A young woman is singled out of superherodom, but is having none of it. A group of teenagers disturb a malicious spirit. A radical plan to improve the American political process. Hit play on the last TG Mixed Tape for 2015 for all these stories and more, featuring contributions from Efindumb, Ellie Dauber, Desert Willow, Misaania, Jenny North, Callie Messenger, Person42, Hikaro, Shauna, Trismegistus Shandy, kandijayne, Desert Willow and Anon Allsop

Between the newsagent and the laundromat there’s a shop. It wasn’t there yesterday, and it won’t be there tomorrow, but today it’s a fixture.

You sit and watch the seething spume through the portals opposite. A flapping shirt, the sail of a sinking ship, sea monster socks, crashing blue jean waves. Your ears are pricked for the click of a dryer turning off. Then you can be out of here. Until then, you wait and amuse yourself with magical thinking. You’d much rather be tumbling or twittering, but your phone battery is dead. So it’s just you and your imagination, like old times, when Poppa used to drag you here.

You’d pace around in that innocuous goosestep-y way that kids do and, when Poppa was in a good mood, moan, “I’m booorrrred,” stopping when he turned grump. Whingeing was fun. Getting into trouble was not. The shop next door – a kind of spookhouse-cum-bookstore-cum-chemist – was a constant source of fascination. Poppa detested the place. “It’s all jackoff shit,” he’d say, clapping you on the shoulder, when he caught you peering in through the window at the weird amulets, candy-like pills and the aliens and monsters, the strange and picturesque landscapes, and the lush, garish and revealing costumes of the men and women on the covers of the well-thumbed paperbacks.

The shop is closed for the day. The window is dark, you could barely make out the merchandise as you walked past it. But if you had tried the door, you would have found it unlocked. And had you stepped over the threshold the owner, a gaunt reaper of an old woman, would have emerged from the shadows to meet you. In a story, and you’ve read many, she would have clasped your hands in hers and said something like, “I have exactly the thing”. That’s more or less what happens in real life too. You’d expect most people to be all “yeah, this is kind of off, I’m out,” pretty quick, or at least more than a little leery of the woman’s spiel, and of swallowing, say, the polka-dotted or rainbow swirled capsule, or pouring the sulphur-smelling poop coloured powder into the next meal they prepare, but shops like this put out a vibe that seriously fucks with your thinking, free will, all that mind jizz.

So Mandy removes the stopper from the vial and sprinkles into the taco mince she’s preparing. In the rec room her partner and the kids play Mario-Kart on the park’s GameCube. Ava mushes up the half-frozen Sprite in her mug and looks at the clock. The big chem essay is due tomorrow, but she really wants to get the next chapter done, cut loose, finally hit the long-planned cliff-hanger of Anita staking Jean Claude, so she’ll all-nighter and do both. Gut churning with lemonade slushy and funky off-brand NoDoze, she begins to write. Rick shows his little sister the bracelet he brought, she’s only twelve, but a wise-beyond-her-age authority on all things Girl – “do you think Monica’ll like it?” Candice wishes she understood the distance that has grown between her and her husband, while on the other side of town Joey pulls into an apartment complex car-park with his new squeeze. Nirvana’s Lithium finishes off the mix; Riles notes it and frowns. Not as essay ready a selection as some of the others, the thought feeding into her growing sense that the whole project is shaping up to be a bust. She ejects the cassette from her newly acquired player, inserts the next one and hits play.

You don’t know these people, but you know the story shapes their lives are assuming. The O’Brian’s will continue their vacation, and maybe grow closer as a family. Ava will hunt vampires in her fantasy of a fantasy St Louis. Rick will hand the bracelet to his sister, and at the moment when both are touching it the spell will activate. Candice and her husband and the squeeze’s souls will be shuffled. Riles will rush to a mirror and see a beardo in a flannel shirt looking back at her.

Finally. The click. You retrieve your clothes and crush-hug them, their warmth, to your chest. The shop is gone when you leave the laundromat. It was never there. And the fading memory of peeking in through the window seems like an imagining of later years, not long past, when you kept an eye out for such places. A fantasy that you just couldn’t shake, magical thinking that like your long sleeves, high necklines, low hems and bellbottoms reveals something deeply felt and true.

21 years ago…

I saw another boy who was all alone in class.

I saw someone who talked differently, acted differently, got emotional differently.

I saw a man who wore a dress and makeup.

I saw someone with thinning hair in high heels, pantyhose and a blouse.

I saw a man who didn't talk to anyone, who walked fast down the street looking over his shoulder for anyone following him.

16 years ago…

I see those same two people and I see a beautiful girl who held her head up high and ignored the taunting.

A girl who worked hard to get through school and on to a better life.

I saw a woman who was determined to make it through life despite what others thought.

I saw a woman who overcame her late start to blossom into a beautiful person.

Looking back after all this time I see two people went through mental hell.

Two people who were shunned, tormented, abused.

Two people who despite all those troubles stuck to their guns and became what they needed to be.

I see two people who deserve nothing but respect and admiration.

I see two amazing souls and I see myself in shame for not realizing it all those years ago.

To them I say…

Efindumb is the author of “New Beginnings”, “A Touch of Magic” and other stories which you can read at Big Closet.

This story is based on a Lorna Samuels caption. Thanks, Lorna, for this one and for all your great work.

Jim Thompkins sighed, as he turned the key to his apartment. ‘It would’ve been great,’ he thought, ‘but hardly fair.” Then, as he came through the door, he saw Denise – Denise! – sitting on the couch, as if waiting for him.

“What… What the hell are you doing here?” he asked in surprise.

She looked up at the sound of his voice. “I live here, remember?”

“Yeah, but why… I mean… my folks left hours ago. Their plane’s somewhere over Kansas by now. You don’t have to be a girl for their sake, anymore.”

“It’s not for their sake, you bastard, it’s for yours.”

“Mine? What are you talking about? Didn’t Madame Souzcha --”

“No, Madame Souzcha didn’t.” She stood up and posed, gesturing with her right arm. “See!”

