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.
One of my aspirations as an author is to write really good action movies, preferrably animated ones. As a means to that end, I've been trying to create a form that's part treatment, part short story, and resolutely visual.
The ultimate goal is a piece of fiction that's readable for a general audience (to generate interest) and easily translated into story boards ('cuz drawing is not among my many skills).
To the best of my knowledge, it's a new paradigm in prose, so I'm calling it a 'digm Novel.
A lipstick-red, six-cylinder bullet streaks through the Nevada desert. Wind rips through the driver’s hair as she dances in her seat, oblivious to the baleful sun. Her left hand beats the wheel like a drum; her gloved right hand sits lifelessly at her side. A needle on the dashboard climbs slowly into the red as steam begins to seep from the convertible’s hood.
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."