BOOM.

The sleepy silence of the office building was shattered by the booming peals of thunder now issuing from outside the window. Then the rain came. Within minutes it had quickened from a light drizzle to hammering drops that added their din to the periodical thunderous crashes. A sudden intense burst of lightning illuminated the darkening interior of the cubicle of Peter Evans.

Evans was in his late twenties, and had been working at the office building ever since he graduated college. To be blunt, he hated his job. Back in his high school days, his father had constantly stressed the importance of getting a solid educational foundation, but he had repeated this sagely advice so many a time that Peter could easily ignore it. Needless to say, he secured less than admirable marks throughout high school and college, barely eking by most of the time.

Peter now bitterly cursed himself for his ignorant actions. Had he focused more on his schoolwork and not simply done the bare minimum, he would not have landed himself in this dead-end job that he loathed so much. Although still quite young, his salary was not high enough to pay his living expenses and still attend a community college, let alone a high-ranking university.

In the last few minutes of the workday on Friday, Peter massaged his aching forehead with his hands, mulling over these unpleasant thoughts that had been dogging him for the past few years. His frustration was mostly due to the fact that his predicament was entirely his fault. This perpetual weight on his conscience was not eased by his other troubles.

In fact, his state of depression and resentment had multiplied the magnitude of said troubles, especially the fact that he was single. He, of course, had dated two or three girls in the past, but developing relationships had never been a strong point of his. As Peter let out a deep sigh, he thought, I just wish I had a second chance to do it all again.

No sooner had this thought completed than a particularly bright fork of lightning cleave the sky directly outside Peter’s cubicle window. He ran his fingers through his dark blond hair and glanced over at the vibrant green numbers of his digital clock.

5:02 PM

“Excellent, closing time. I’m out of here,” he said, rising quickly and swinging his black overcoat from the back of his chair. He pulled it on as he made his way out of his cubicle and down the hall to the stairs, lamenting the fact that he walked to work and would be forced to make his way home through the wind and gale. Not stopping to talk to anyone, he took the stairs two at a time and hurriedly exited the front door.

The temperature had dropped considerably since that morning. Peter’s breath rose in foggy clouds as he wrapped his overcoat more tightly around himself, squinting through the unrelenting curtains of torrential rain.

“I should consider applying to be a weatherman,” he thought grumpily as he trudged on. “Sunny and 80 today, they said. Zero percent chance of rain. Zero, my foot!”

The rain soon extinguished his flare of anger, leaving a cold, dark sort of empty feeling within him. Lately, in addition to all his bitter reflections on his youthful decisions, he had felt as if something was missing from his life.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, no matter how much he dwelled on it. His best guess was that it was the presence of a mother figure; his mother had passed away when he was only eleven, and it was impossible for his father to completely take up her role in his life. Yet, although this explanation was very plausible, he still felt there was another piece to the jigsaw puzzle, the one that would present to him the clear picture of how to reconstruct his life into one he enjoyed living. Lost in thought, his feet carried him on the way home without much conscious thought on his part. The lashing of the rain had not yet subsided.

Perhaps it was the awful weather that had made it seem so, but the walk home felt to take quite a bit longer than usual. Peter meandered up the concrete path that led to his front door. He stopped on the front step and reached deep into his pocket to extract the key. His hand encountered nothing but air.

His anger flared up yet again. “How could I be so stupid as to lose my only house key? In a downpour, no less! Great way to start of the weekend.” He pummeled the doorbell in his anger, knowing full well that he lived alone; no loving wife or grinning child would come to welcome him, to let him in. Finally, he grasped the doorknob, ready to use all the might he possessed to attempt entry, when he discovered that the door was already unlocked. Peter froze. He distinctly recalled securely bolting the door before departing that very morning. This could mean only one thing: thieves had broken in.

He quickly pulled out his phone, only to find that he no longer had service. Had the storm affected the cell tower somehow? Peter realized that he was all alone, and being a man of action, he pushed open the door and entered the hallway, ready to take on the thief himself if need be.

Shutting the door quietly behind him, Peter silently padded down the main hall. He registered in the back of his mind that the hall seemed fractionally larger than it had done hours ago when he left, but that was the least of his current concerns. He searched the floor for anything he could use as a weapon, or to defend himself, completely ignoring the picture frames on the wall, glinting in the semidarkness. He spotted a tennis racquet, which he grasped and held as if it were an iron shield. He was too full of adrenaline to even register that he had never in his life owned a tennis racquet.