He took time to look and to enjoy looking. Denise was five foot seven of feminine curves, proudly displayed in a white summer dress spotted with big blue flowers. The dress was short enough to show plenty of leg, given delicious curve by the two-inch white heels she wore. It hugged her wide hips and narrow waist, and its low-cut sweetheart neckline showed the curve of her pert, pouty breasts. Above was a face framed by long, golden blonde hair, with the full, kissable lips and deep, green eyes. “I see.” He tried hard not to smile, tried to look concerned. “What happened, and why is it my fault?”

“I headed to Souzcha’s place as soon as your folks’ plane took off. I told her they’d left, and that it was time for the elixir to turn me back into a man.”

“And…”

“And she said, ‘Venn you ask for stuff to turn you into girl to meet your friend’s family...’” Denise was doing a not too bad imitation of the old woman’s Eastern European accent. “’…Madame Souzcha look into crystal ball. You be happier as pretty girl. Your friend fall in love with you. He marry you, and you make sveet babies. Is good life, so I make strong potion – you never can change back.’”

“That’s crazy.”

“I know – you think I don’t know. I argued with her for over an hour. She said she was doing me – doing us both a big favor, and she’d never turn me back. She said…” Denise’s voice broke. “She said you were already in love with me.” She suddenly glared at him. “Are you… in love with me?”

"I… I don’t know. You’re a beautiful, very sexy woman. And you’re really Dennis Stahler, my best friend. Only… only Denny’s a guy. We’ve played on the same league basketball team, gone rock climbing… chased and bedded women together. I’m straight – we’re both straight; how can I be in love with him?

She took a step towards him. “Prove it, then. Kiss me.”

“Are you crazy, Denny? I can’t kiss you.”

“Sure you can. You kissed me often enough when your folks were watching.”

“That was for them… pretending, and I don’t think either of us really liked it.” He had liked it -- a little – but he was hardly going to admit it.

“Then we won’t like it now. And we can go tell that crazy old bat that we didn’t like it, and she has to change me back.”

“Okay,” he said, feeling uncertain and not a little embarrassed. “How do we do it?”

“Hell, Jim, just do it!” She posed in place; her arms braced stiff against her sides, her lips in an exaggerated pucker.

He leaned forward, and his lips barely brushed against hers. “How was that?”

“Lousy. Hell, if you kissed real girls like that, you’d still be a virgin.

The insult stung. “Oh, yeah.” He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him. Before she could protest, he took her head in his hands and kissed her fiercely.

“O-oh,” was all she could say as their lips met. A delicious warmth seemed to flow into her, flow through her. She was lit up from within. She knew, instinctively, that Jim was the source of these exquisite feelings, and she pressed up close to him, wanting more… please! more.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked when they broke the kiss. She blushed and shook her head, a shy smile curving those oh, so inviting lips. “And this one will be even better.”

He kissed her again.

The feelings came back. Stronger. Her breasts tingled, her nipples stiff and begging to be touched. And the feelings in her… her pussy were just as just as intense.

Their arms moved, their hands exploring the features of each other’s bodies. And they both knew that they didn’t want to be feeling this, to be touching the other’s clothing. They wanted to know what it was like for their naked bodies to be moving against each other, for him to be plunging into her.

Without another word, they ended the kiss and, holding hands, hurried to his bed.

The morning sunlight breaking through a set of shuttered blinds woke Jim up. He was in bed, nude, his happily also nude fiancé sleeping next to him, her head resting on his chest. The “fiancé” part had happened after their second bout of lovemaking, and her gleeful “Yes!” had led to their third. He shifted, kissing her forehead in happy memory.

“Mmm, good morning,” she said, waking up. She looked up at him, and then down to their naked bodies. “I guess we won’t be going to Madame Souzcha’s after all. She gave him a happy, sated smile.

He smiled back and began to play with her left nipple. “Sure we will – but later – I want -- I think that we both want -- to thank her.”

Ellie has written a great many stories which you can read on Big Closet and Fictionmania. These include dalliances in the Altered Fates, Bikini Beach and Spells-R-Us universes. They co-write the “Eerie Saloon” saga with Christopher Leeson.

She crossed the train car with two rich and powerful men by her side, both trying to court her for attention, and both at least twice her years. It was simply marvellous.

No one in the car knew about the secret under her skirt, or the job she came here to do. Now, in the early 1900s, some might call it grifting; Irene called it fundraising.

Irene laughed with the men, sadly, at almost every genuine attempt they made at humor. The best one man had was a joke about the maid he found stuck in his fence. One of these days, someone was going to have to teach these men manners about women.

She doubted this job was going to be the wake-up call either man needed.

Luckily, that wasn’t why she was here.

The other one rested a hand on her rear end, and she gasped. Irene may have been a man underneath her classy, yet casual dress, but the man underneath was blessed with a soft and malleable voice to go with his androgynous looks. They were useful for times like this, doubly so as Irene forced a laugh.

“Mister Chesterton!” she said.

“Call me Grover, miss,” he replied.

“Well, Grover, if you would be so kind as to watch where you are putting your hand.” She waited long enough for Grover to remove his hand. “Delighted.”

She felt flushed when people touched her like that. At first, a few years ago, she thought it was just anger. Lately, it was something more awkward, Irene realized. She told herself it had nothing to do with the fact that she preferred looking like a woman when she disguised herself on any job.

Irene had to be careful. There were more dangerous things to be caught doing than taking a small sum of riches from old men who wouldn’t miss it.

Their conversation turned back to the charity organization she claimed to represent. It was a new firm seeking a home in the countryside where it could teach children basic skills and prepare them for work.

She spun a tale about a poor boy who taught himself to write with only his fingers and the mud beneath his feet, and how the only factory that would take him caught fire multiple times before the boy ran away.

She told the men that, with their help, no more little boys would need to run away from an honest day’s work.

She also kicked herself for using his story.

Irene shared more stories, both related and unrelated, and even inserted her faux wisdom into the tales told by both men. In the end, both men were in the palm of her soft, gloved hand. Her best finger was ready to play the hook.

Both men wasted no reservations about writing away in their checkbooks, and giving Irene the papers she needed. Oh, please not so much, boys. This girl could not take so much kindness.

She departed for her cabin after receiving additional kisses on her hand. All she had to do now was ride out the train, cash both checks for little more than her trip had cost her, and plan the next job.

The name Irene would undoubtedly vanish, as would her face, but the time was always fun. She preferred the beautiful though humiliating guises, the train food, and the attention far more than any honest job.

