Mal eases his lips to show how it’s done. Tooth by tooth, the young dragon relaxes as well. Together, they smile for the camera. Click! Pop!

* * *

Ⓒ Carol Scheina