Gingerly pushing open the hall doors, he spotted no damage, nor any sign of anything being out of place. However, as he turned left into another, shorter hall, a door stood ajar at the far end, a chink of light spilling onto the hall carpet. Inside he heard the distinct sound of human footsteps. As silently and quickly as he could, Peter headed towards the door, raising his tennis racquet as he did so, poised to strike at a moment’s notice. He suddenly felt a small tickle on his neck. Whipping around and expecting the worst, he found that the hall behind him was deserted. Breathing rather hard, Peter steeled himself. Hesitating for a half-second, he swung open the door.

He found himself in a handsome bedroom, complete with fine oak furniture and its own separate bathroom. Peter was shocked by this; the racquet and the perceived size increase of the hall had been easy to overlook, but he was beyond certain that no room such as this had been present in his house before the events of the day. Still gripping the handle of the racquet tightly, he scanned the room. A woman who had been bent over a box in the corner had just straightened up and turned to face him. She definitely did not look like a burglar. In fact (and this unnerved him even more), though he had only ever seen pictures of her before, he was dead certain that this was his mother. She had the same dark brown eyes, same flowing chestnut hair, and same rather long nose.

He froze, transfixed, racquet still raised and ready to strike. The woman smiled a warm, friendly smile, which made Peter even warier despite the joyful flutter it had caused in his chest. This was absurd. He remembered her funeral. She couldn’t be alive. And yet, here she stood before him, holding a small picture frame in her hand.

“I see you’re still keeping up with your practicing, despite the storm,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to see you lose your next tournament because of a little rain!”

Peter merely nodded, unable to find his voice.

His mother’s look became one of concern. “Is everything all right, Amanda?”

Finally, Peter croaked, “A-Amanda?” He had always loved that name; should he ever have a daughter, the name Amanda would be his top choice. He was shocked to hear that his voice sounded most unlike the one he was accustomed to. It was an octave higher, and sounded younger, like the voice of a prepubescent boy….or, dare he think it….?

Trembling slightly, he inquired in his newfound voice. “Who’s Amanda?”

Looking truly worried now, she replied, “Sweetie, you are Amanda. Who else would you be?"

Lowering the tennis racquet, he asked tentatively, “Mom? How….how old am I?”

“Are you sure you’re all right? You know how old you are. You’re 14, remember?”

Suddenly, Peter tore past his mother and into the bathroom. He slammed the door and came face to face with the full length mirror on its back. He nearly fainted upon seeing the reflection that greeted him.

The reason the hall had seemed bigger was now apparent. He was now considerably shorter than he had been. He now stood a petite five-foot-one. The tickle on his neck, he discovered, had not been the hands of a felon, but the caress of his dark blonde hair, which now reached the small of his back. His lips were fuller, his nose smaller, and his dark brown eyes seemed larger, softer. His face had become rather….attractive. Shocked at himself for describing his own face in this way, it was a few moments before he continued to digest all the features of the foreign body he now found himself in. He now had breasts! They were not overly large, but filled out his tank top nicely. Trembling, he registered his wider hips, curvy figure, hairless arms and legs, and drastically smaller feet. He wiggled his toes experimentally, unable to believe he was really in control of these dainty members. Lastly, he noted that he felt…empty between his legs. This was the ultimate confirmation for him. He was no longer a male.

In a dreamlike state, he exited the bathroom to find his mother hovering anxiously by the door.

“Amanda, honey, you’d better take a rest, and I’m not taking no for an answer,” she said gently, ushering her to her room. “You’ve got a big tennis match tomorrow, not to mention the fact you are starting high school next week!”

“High school?” Amanda squeaked, her voice rising even higher.

Her mother nodded and stroked her hair. “Yes, Amanda! You don’t want to miss your first day out sick, now, do you?”

Feeling quite dazed, Amanda was led into her room by her mother, who then quietly closed the door. Peace and quiet was just what Amanda–once Peter–now desired. Before she could even begin to organize her thoughts, she spotted a small card, not unlike a business card, lying on her pillow. Intrigued, she walked over and picked it up. On it were these words:

A blank page is now yours. Go forth and write your story anew.

Suddenly and vividly, Amanda remembered the desperate wish that had flitted through her mind back when she was just Peter, sitting at a desk in his cubicle, and just before the brightest lightning strike of all. All at once, the reason for her transformation into a teenaged girl became apparent. Peter had so desired a second chance for a better life.

Amanda was that second chance.