Irene passed a man in the narrow corridor leading to her cabin. Due to the narrow nature of the corridor, the man brushed against her.

He tipped his hat and said “Ma’am,” before moving on toward the front of the train.

Finally, Irene could open her door into a small compartment of privacy where she could loosen a few ornaments of her guise, or let down her act until she needed it again.

She stopped in place with the door closing behind her and a hand on her ear. Half of the jewelry she was wearing was gone. How? The only way she could think of was if the man lifted it all from her, even her earrings, while they passed.

What could she do? Call for help and spend the night in mild discomfort at best? Beaten to death for being a freak, or hanged by the Pinkertons for grifting, at worst? Or, could she let the man have his little victory?

Somewhere on the train, a common woman removed her disguise. She’d made off with a good prize of gems tonight.

Any moment, someone was going to scream that she was robbed. Everyone on the train would be looking for a man of bare wealth, not a young woman who could ill afford the ticket and meal.

Maybe she needed to raise the stakes. After all, this was just another job.

Desert Willow is the Author of “These Tights, They are a-Changing” and several other stories set in the Paragon Universe.

It was just another Wednesday for him. Wearing his school uniform and talking amongst friends. For me, it was something different. Something special. Adrenaline and fear coursed through my veins. What if this didn’t work? What if he ran off? What if I missed my opportunity? Hundreds of questions were rushing through my head and I can’t work up the nerve to approach the boy with his friends.

His parents might not like the fact I was following the boy, but I didn’t care. This was his secret, our secret. I tailed the boy and listened to them talk about school. About girls. About mischief they would get up to.

They didn’t know that I was following them. About how I was trying to approach them. How I was dressed in a red dress to appeal to them. It’s the first time I was wearing the dress in public and I felt uncomfortable knowing that there were others watching me.

The boy split from his friends and waved his farewells. This caused my heart to skip a beat. Now’s my chance. I’d never have another chance like this again. I’ve followed the boy before, rehearsing what I would say, what I would do. He always took the shortcut. Today he would take it again. That’s where I planned to talk to him.

He stopped in front of a vendor to get a hot dog. I watched the boy eat half of his hot dog, watching the slow way he ate it. Savouring each bite.

It wasn’t long before he turned into the alleyway, his shortcut. The smell was awful, but it didn’t stop me from entering before, it wouldn’t stop me now. It wasn’t long before the boy noticed that he was being tailed. It wasn’t long before he turned to confront the person following him. “Hello?” he asked.

I continued walking toward him. The boy took a shaky step back but my dress provided him with a sense of security. What’s a girl going to do to me, he might have thought. I stood in front of him looking into his eyes. He backed up against a dumpster. “Bradley Starter?” I asked. My voice was shaking, excited and scared at the same time.

The boy’s eyebrows came together. He looked confused, lost. As if he remembered me from somewhere. “Do I know you?” he muttered.

“You are Bradley Starter, right?” I repeated. He nodded slowly.

A gun poked him in his chest and I shoved the remainder of the hot dog in his mouth to block out the scream that would follow. The gun kicked in my hand as I fired a few shots into the boy’s chest. His eyes were wide. I’ll never forget them; it took a moment before he slid down the back of the dumpster, those wide eyes going clear.

The gun in my hand was a suppressed SP2022, the holster was hidden by the hem of my dress and the gun was returned to the holster as if it hadn’t been removed in the first place. At first, the dress had angered me. Why should I wear a dress? Why not a suit? I’m a man after all. Only once I had attached the holster did I understand a few of the reasons why I was wearing the dress.

I rifled through the boy’s pockets and grabbed his wallet. A school ID stared back at me with the smiling youth, his name beneath the portrait. Bradley Starter. I grinned and left the alley. I pulled out my phone and hit call.

“Has it been done?” the voice asked.

“He’s dead. I confirmed his identity myself,” I responded.

“Where’s the body?”

“In the alleyway along the route. It’s not hard to find.”

“Good. Dump everything and then return. Welcome to our organization, Sig.”

Misaania writes adventure stories with a TG twist. Stories by Misaania that you might want to check out are “Legends of the Battlefield” and “Echoes of the Soul”. They are also a contributor to the Brave New World universe.

"Dan, what the hell is this?"

I peered at the device from the couch. "A Kindle?"

"Funny," Lisa shot back. "And what's on it?"

My mind raced. Games, some books...nothing to trigger an inquisition. Our vacation photos were on there, but she'd said she liked the one of us in our floral dresses at sunset.

"You told me being Danielle wasn't all about sex!"

"Right."

"So what's all this pornography?!?"

"Ohh, that. Well, that isn't really pornography..."

She read the screen. "'...he held the huge fabric cups against his tits, embarrassed by the surge of pleasure that came from his nipples--'"

"Okay, that one's...erotica," I conceded. "But there are some good stories!" Faced with her skeptical expression, I took the tablet. "The transgender stuff could be central to the story or incidental, and sometimes there are mysteries, magic, conflict, heartbreak--"

"Sex."

"Oh, and you read Fifty Shades of Grey for its publishing insights?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "That was for a book club."

"Uh huh." I patted the couch and she sat down. "How's this for a book club...I haven't read this story here, but I like the author. So why don't we read it together and we can talk about it?"

Lisa eyed me carefully. "I suppose it has huge boobs and anal sex."

"Don't get your hopes up," I teased as she snuggled close.

The phone rang. I stood up from the couch and walked over to it, hitching my jeans up as I did.

"Hi, I'm calling from Metaphysical Marketing Services Limited and we're giving away free life-redirection services to all our potential clients. Am I speaking with Jean Smith?"

"Yes, this is he."

"Oh." The chirpy sounding girl at the other end of the line seemed surprised by that. "I'm sorry, I thought you might be female, you know, Jean."

I laughed cheerily. "You obviously don't have my name written there, it's Gene, G-E-N-E."

"It still sounds female, a little bit." She giggled, which took the edge off any irritation I might have felt at the misuse of my name, even though I was used to it and usually laughed it off. "But," she continued brightly, "if you say you're male then there's a probability of one that you are!"

"Yes, indeed." I was a little confused by the statement. It was so incongruous, not something I was expecting from the bubbly voice on a marketing call.

