"Spiritus Transfiguris: The Dinosaur Within"

It’s not every day you find yourself duct-taped to a hospital gurney, wishing your tail claws were just a bit sharper.

But my life stopped being every day when I turned into a spinosaurus for the first time. Not a Jurassic Park monster, either—a real, paddle-tailed, narrow-jawed, crocodile-loping king of the Cretaceous. I’d gotten used to the glances, the jokes—"Nice sail, Aydin!"—and the stench of fish clinging to my tongue.

Luckily, my friends understood. Being overdue for a spirit animal had always been a risk in our town. Some folk got shrews or ospreys; Rachel turned into a red fox, and Mollie—a black-throated magpie-jay, blue and chatty. Nobody else got extinct ones.

That morning, Rachel was sprawled across the couch with a busted controller. Mollie was perched on the TV, tail flicking. I was half-way through a dream about basking in warm Cretaceous sun when the windows shattered. Smoke grenades. Shouting. Figures in gray jumpsuits.

I barely remember the needles. I remember the roar—mine or another’s, I wasn’t sure. When the world stopped spinning, I was strapped down, claws twitching, nostrils aching for Mesozoic scents.

A man with round glasses and a voice as cool and sterile as steel stood over me.

“Fascinating, Mr. Celik. Never seen such fidelity to the paleontological record.” He flicks at my sail, and I hiss—throat low, reptilian. “Can you understand me in this form?”

My jaw opens but all that comes out is a guttural rumble.

He consults his tablet. “Spiritus Transfiguris. Usually mammals and birds. But you—first dinosaur since the technique’s inception. Do you remember pain, Mr. Celik? Or just hunger?”

I try to will myself back—stand on two feet, not four, go back to my human skin. Nothing. My scales stay stubborn.

“We specialize in innovations here. Imagine: hybridizing your spirit, perhaps for soldiers. Or… mascots, for those so inclined.” He grins like it’s a joke. I snap my jaws, narrowly missing his fingers.

Then—chaos. A shriek pierces the clang of alarms. A flash of scarlet fur. Rachel—her eyes no longer bashful, glinting with predator’s intent. Mollie's blue-and-white wings spiral past the security cameras, scattering feathers, tripping sensors.

“That’s our dinosaur!” Rachel launches onto the scientist. Snaps his badge off, flicks the restraints.

I wriggle free. My mind whirls: This body is muscle and instinct. I barrel onto the pile, pin security with one foot and a shimmer of primeval rage. Doors slam open. Mollie shrieks, looping past—knocking out the power.

We run—me on all fours, Rachel streaking and nipping at ankles, Mollie cawing above. Down iron corridors, past whitewashed rooms humming with secrets.

The outside air is sharp, heavy—a different world than my mind remembers, but freedom all the same.

Later, human again but shaky, Rachel leans into my side.

“I feel like the luckiest fox alive,” she whispers.

I smile, baring flat, un-dinosaurian teeth, thinking maybe prehistoric is the best kind of present we could be.

In the dusk, my shadow is long and finned and old as time.
And I’m not alone.

This story was generated by user kade with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.

Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.

AI Prompts