I did not kill that man. How could I kill someone who doesn't exist?
I knocked on the dragon's door. "Damnit! Don't you know what time it is?" I didn't. I'd stopped sleeping. How could I, with questions of such profoundity gnawing on my brain? I wanted to know about the Gnostics, about the divine spark trapped in flesh. I wanted to know about the archons and the demiurge.
He wasn't a dragon, not anymore. He had chosen to become human, to live among us. Crazy. But he knew many secrets and he shared them all with me. Eventually.
I've just posted the first two parts of a flash fiction piece I'm calling The Chimera Mythos: Tales of Gnostic Horror. Each installment will be 200 words; the whole set will clock in at 1,000.
I met a stranger in a dream. I'd been researching the Otherkin, people who claim to be elves, dragons, goblins, anything but human. Online, they are legion.
After a patient died, it became my obsession. What made him hunger for human flesh? Why didn't cameras record him? He said he wasn't human. The Otherkin knew why.
Oliver was a werewolf. "Therianthrope," he corrected me. "We're not all wolves." He only shifted astrally, in dreams. I asked him which was real, him or the wolf. "I am the wolf."
"If you're not human, what are you?" I shouldn't have asked during our first session. He didn't know and it drove him mad. Instead, I would ask, "Why don't you feel human?"
"I feel like there's something inside me and I'm the mask it wears. I'm the sheep's clothing." He loved that allusion. "Sometimes, the real me comes out and does... things. I want to stop it, but I can't because I'm not real. It's real... and it hungers."