"I just need to check, Gene, but do you have one and only one sibling?"

"Yes, Les, he's my older -"

"Thank you, Gene, that's very helpful." She cut me off. But she did it so sweetly I couldn't bring myself to say anything. "So you were about to say he is your older brother. Please wait a moment whilst I reset reality. Have you by any chance heard of Schrodinger's Cat?"

"There's some cat in a box with some poison or something so you don't know if it's dead or alive until you open the box?"

"That's very good, Gene! Not quite there, but nearly. You see it's in the box with a radioactive isotope which will set off a radiation detector which will release the poison gas. The isotope doesn't radiate very often, but it radiates completely randomly. Are you following?"

"It's complicated, but I think so."

"The point is, Gene, because the isotope radiates completely randomly, we have absolutely no idea whether the cat is alive or dead until we open the box. The cat has a chance of being alive, and a chance of being dead, but which one it is doesn't actually happen until the box is opened, and the cat is either alive or dead, one or the other."

"What if the cat was mewling?"

She giggled again, a lovely sound. "Oh, Gene, it's a soundproof box, and lead lined because of that radiation, but never mind that."

"Yes, what does this have to do with your marketing services?"

"Of course, I was about to come to that. You see, what we observe is true, but until that point we can't be sure of anything, just a set of probabilities, do you agree?"

"I guess."

"So earlier I said there was a probability of one you were male, because you identified yourself as male, an observation. Isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"I should say that before the call I thought there was a probability of you being female, because of your name! It is feminine sounding, isn't it?"

"I suppose it could be mistaken."

"Maybe it was a half chance, but that's not enough for our life redirection services, so because of that I've reset reality and removed your observation of being male. So we're back at fifty fifty and I'm going to ask you another question."

"I don't follow. You've reset reality? What?"

"Please answer only yes or no to the following questions; do you understand?"

"Yes."

She laughed so brightly I smiled myself. "Excellent, Gene. You're back in the box! So, do you have one and only one sibling?"

"Yes."

"Does your mother have at least one male child."

She has two, so I guess that's at least one. "Yes."

"Do you have a brother?"

"Yes."

"Perfect! That now means you have a two thirds chance of being female until observed, greater than fifty fifty, enough to alter the quantum reality and provide you with our life redirection service. Thank you, Jean!"

She hung up. She hung up? The doorbell rang, and I replaced the phone in its holder quickly before turning towards the door and opening it.

"Jean Smith?" The delivery boy looked up at me and I felt a strange moment of dizziness almost as though I was waking up to reality. "Miss Smith, could you sign here?"

I took the stylus and signed the screen of the app. My nails were painted? I took the package and moved back to the couch, smoothing my skirt as I sat.

Callie Messenger is a specialist in the creation and documentation of incomplete stories, especially in the realm of transgender fantasy. Though a master of this craft, occasionally she makes the mistake of writing a complete story, and in disgust throws these errors out into the public domain for others to recycle, burn or bury as they deem appropriate.

I screamed at the top of my lungs, the downpour continuing its flooding. I spun the wheel uselessly; my tires had lost their grip a few hundred feet ago and I was just gliding now.

Gliding right into the truck in front of me.

I was hitting the brakes, the gas, putting on my turn signal... anything I could think of.

Work had called me in earlier this morning for an emergency; evidently someone else in my department had this exact problem and was in the hospital being treated for severe burns.

And yet, here I was. We were going to run out of workers at this rate, I sarcastically thought as the passenger side of my little four door Ford Focus slid towards the truck. Luckily, it wasn't coming directly at me, so I was probably going to be safe.

Late, but safe.

I took my eyes off the wheel to stare at the truck. It was obviously carrying chemicals, and seemed to be sliding-

Oh no. It lost control too. Why weren't the roads closed? It was basically a hurricane out here!

I saw it begin to swerve, and it looked like the chemical truck was going to jackknife. I closed my eyes as I approached, and the chemicals portion swung towards me and another car headed towards me.

Black.

My eyes flickered open, flashing lights subdued by something bright orange, and a faint green in the air. I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn't respond. I could only keep staring at the ambulance, or what I presumed was an ambulance. It could've been the police for all I knew, I could only see colors and general shapes. I couldn't hear anything, for that matter, but that wasn't the pressing issue.

I closed my eyes again, trying to see if anything hurt. I hit a chemical truck, after all, I expected heavy chemical burns or perhaps my lower half to have been liquified.

Yet all I could feel were the raindrops on my oddly flat chest, and an extreme discomfort in my yoga pants.

Although I could feel the rain on bare skin, down by my ankles, and through the large number of cuts I suffered. I felt myself slowly regaining the ability to move, craning my neck downwards and eyes widening in sheer shock.

That was a body the likes of which I'd only seen before on ex-boyfriends. And it looked absolutely horrible in my pink tube top.

Blood was spilling out, but from what I could feel the cuts were mostly superficial, aside from the glass embedded in my right forearm. A medic in a gas mask noticed me awake, and helped pull me up.

He might've been saying something, but I don't know. I couldn't move more than my head, and I couldn't do much with that either.

I didn't look around. I was too scared to. I saw an arm coming out from underneath a flipped over Toyota, a pool of blood beneath it. Pain was settling in my arm, and I motioned to it with my head, but the medic didn't seem to notice.

I, however, noticed the vast changes in my body and balance. Especially the thing so easily seen in my nearly-torn yoga pants. I was shocked to find that area still decent, though. I would've thought the crash would do away with all my clothes at the least.

I was pulled over to an ambulance, my vision having cleared up aside from the rain constantly getting in my eyes. The crash was horrible, six cars and the truck involved from what I could see from my seat. Seven, if you counted mine, but I couldn't see it.

Even scarier, though, was the fact I was the only one who had been retrieved by this point. I prayed that the others were just trapped, but I knew there was at least one casualty.

I looked over at the man examining my cuts, and he was talking. I shook my head, and he bit his lip, looking me over and being (presumably) quiet.

I was forced to close my eyes as the wind picked up, spraying the rain directly into my face.

It was both stinging and refreshing, stinging when it directly hit a cut but refreshing when it didn't. The rain wasn't too cold, but I was used to the cold.

