Meghanology – book 1 of girldragongizzard

“Hey, Chapman! The yooj?” Jill projects her question around me like a professional thespian, grabbing the attention of the startled customer.

Chapman jerks, looks up at her, and opens their mouth to talk, but takes a quick breath first. Then they look a little relieved but still rattled, and say, “Yyyyyeah. That’d be great!”

Their voice sounds like dark maple syrup, and I’m noticing the complexity of their hairdo this time.

It is a side cut, with the right side of their head shaved clean and showing off a tattoo of three fuchsias hanging down from the top of their scalp where their new hairline is. And the rest of their hair is short in the back and thick and long in the front and styled in a wavy pompadour, with a pointy and groomed sideburn that comes down half an inch below their left earlobe. And the hair is an immaculate dark hot pink.

Everything about them, their name, their voice, their haircut, all keep telling me to keep sticking to they/them for them, for now, until I actually learn their pronoun. Which I’m told is what I should do for everyone, and I try. But there’s something about their whole thing, what they’ve got going on, that transfixes me just a little bit more each time I look at them, and the sense that they’re probably an enby feels like part of it.

But now they look perplexed and still hesitant, like they’re trying to figure out whether they should try to solve a puzzle that’s been presented to them.

“Hey, Meghan, your drink’s ready,” Jill mutters at me.

Oh!

I’m in the way.

I make what I think of as a startled but cheerful sound and reach for my tablet to put it in my purse. But we all notice that the noise that comes from deep in my throat sounds almost exactly like the door chime. And everyone looks delighted and surprised by that, including me I assume.

Then I duck and fluidly bound toward my table, low, quiet, and way more graceful than I even want to be, my tail wiggling in behind me in the process. It’s embarrassing how it feels like my body is suddenly showing off for some reason.

Then I try to hide behind my table and bury my face in my drink.

But I can still clearly see Chapman in my peripheral vision and this display of mine does not seem to have unflustered them.

I may be new to physically being a dragon, and I may have a lot of trouble recognizing things like, say, flirting. But I’m not new to this. 

Whatever Chapman actually thinks of me, I feel like I’m in high school again. And I don’t even know what I think of Chapman, but my limbic system seems to have its ideas. I almost did a mating dance on the way to my table, and I really don’t know what to do about it, so now I’m remaining as still as possible now.

I have no clue what Chapman’s age is, as I watch them finally step forward to engage in their transaction. I’ve always been bad at judging ages. Humans all age at wildly different rates anyway. But also, we’re not even the same species.

Why am I reacting to them like this?

I find myself wondering if maybe they’re another dragon, just still disguised as a human, like I’d been just a week ago.

What if I’m only the first, and there’s more to come? Would I be able to sense the others, kind of in the way that Jill and Cerce already sensed these things about me?

Then I have a super wild thought, and lose myself in it as a way of distracting myself. What if there are no actual humans. What if we’re all mythical creatures waiting to shed our disguises, and that’s why we can sometimes recognize each other?

It seems as likely an explanation for what’s going on with me as anything else I can imagine. And I think I’d really like it to be true.

I decide I’m not going to pursue my feelings. They don’t make any sense. Not sexually, anyway. I wouldn’t mind being Chapman’s friend if they decide they can be friends with me. But I won’t try. They’re clearly unsettled by me, and I don’t want to impose myself on them in any way.

So the real challenge is just being normal when we’re sharing the same space, so I don’t make them more uncomfortable.

I figure that the best way to do this right now is to look around at the other customers.

There’s quite a mix of people today, and all of them are ignoring what’s going on in the front of the shop. They’re ignoring me. As usual.

And it strikes me, as I’m glancing around, now aware of my actual gender and how people seem to see me, that of all the variety of people who look like they might be women here, I share nothing in common with them.

So many of them wear some degree of makeup, and must have some sort of skin care routine. They wear jewelry of various sorts, and know how to put their hair up or get it styled the way they like. Their gestures and ways of speaking aren’t all the same, but seem like a myriad of ways of expressing femininity that I do wish I could mimic.

But, I don’t have hair. Or bare skin to apply anything to. I haven’t bothered with anything like clothes for four days now. And I don’t think I have vocal chords. I have something else that feels like it’s between my lungs. There’s no way I’m going to be using my tongue to craft soft vowels and breathy fricatives. No one alive right now is going to know how to give me vocal lessons.

And it doesn’t matter, because I’m a dragon and I really don’t have to adhere to common human beauty standards to be seen as what I am. But I do feel left out all the same.

And even if I still had a human body and was transitioning like normal, I don’t think I could stand putting stuff on my face to smooth out my complexion and adorn it. But I feel like I should.

I guess I’ve been raised by humans, and spent the first 50 years of my life soaking in human socialization. I shouldn’t be surprised I have this trouble.

Let’s say I decided to wear jewelry as a dragon. That’s something I could probably do. I could wrap necklaces or bracelets around my horns or something like that. I can’t decide if I’d be doing that for myself or to signal to everyone else that I’m female.

