Dragon Traits

I never thought my life would take a turn like this. A few years ago, I was just a first-grade teacher with a passion for baking and a stubborn will to keep life simple. Now, I'm Marilyn: half-human, half-dragon, and somehow still trying to teach a school full of hyperactive youngsters.

At first, my wings were so heavy that I could barely lift them, and the tail was constantly in the way. In my head, I thought my students would be terrified if they saw me. I visualized my career ending right as it was starting. Thankfully nothing else changed. My torso and arms are still human, and thankfully so is my face and head.

But gradually, as summer started, I began to adapt. I discovered I could jump off some rocks near my apartment and actually fly. That was the first time I felt a spark of joy since the transformation, once I got through the awkward stage of learning to launch and land.

The school board wasn’t exactly thrilled when I showed up to plead for my job back. I had to appear in person and vouch that I wouldn’t be any sort of danger—i.e. I wouldn’t breathe fire (no chance of that. I can’t). It took almost a month after school started before they reluctantly rehired me on probation, mostly I think because of my earlier success in the classroom.

To my surprise, the kids love me. They call me "Miss Dragon" and beg me to show off my wings during recess. They don’t see a monster; they see a superhero. My classroom aides grin whenever one of the first graders grabs my wingtip and feels its soft leathery texture. The wonder I see in the eyes of my students reminds me that I’ve gained more than I’ve lost.

It helps that I’m not alone. Word of my transformation spread, and I began meeting others who have experienced their own changes. One woman has tiny polychromatic crystals covering her entire body.

One of the men has huge feet, about 20 inches from heel to toe and eight or nine inches across. Like me, he had to relearn how to walk. Another man has grown a rhinoceros horn in place of his nose and spines along his back.

We formed a small community support group, helping each other with the unique challenges of our new lives. We met in secret, a group of people who looked like they belonged in a fantasy novel rather than the real world.

Now, my life is about balance—between the human and the dragon, the teacher, cookie lady, and explorer, the old Marilyn and the new.

A craving for shiny objects was the one thing I didn’t see coming. At first, it was little things—finding myself distracted by sunlight glinting off a puddle or stopping mid-conversation to admire someone’s bracelet. I brushed it off as part of my new dragon instincts, a harmless quirk. But it grew stronger.

One day, it became impossible to ignore.

I was flying home from the wildlife sanctuary when I spotted a woman walking along the street below. She wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary—just chatting on her phone—but the golden chain holding her purse caught the sunlight. In my apparently modified dragon mind, it sparkled like nothing I’d ever seen before, and suddenly, my wings tilted on their own, my body diving toward her.

It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t even a thought. I swooped down, snatched the purse right off her shoulder with my clawed foot, and soared back into the sky as she screamed. I quickly unfastened the chain and flew down to return her purse.

The weight of what I’d done didn’t hit me until I was unlocking the door to my apartment, clutching the chain like it was the most precious thing in the world. My heart raced—not with excitement, but with guilt. I’d terrified someone. I’d stolen from someone. What was wrong with me?

News of "the dragon thief" spread quickly. The woman reported me, and though she said she didn’t see my face, everyone knew it was me. How many other winged women were flying around town?

The fallout was immediate. People stopped smiling at me on the street. Some crossed the road to avoid me. Parents pulled their children closer when I walked by. I was called on the carpet by the schoolboard, sternly lectured, and warned that I could be suspended from my duties.

It wasn’t long before the stares on buses turned into whispers, and the whispers turned into outright hostility.

“Keep an eye on your jewelry,” someone loudly muttered one morning.

“Can’t believe they let ‘that’ ride with us,” another said.

I tried to stay calm, to remind myself that I deserved this after what I’d done. But it still hurt.

The worst part was that the craving didn’t go away. Every shiny object I saw—rings, watches, coins—called to me. It took everything I had not to reach out and grab them. I started avoiding jewelry stores and bright lights.

One night, I sat alone in my apartment, staring at a necklace I’d stolen. I should’ve returned it, but every time I tried to leave the house with it, my claws tightened around it. It was like my body refused to let go.

I needed help.

I reached out to my small community of "changed" individuals. When I explained what had happened, they didn’t judge me.

“I get it,” said Andre, the man with the horn and spines. “I have this... need to charge at things that make me lose my temper. Scares everyone to death — including me. But instincts can be controlled.”

“How?” I asked desperate.ly

“Discipline. Practice. Sometimes, you need to replace the craving with something else. Or make it about the end result and not the root cause.”

That was when I decided to start a hoard.

It felt ridiculous at first, but it works. I go to thrift stores and garage sales, buying shiny trinkets—things I can afford without stealing. I filled a corner of my apartment with golden-colored baubles, polished rocks, and shimmering fabric.

Toy stores are the best. I can’t believe the array of playthings and gadgets. Shiny little cars, sparkly fairy wings for little girls, spinning lighted balls and snow globes—I overspent my budget—but I justified it by saying they’ll be for school. The kids will love playing with them.