I shivered unintentionally, very cold as I realized I was soaked to the bone. I squinted, trying to look at the crash for survivors to point out.

There were no fires, but the chemical was still in the air. I didn't recognize it, but that made sense. If it could make me a deaf man from a party girl, I wouldn't be surprised if the government didn't know what it was.

True shock set in, and everything went black as I felt myself surrendering to the pull of gravity.

Person42 is an author who posts mainly on TG Storytime. The author is responsible for short works such as "Christmas Wish" and "The problems with gambling" posted on TG Storytime. Other things Person42 has posted include a number of longer stories such as "That stupid disease" and "The unusual story of Dave." Works written by Person42 are varied, as are the likes and dislikes of the author.

I kiss her lips and grab her left breast roughly. She bites my mouth as she moans, but it doesn’t hurt. I reach under her dress and grab the waistband of her panties. Soft, silky. They fit her in more ways than just simply being clothing.

I pull the panties down her long legs, and in turn, she unbuckles my pants and pulls them down. I furiously scramble to get my own underwear down my legs, and then I pull her dress off of her. Her magnificent breasts are exposed, and I take hold of them, and lower my head to tongue at her nipples.

She moans, the sound of an angel. I squeeze her left breast while I suck on her right nipple, and she digs her fingers into my back. I pull my face away from her chest and bring it back to her’s. We kiss again, our tongues nearly melding into one. I don’t notice when my shirt disappears. My hands move from her chest to her back, and then finally down to her round, squishy ass. I squeeze, and she reaches around and does the same to me.

My organ is stiff, leaking, and ready. She pushes me back onto the bed and then lowers herself onto my shaft. I slip inside her, and she screams. I reach up and grab her breasts again, and she joins me, caressing my hands. She slips one of her hands underneath mine and pinches a nipple. I feel my member hardening even further.

My vision doubles, but so does my pleasure. My hands slip from my breasts, but his remain. His rough, strong hands. His caress drives me wild. I’ve never moaned as much as I am now, and I can tell he’s enjoying my movement on his member.

He sits up a little and his hands move from my breasts to my butt. I reach down to our crotches and find some of the juices leaking out of me. I scoop some of it up and lick it, and the taste nearly makes me climax right now.

I lower myself on top of him, and press my breasts against his chest. He puts his arms around me and our mouths find one another again. I suck on his tongue, and it tastes delicious. I grab his hand and slip it from my butt back to my breast and his fingers instantly find my nipple and begin to pinch and twist me. I moan into his mouth, then I move my head and let out a scream loud enough to wake - and harden - the dead.

Again, my vision doubles, but I fight through it by focusing on her movement, sliding up and down my shaft. She places her hands on my shoulders and closes her eyes, and I can tell that she’s about to cum. I close my eyes and then I feel him shooting his load into me. The orgasm hits me, it rolls through me, and I scream again. I do my best to make sure I get every drop of his cum inside me, and then I bring her mouth to mine again. One final kiss, and then we both collapse.

Her on top of me.

Me on top of him.

I awake the next morning to find myself covered in a sheet, my head throbbing. There’s a note on the bedside table, feminine handwriting. Sorry to leave you alone, but I had to go. Hope you enjoyed last night. I set the note back down on the table. I look down at her breasts, hanging from my chest. Her hair, falling from my head onto my shoulders. My hand slips under the sheet where I find her pussy, and I scream.

Hikaro has been reading transgender stories for some years now, but only broke into the writing business in late 2011, when he posted his first story to TG Storytime. Since then, he's garnered critical acclaim (in his own mind) with stories like "A First-Person Account" and "Brave New World". An odd sort of man, he likes to claim he has drinks with Elvis on the Titanic during the weekends.

Today is going to be different, I tell myself.

Usually on my morning train it's a mad rush to get a seat where people can't peek over my shoulder to see what I'm reading. The train is always full, so it invariably happens. I do it too, since when you're standing there, bored, it's tempting to read a newspaper headline or a passage of text. It's not snooping, exactly, just...looking.

So I always feel self-conscious reading transgender fiction on the train. But of course it's silly to worry what strangers might think, as though what I enjoy should be subject to their approval. So starting today, I've decided not to care.

I sat and opened up the new Candace Pink story on my phone, not bothering to hide it. Soon, I became so engrossed with the story that I was startled to realize my stop was coming up...and that the man standing next to me was reading over my shoulder with interest.

I turned off my phone and stood up, and for just a moment I made eye contact with the guy. He smiled.

"I like her stories too," he said. "That one has a fun twist at the end."

The President is watching the news story that is flashing across television screens around the world—

”…Congress has failed again. The U.S. Government is shutting down for the third time this year. This time, there seems no hope for reconciliation across the lines. And, on top of all of that, in ten days the U.S. will default on its debt…”

His aide and confidante, Peggy Grimes, is in the room with him. He has leaned on her a lot over the last couple of years—ever since the First Lady passed away early in his second term. She says, “I think it is time, Mr. President. Our secret ballots show near unanimous support—even from a majority of the members’ families.”

The President sadly shakes his head and asks, “How will we be judged if this does not work? How will I be able to live with myself?”

Peggy smiles ruefully and says, “Well, speaking of you, the country also thinks it would be best if you followed suit…”

The President looks up at his aide and asks, “And you?”

She shakes her head and says, “I don’t know. I just don’t know… There is no guarantee either will work… But your second term is coming to an end and this may be your last chance to save the country. The longer we stay shut down this time, the closer we come to being no better than Greece, or others. You know that… It is only a matter of time before there is a run on the banks, rioting in the streets… Our country is better than that…it deserves better of its elected people!”

The President nods and pushes a button. A five-star general comes in and the President says, “It’s a go. May God help us all!”

Four days later, the President is being checked out by a doctor. The news is running in the background…

”…being called a terrorist attack. We were told that the President and Congress had been put into special bunkers for their protection, but now it is clear that something major has happened. This is certainly not the same Congress from a week ago. In spite of the great personal issues every member is fighting with right now, Congress has come together and gotten the country up and running again! The members are acting civil to one another…and are working on solutions like mature adults—even though they all look to be in their early to mid-twenties on top of…”

The doctor pokes a tender spot and the President grunts.

”…If this was a terrorist attack, I think we just may need to thank the terrorists!”