And at 50 years old, you’d think I’d be above this sort of quandary, because I’m well past the typical dating age. I’m settled. I’m disabled, too. I have my routines. I know who and what I am, and that’s all that matters. And what I present to the world is what the world gets. Like, other 50 year old women brag about how free they feel, no longer trying to be attractive to mates or meet societal standards.

Obviously, I’m not like other girls my age.

I turn back to my mocha to discover that Chapman is sitting at my table opposite me, composing themself with drink in both hands.

I recall seeing the movement in my peripheral vision earlier, but hadn’t made sense of it because I had successfully lost myself in thought.

I tilt my head to the side, eyes wide.

“Hi,” they say.

So I didn’t get a chance to compose my questions, and now Rhoda wants to hear all about Chapman while she tidies up my apartment.

As I knuckle out my explanation for Chapman’s interest in me, Rhoda is holding up things that are scattered around my livingroom and giving me a questioning look. I glance up and either smile or turn my head away, and she decides based on that whether to save it or throw it away.

So many things are just destroyed, and I have to let them go. But with anything that’s still intact, whether it’s useful to me or not, I just can’t get rid of it. I’ve got to have my things.

At certain point, she says, “Meg. Darling. We can’t store all of this in here. There isn’t room for your wings and tail, otherwise. Can you even afford a storage garage?”

In answer, I knuckle out the last few characters and then hit the talk button. “Autistic special interest,” I say.

She quirks her head and asks, “Chapman?”

I smile.

“Oh, that’s sweet. Maybe sie can help you figure out dragon things you might not otherwise know yet,” she says. We’d covered Chapman’s pronouns just a little bit earlier. Rhoda looks around at everything and sighs. Then she suggests, “What if we make your bedroom your hoard room, and turn the livingroom into your new sleeping den? I think the layout works better for that. I mean. Yes, your torso and legs aren’t all that much bigger than a human’s, but with those huge wings and that tail of yours, you know, well…” She gestures and nods at everything, “You do know.”

I acknowledge the truth of that with a gentle, tentative bob of my head.

“We’re going to need some help removing some of this wrecked furniture, too. But I’ve got a line on that. Don’t worry about it.” She tosses some obviously trashed things into the garbage and says, “OK. So. Chapman. Have you got another date with hir lined up?”

“Not date,” I respond. “Yes.”

“Sure,” she says, obviously not agreeing with my assessment. “What’cha gonna do?”

“Talk.”

“Where?”

“Park.”

“Oh, that sounds nice! Lots of room to move around. You can go for a little walk while you chat. I love it,” she says.

“Not date,” I repeat.

“I know,” she says. “My boy always liked going for walks with his friends. They'd all talk and talk and talk, and pace around the whole time even if they were just in the living room. But going places to connect and blab about anything and everything gave them all a sense of purpose, I'm sure. And stimuli and new things to talk about.” She organizes a few things, then continues, “He was autistic, too, you know. And pacing and walking was one of his stims. I wouldn't be surprised if Chapman's the same way.”

“OK, yes,” I reply. Then determined to delve into subjects of my own curiosity, I change the subject by asking the one question I do have cued up, “Why aren’t you freaking out about me being a dragon?”

Rhoda assesses me with tight lips, then replies, “It’s like you shed your old skin that night, you know. Maybe ate it in your sleep. Everyone could see this coming. It's just your new phase of growth.”

“Not you? You not do this?” I ask.

She blinks and wrinkles up her face and says, “Heavens, no! How even would I?” Then she holds up a finger. “Mind you, if I could, I would have. Ages ago! I saw how you were suffering. You were miserable under that old hide of yours. I imagine everyone saw it.”

So, I'm not getting answers from her. At least, not the ones I wanted to hear.

“Tell me,” she says. “What else are you experiencing along with this? Can you see things you couldn't see before? Are your senses sharper?”

“Yes. Thermals,” I reply.

Her eyebrows go up, “Can you fly?”

“Yes!”

“Fantastic!” she exclaims. “That must be amazing! I bet Chapman will love it!”

I’d roll my eyes, but I can’t. I do the big exaggerated head circle again.

“Oh come now,” Rhoda says. “I’m not teasing you about dating. I just genuinely think Chapman would appreciate a demonstration and you should give it to hir.”

She’s right, of course. And I agree to do so.

“In fact, I’d like to see you fly, myself,” she adds.

I look out one of my windows. I’ve got a third story apartment, two stories from the top. And there’s a small parking lot directly across the street. If I were to climb out the window and glide across that lot, I could catch the big thermal there and get some lift before wheeling out over into one of the streets. Some wing work, and I could probably get above the low buildings of that block. Without more experience, it feels really iffy, but I might be able to do it.

But I figure that a creature as big as I am is in real danger of seriously hurting itself in a crash. Too much inertia for bone density. Hell, starlings kill themselves on windows every day.

Intellectually, I know it’s a bad idea to test myself that way, but I find I’m not actually afraid.