Every time the craving hits, I sit by my hoard, run my fingers over the objects, and remind myself that I don’t need to take from anyone else.

The cravings didn’t disappear overnight, but they’ve become manageable. I even found the strength to return the stolen necklace, leaving it in an envelope with a note of apology on the woman’s doorstep.

It’s been months since the "dragon thief" incident, and things are slowly getting better. The whispers on the bus have quieted, though the stares remain. I’ve learned to carry small shiny objects in my purse—little shiny trinkets to fidget with when the cravings hit.

I’m not perfect. I still get urges, and I still feel the weight of what I did. But I’m learning to control the dragon inside me while holding on to the human I’ve always been. Because at the end of the day, I’m still Marilyn.

Andre and I didn’t plan for it to happen. When I first met him, he was just someone who understood—a fellow "changed" soul trying to navigate a world that no longer made sense. His rhinoceros horn and spines made him look intimidating, but his eyes were kind and his voice was steady.

He taught me how to channel my irresponsible cravings into something productive. “It’s not about suppressing it,” he said one day, as he handed me a hollowed-out agate with little wizards and dragons in the crystals. “It’s about saying ‘there’s more to me than this,’ reducing this to about 20 percent of your mind, and letting the other 80 percent do more important things than hoard baubles.”

“That sounds really easy for you to say,” I commented. “But for me...”

“It’s about balance,” he answered. “Accepting what we’ve become while keeping hold of who we are.”

I don’t know exactly when our connection shifted. Maybe it was the way he always noticed when I was struggling, offering quiet encouragement without making me feel weak. Or maybe it was the first time he laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that made my wings flutter uncontrollably.

Whatever it was, I realized one day that I wasn’t just looking forward to our meetings because of the support. I genuinely enjoyed being around him.

It took a while for us to acknowledge it. We were both scared—scared of what a relationship between two "changed" people would mean, scared of what others would think, scared of getting hurt.

But one evening, as we sat on his apartment balcony watching the city lights, he turned to me and said, “You’re more than just a friend to me, Marilyn. I think you know that.”

I didn’t say anything at first, stunned by how easily he’d voiced what I hadn’t been able to admit to myself. But then I smiled and said, “I think you’re more than a friend to me too, Andre.”

We both carry scars from our transformations—not just physical ones, but emotional ones too. On days when something angers him, he struggles with feeling like he’s more monster than man.

Other days, I catch myself wondering if I’ll ever be seen as anything other than “that thieving dragon.” But together, we remind each other that we’re so much more than the sum of our parts.

One of my favorite things about Andre is the way he makes me feel safe. He’s not afraid to stand by me, even when the stares and whispers follow us. And when I’m flying, he’ll climb up to the highest lookout he can find, just so he can watch and cheer me on.

We’ve started talking about the future—what it might look like for two "changed" people in a world that doesn’t always accept us. It’s not easy, but we’re determined to build a life together, one where we can both be our authentic selves.

For the first time since my transformation, I feel like I have a partner—not just someone to share the struggles, but someone to share the joy too. Together, we’re learning what it means to live fully, to embrace our changes without letting them define us, to love unconditionally.

We’ve fallen into a rhythm that feels... right. Andre meets me after work, and we walk—or, in my case, sometimes fly—through the quieter parts of the city, talking about everything and nothing.

He tells me stories about his childhood, when the horn and spines made him feel like an outsider. His father came from central Africa, where magic is practiced as a life skill, and his mother was Jamaican and a student of voodoo.

I share tales of my life before wings, when I was just Marilyn, the teacher who loved baking cookies for her students and dreamed of someday visiting Paris.

It hasn’t always been easy. People stare at us when we’re out together—some whisper; others openly gawk. But Andre has this calmness about him that makes it easier to endure. “Let them look,” he says, slipping his hand into mine. “They’re just jealous they don’t get to be us.”

I laugh at that. We’re something extraordinary, even if the world doesn’t quite understand it yet.

As we grew closer, we started talking about the future in more concrete terms. Andre wanted to leave the city someday, to find a place where we wouldn’t have to deal with the constant stares and whispers.

“I’ve always dreamed of living in the mountains,” he said one night, as we sat on my balcony. “Somewhere quiet, where we can just... be.”

It sounded perfect. I think of that time on Mt. Ilirian when I soared until my wings ached and the wind made my ears ring. All the hidden valleys, the little glistening lakes, the snowy peaks—treasures I wanted to gather up, hug, and put in my hoard.

We started making plans, saving money, and dreaming of a life where we could wake up to the sound of birds instead of traffic. I imagined a little cabin tucked into the trees, a garden for me to tend, and plenty of space for Andre’s woodworking—a hobby he’d taken up to channel his energy.

I don’t know if we’ll ever have the “normal” life I once imagined for myself. But with Andre, I’ve found something even better. Every girl dreams of a fairytale wedding with the pristine white strapless gown. But not every girl discovers her knight in shining armor has a ridiculous looking face and loves him all the more for it.