The doctor looks at the President and says, “You appear to be just fine—just a lot younger and well…I need to check on one more thing, but you appear completely healthy.”

Peggy looks at the President and says, “You know you are going to have to address the nation as soon as you sign the bill that Congress is sending over right now to get the country back on its feet. Are you ready?”

The President smiles and says, “I don’t know if I made the right choice in all of this, but it feels right. There is absolutely no way to trace this back to us, so it will be able to take its natural course. Have the families of the members been compensated?”

Peggy nods and says, “Some chose to take the agent and then have the memory wiped. Others chose the other options. It is all a clean slate.”

The President smiles and says, “Then, yes, I guess I am ready to address the nation and our newly-minted mostly female congress. I have to say, I never really thought that it would matter if men or women were running the country, but by changing the gender of every member of Congress, we wound up with a winning team. The fact that they have young bodies, with the wisdom of their actual age, and the vast majority are now psychologically mature women…is working.”

At that moment the doctor comes back in and says, “Congratulations, Madame President! You are pregnant.” She looks over at Peggy, who is holding the President’s hand and asks, “And I assume you are the proud father?”

He nods and the two kiss as a courier brings in the bill for her to sign and open the Government back up for business.

Shauna is an avid writer and has written and contributed a wide variety of fictional stories in several genres on a number of forums, including BigCloset and TGStories. She currently has two ongoing series, one, 'Birthday Blues' on BigCloset, and the other, 'The Pixie Trap' on TGStories.

Witness protection has gotten a lot more complicated since the Reshaping technology was leaked. We tried to suppress it, of course, and when that failed, to make it legal only in cases of medical necessity; but no dice. Now anybody with the money can have a new body in twenty-four hours, and to hide someone from the people who want to kill them, it's not enough to give them a new sex or ethnicity and tweak their height by a few inches.

These days we focus on changing people's habits; that's how the mob tracks people down when they can't rely on old-fashioned biometrics. We still change our clients' sex about fifty percent of the time, of course, just to keep the enemy guessing; we give the rest of them a drastic change in height and weight. Both techniques are pretty good at fooling gait recognition software; if your body changes enough, you'll walk differently even when you're not thinking about it. (We teach our new women to walk in high heels and recommend they usually wear them in public; that helps too.)

And we carefully design their faces and figures to be average and unremarkable, but not *too* suspiciously average. They need to blend in with crowds, fade into the background. My current client was having a hard time understanding that.

"If you're going to change me into a woman, why couldn't you make me hot?" she said, hefting her average-sized breasts. "These would be okay on a slimmer body," glancing with distaste at the thickness of her waist and belly.

"You need to blend in," I repeated patiently (if not quite as patiently as the last few times). "All your measurements are within three centimeters of the average American woman's. Too close to average and there'd be automatic detection systems flagging you for someone to look at. Too far off average and you'll stand out in a crowd, be too visible to human agents looking for somebody with your old habits and speech patterns."

We can change a lot about a person, but some things they have to change themselves, and not everybody has the will or the skill to do it. "Of course," I continued, "if you want to diet and exercise until you lose that unattractive weight, be my guest. You'll stand out more, but you'll also be changing your habits and making yourself less recognizable."

"Just watch me," she said, looking determined. I didn't give her great odds, with that body's metabolism, but I wished her luck.

"Now, as we mentioned before, the Corrigan mob is going to try tracking you down using your known profile of interests. The best thing you can do is develop new interests; changing your sex is supposed to help with that. I think you'll naturally find books by female authors and with female viewpoint characters more interesting than before, for instance, and I recommend you try some... starting with big bestsellers, interests too widespread to individually identify you. The same with movies. As for your old favorite authors," and I slid her a paper across the desk, "this is the approved list -- authors so popular you can safely buy their books online or with a credit card and not get pegged as yourself. Anything else, you'll have to pay cash for -- and then take it home in an opaque bag and read it in a room with no windows.“

She looked dismayed, and no wonder. I allowed myself a small pang of sympathy, and her a few moments to process her grief, and went on to advise her about browsing the web anonymously, and preferably a lot less than he used to. She'd get a class on that, of course, along with classes on acting like an average woman with an average girl's upbringing -- makeup, walking in heels, etc. We wanted our clients competent at all that, but not *too* good.

"Another thing," I pointed out, noticing the way she was rubbing her thumbnail back and forth along her index finger, "you need to stop doing that. Someone who knows you well could recognize you by that nervous gesture alone."

She suddenly stopped, and after a moment's pause, sat on her hand. I went on to advise her about her options for changing careers, and how she might use some of her old skills without making it easy for the Corrigans to find her.

"One more thing," I said, as the orientation drew to a close. "We recommend you go on dates with one or more men several times in the next few weeks. We can set you up with some of the men in the program, particularly ones who are newly male if you prefer --"

"Wait, what? Did you change me so I'm attracted to guys?" She looked scared, more so than I'd seen her since she woke up in her new body. "I mean, I... haven't noticed being attracted to you."

No wonder. My own body was as carefully average as those of our clients, including the average American's extra pounds.

"No, you'll have to do that yourself. Brain plasticity increases in the first few weeks after a Reshaping, and you can change your orientation if you make yourself take an interest in men. You may or may not suppress your interest in women at the same time; either way, you'll profile differently from your old self. But we recommend you try to go straight; you'll stand out less that way."

She took a deep breath. "Okay. I can do this." And after a long pause, when I was about to dismiss her and call in my next client: "Um... do you want to go out for coffee or something?"

Trismegistus Shandy is the author of more than thirty transgender stories, available at Smashwords, Amazon, BigCloset, Shifti, and Fictionmania. They're currently working on a novel, a sequel to “Wine Can't be Pressed Into Grapes” and “When Wasps Make Honey”.

The ringing bell announced the man's entry into the dim light of the store. He was dressed in an ill-fitting dark suit that was out of place for the Florida resort area, but he had a young face and discerning eyes that darted around, eyeing the store-bought occult paraphernalia and the small table with the cheap crystal ball next to a sign listing the costs of various astrological readings.

"Welcome, traveler!" the old woman said. "We have a special on palm readings today."