I turn my head to look at Rhoda and open my mouth to talk, momentarily forgetting that I can’t really do that anymore, when I catch something big moving swiftly just outside my window.

My memory of it now is just a snapshot flash of an image, another dragon, wings, head, and tail pulled back, and all four feet extended outward to brace for impact with the wall between windows.

The very next moment of memory is bricks, plaster, insulation, wood, wires, and dragon billowing into my partially tidied living room and destroying it.

And I’m somehow turned 180 degrees, facing the monster who is picking themself up from the middle of the rubble of my apartment as Rhoda, who was safe in a corner near the outer wall, away from the impact and out of line of flying debris, shouts.

My tail is curled up awkwardly in the corner of the room near the door to the kitchen, and I’m already crouched and ready to leap upon the intruder, wondering how I got here, wings held tightly to my back.

And I’m also thinking that this maybe answers my questions about the durability of my body.

We are not exactly the same kind of beast, though.

Anyone looking at either of us would call us both dragons. And we have the same number of limbs. But that’s where our similarities end.

I’ve got iridescent blue and indigo scales with a pattern of diamonds down my back. I’ve got fiery orange and gold markings as well, and tan belly scales. I have a pair of horns that sweep back from my skull, and ear canals that are almost hidden behind protective scales. And I’m lithe and pointy, and look something like a cross between a gecko and a caiman, but with wings.

Then there’s this fuzzy brown asshole that looks like if you crossed a bat with a hippo and gave the result a feathered dinosaur tail. And I know that I cannot let that gaping maw anywhere near anything I care about.

I hear a rumbling that is as deep and soul shaking as you’d expect from an earthquake, and realize that it’s me. I’m making that noise with something in my ribcage.

Rhoda is pushing herself further and further back into her corner of the room, even though she’s already pressed up against the walls.

The moment my sudden adversary is free of rubble, they jump forward and let out a croak of a yawp.

In response, I jerk my head up and let out the strangest squawk that starts from the infrasonic rumble that’s been building in the depths of my body and rises to a cracking cry that sounds like an angry parrot. And then as I close my mouth afterward, a clacking noise like a raven’s comes out and I find myself jerking my head with each knock.

It’s not exactly involuntary, I just find myself doing what feels right. And I’m pretty sure the other dragon knows exactly what it means.

I’m not quite as big as my challenger, but my vocal prowess causes them to pause.

I don’t know why this is happening and I don’t know how it’s going to turn out, but two things are extremely obvious.

I’ve got to do whatever I can to keep Rhoda safe, because she is squishy and cannot survive being squished by either of us dragons.

And I’m definitely not getting my damage deposit back.

Also, I decide that hesitating is bad and I want this fucker out of my apartment.

I do a little zigzag. I leap slightly toward the outside wall, to my right, in the direction of my opponent. Then, still accelerating forward, I bound left, pushing off the floor to launch at a spot on the inner wall, twisting my body to plant my feet there so that I can leap off that wall.

I never in my life imagined doing anything like this with my old body. It was just entirely inconceivable, especially as my chronic illness set in. But, I’ve spent countless hours visualizing this exact maneuver with a body nearly identical to the one I have now, in situations I’ve really only seen in action movies.

My tail acts as a springing counterweight that also pushes off the wall just after my hind legs have launched me in the direction of the flying hippo beast. My wings have also made a measured stroke to grab some air and swim through it without slamming into floor or ceiling, but I do feel them brushing surfaces and things in the process.

Head bowed and turned sideways, I slam the peak of my shoulders into the side of the other dragon, and then straighten my neck out and sink my horns into their haunch.

I manage to make them slide about two feet, and squeeze an agonized “grawp” from their throat.

It’s not enough, though. I need them out.

I get smacked repeatedly with their right wing as they try to twist to bite me. But I’m more agile and serpentine than they are, and I’m climbing over the base of their tail and wrapping my own around their legs, hooking my tail barb in one of their ankles and pulling.

Scrabbling and clawing my way to the huge hole in the wall, I manage to get them to spin in place just to reduce the pain caused by my tail barb.

A good nine tenths of the apartment is now flapping wings, dust, and enraged screaming and roaring the likes of which Hollywood has never managed to imitate.

And then I do the thing. If this asshole wants to challenge and fight me, let them do it outside, away from people.

I unhook my tail and leap from my apartment, rumbling and clacking the whole way, and dive across the street to the parking lot.

The sun is going down, so the air is cooling. But it’s been a long summer day and the pavement of the parking lot is still rising with heat, and I spread my wings as wide as I can to catch it.

The lift keeps me from slamming into a car. And, with a beat of my wings and a curve of my spine, I manage to clear a tree near the street and avoid becoming part of the mural painted on the nearest building.

I let out a cackling challenge as I work to gain altitude flying down the street and toward the bay, away from what used to be my home.

I don’t have to turn my head far to see behind me, and a flurry of movement in my peripheral vision tells me I’m being pursued.

Perfect.

How in the God damned hell can that thing fly?