"To match the palm trees outside," he said dryly, pulling out his badge. "Ma'am, I'm FBI Special Agent Darris Travers. Are you Mrs. Bethany Sagewood?"

"Yes, 'Madame Fortuna' is for the tourists. Though I'm afraid I've never have been a 'Mrs.'" She regarded him enigmatically. "Darris is an old Persian name meaning 'knowledge seeker.' You're aptly named for your career, Agent Travers."

"Riiight. Well, I'm doing some background research and would appreciate a moment of your time. Is there someplace we can talk?"

"Of course," she said, leading him into the adjoining living room, which was cozy and smelled of fresh flowers. "Would you like some tea? I just made it."

"Thank you," Darris said, examining the myriad photographs on display. "I see you like to travel."

"It's my passion," she replied, carrying a tea service. "Oh, sit, I can manage," she admonished, pouring their tea. "Sugar?"

"Please," he said, setting the cup aside to retrieve his folder. "Ms. Sagewood, I'm investigating some unusual events surrounding a number of shootings, including the one in Mississippi."

"I‘ve never been. I get terrible allergies."

“It was the incident with the college student who killed her rapists."

"Oh, I read about that in the newspaper! Dreadful business."

"She tried to kill herself but the gun jammed. Otherwise, she fits a similar pattern to some other murder/suicides going back decades."

"And this is your field of expertise?"

"I pursue old cases from time to time. Unsolved murders, mostly. I'm sometimes compared unfavorably to that character from The X-Files."

"But no beautiful redheaded partner?" Bethany smiled, sipping her tea.

"These photos are from the trial," he said, "and these others are from a similar trial eight years ago. Notice anything?"

"Not especially."

He pointed at the photos and there amidst the crowd, standing not far from both killers, was Bethany.

"And you think this is me?"

“Is it?”

“Please. The very idea!"

"This woman used aliases and flew out of Miami, paying cash."

"How singular."

"Mmm," Darris intoned, eyeing her intently. "It seems you like to travel quite a bit, Ms. Sagewood. You've made dozens of trips all over the world, and not exactly tourist destinations."

"Is that an accusation, Agent Travers?"

He then produced photos of two beautiful and nearly identical brunette women.

"Oh, aren't they lovely."

"They're men. Or they were, until they decided to become women for no apparent reason. Two cases, five years apart, and now they could be sisters."

"Coincidences do happen."

"I spoke to them. Neither had any transgender inclinations until out of the blue they decided to change their sex. Later, equally suddenly, they each concocted wild stories of having been manipulated by demonic spirits. But after you visited their cities, they both recanted and now they don't know why they did what they did."

"I'm puzzled, Agent Travers. Are you accusing me of counseling wayward transsexuals?"

He slapped more photos on the table. "A married lawyer shows up at work as a woman. A health nut balloons up two hundred pounds. A meter maid turns herself into a porno actress. And--my favorite--a she-male cat burglar with breasts the size of melons. All claiming to be coerced by some supernatural force...until you showed up."

"You do have a fanciful imagination."

"Six different M.O.s, and you're the only thing they have in common! Explain that!"

"Seven."

"What?"

She sighed. "Wrath," she said, pointing at the killers. "Gluttony." The obese woman. "Envy." The she-male. "Greed." The lawyer. "Lust." The porno actress. She then picked up the two pictures of the identical transsexuals. "And Pride. Her vanity has always been her undoing," she mused. "I'm not surprised Sloth slipped beneath your notice...he doesn't get out much."

"Who the hell are you?"

"You haven't touched your tea, Agent Travers."

"What did you put in that?" he demanded. He tried to leap out of his chair, but he was frozen in place, paralyzed from the neck down.

"Sugar, as you requested," Bethany said, gathering up the photos. "But I have other methods of ensuring compliance, as you’ve discovered."

"What's going on? Why did you change those people?"

"I didn’t, the Sins changed them. I'm simply a facilitator. A Sin Eater, if you will. I remove all memory of the Sins from their hosts, leaving them to believe they made their own decisions, albeit poor ones. Which is what I will do to you."

"You won't get away with this, I'll stop you!"

"Ah, the sin of pride, I know it well."

"Even if I do forget, I'll find you again!"

"I believe you. Which is why you will become Pride's next vessel. You'll be free of her in a few short years, but after that I believe you will have...other distractions. She does excellent work, I'm sure you'll be quite lovely."

"You monster!"

"Yes, but a necessary one. And we will meet again. After she’s finished and I remove your memories of her, you’ll have the rest of your days to wonder what could have possessed you to ruin your life. Perhaps you’ll even decide to become a redhead."

"Please, I have a family!"

"Yes, I would suggest that you treasure your time with them before you are overcome by Pride and her vanity, but you will not remember this conversation. And now it is time to sleep, Agent Travers."

As Darris's eyes closed against his will, he heard the Sin Eater's final remark: "Go now, and sin no more."

Jenny North is either flattered you’re reading her bio, or mildly surprised that you just kept reading and think that this is still part of the story. But you’re in luck, because there’s more! This story was the capstone to her new story “Living in Sin” which will shortly be posted to Fictionmania which has seven short stories telling the tales of the spirits mentioned here. (Or if you want a comedy instead, read “My Uncle Fifi” which will make her deliriously happy.)

Stranger than Fiction

"I can't believe you read that junk," Skye said, peering at the laptop screen.

"It's not junk," Clint said defensively. "Besides, you never used to complain about the dyke sex stories when I read those."

"That's because I liked those," she responded. "And isn't your own life enough of a tranny fiction story?"

"I'm sure my parents think so. I think they were just getting used to the idea of me being a lesbian."

"Eh, I'm sure they'll get over it," Skye said, plopping down on the couch and pointing at the screen. "You should write about that. 'It Was Only A Phase: A Former Prom Princess Transitions.'"

Clint chuckled. "Yeah, except I was never a prom princess."

"Sheesh, take a little artistic license! Besides, nobody would believe the real story."

The chronicles relate that Duke Albrecht, having led his army to victory, met and killed the usurper Edmund in single combat. And he slew also Edmund’s foul mother, who had married the old king, that on his death her son might seize the throne. Now the Duke searched in the deepest dungeons of the Castle at Montfalcone for Prince Serapion, the rightful heir, for surely the witch had not dared to do away with him! But he did not find him.

But he met a maiden walking in the garden of the castle, and was much taken with her beauty and her demeanour.

“Who art thou, lady?” he enquired. “Dost thou dwell here in the castle? Maybe thou canst give me tidings of one whom I seek?”

“My lord Duke – for I know who thou art,” she replied, in a soft voice like the sound of church bells heard across the meadows on a bright spring day, “I know whom thou seekest. Surely it is for Prince Serapion?”

“Aye, that I do, lady. Dost thou know of him, or his fate?”

“Verily,” the maiden replied, “thou hast found Serapion, and yet thou hast not found him.”

“What may thy riddle mean?” wondered Duke Albrecht. “I cannot interpret it.”

“Alas, my lord, I was that unhappy prince. For my stepmother was a witch indeed, and cast a glamour over me to change me into this form, and had me trained by her ladies-in-waiting in womanly arts, so that I should never inherit the throne, for by our laws no woman may rule, but instead prove a bride for the Lord Edmund. But he was utterly abhorrent to me; in spite of threats and entreaties I always refused him.”

“Rejoice,” then said the Duke, “for Edmund and the witch are both dead, and thou canst be Serapion again, and the rightful king!”

“Alas,” the maiden replied, “that may never be, If my stepmother be dead, her spells cannot be reversed, and I am condemned to remain a woman for ever!” And she wept for her lost manhood, though it seemed to Duke Albrecht that the tears were not bitter.

But then the maiden bethought herself of something, and said “I know that thou art a cousin. Surely thou art the next heir? I proclaim thee to be King Albrecht! May thy life be long, with God’s grace, and thy rule just!” Then she knelt before him and said: “As for me, my lord, I accept the destiny which God hath laid on me. For my heart is light, and I would fain study the usages of peace, rather than practice the arts of war. Send me to a convent, and I will take the veil.”

“Nay, that shall not be,” said Albrecht, and gently he raised her up. “For if thou art Serapion no longer, thou art yet a royal princess. Princess Seraphita I name thee, for surely thou art sent from Heaven. Thou canst not be a king, but I will make thee a Queen. It is in my mind to marry thee, my lady, if thou wilt have me as a husband.”

Now Albrecht was young and well-favoured, and true-hearted, and Princess Seraphita smiled on him, and it was as if the sun came out in glory from behind the clouds.

“With all my heart,” she said.

Thus they were espoused. Duke Albrecht was proclaimed king, and wedded the Princess Seraphita in the cathedral at Pontevedra. King Albrecht proved to be a wise and beneficent ruler, and under him the kingdom was strong, and prospered. But if the people respected their king, they loved Queen Seraphita; for her virtue, for her charity, and for that she spread joy wherever she went, as much to the poor Goodman and Goodwife in their humble cottage, as to the great Lords and Ladies of the court.

Now the deeds of King Albrecht, are they not written in the chronicles of Pontevedra? And the tapestry which Queen Seraphita and her ladies wove, is it not displayed in the Castle of Montfalcone unto this very day?

But it was said that the magic that created Queen Seraphita passed into the tapestry, so that any youth of virtuous conduct and a virgin durst not touch it, lest he too be changed into a maiden.

Kandijayne has had short stories published on Fictionmania, Big Closet and TGStorytime, as well as in early issues of Mixed Tape. Retirement from work two years ago should have provided plentiful opportunities for serious writing. Unfortunately the last year has largely been spent (wasted?) in creating TG captions on deviantart under the pseudonym P-L-Richards.

The Trolol-osen Shanty

It was another beautiful morning in Glassview, toward the end of May. A subtle breeze came in alongside the waves as they struck the beach one after another. It was a good day to go out jogging. So, that was what Georgia did that morning before the sun came up or it became too warm to even have her favorite jacket tied around her waist.

Shortly after sunrise, she made it back to the college and barely slowed down. Her brisk walk carried her from one end of the dormitory hallway, up some stairs, and to her door. She turned off the music before opening the door gently. There was no telling if her two roommates were still asleep or not.

However, she saw someone angelic and glowing and staring right at her with a kind smile.

“Nope!” Georgia slammed the door shut. Her instincts were always quicker than the rest of her brain. Now, she was backing away from the door and turning from it back towards the stairs.

She pieced it all together quickly, her heart beating just as fast. There were people appearing all over the place with superpowers. By now, Georgia had heard a thing or two about some entity showing up and bestowing both powers and instant sex changes. Between these things, and the rise of those HARP digets, she decided that her life was hard enough already.

Georgia turned again and took two steps down the stairs when the glowing woman showed up again, same kind smile. The glowing woman reached out at her.

“Be not afraid. You have been cho—“ the glowing woman began.

“That’s nice,” Georgia said. “Sorry. Got to go. See you!”

She dodged the extended hand before her and climbed over the railing. Georgia slid over it. She cleared the landing and was off in the direction of the exit faster than you could say, “Beep-beep.”

Maybe she was to be granted super speed? No, don’t even think that, Georgia. You love being a woman safe from controversies that don’t involve feminism. Yes, kind weirdoes looking down from upstairs? She needs feminism because no one should have to run to keep their life complications to a bare minimum.

The sun was finally, truly up once she was outside. Her legs and feet were more than capable of going down the few stone steps. Her eyes were totally able to dodge the glowing hand that appeared from the left side once she was at the bottom.

“You have been ch—“

No, no, and no again. Georgia turned right and sped for the parking lot. She grabbed at and dug through her jacket’s pockets for her keys before stopping at a panic. They weren’t inside her pockets. Shit, where did she leave them? Then, in a moment of clarity that only an idiot could achieve, she noticed the keys that were already in her hand.

Georgia looked up in time to see the glowing woman’s reflection on the Volkswagon bug window. She moved to the side and saw the woman’s hand touch the car.

Listen, Discount Herbie, I loved those Love Bug films from the 60s and 70s, but better you than me. Please don’t start riding off, OK?

Nothing happened to the car. Whether it would have or not, Georgia didn’t stop running. She made it to her car, opened the door, and locked it once she was inside. Georgia turned on the ignition quickly, noticing the floating, glowing woman levitating toward her.

The next thing she did was plug in her MP3 player, and turn up the music as soon as the song “Trololo” came on by pure chance. She looked once again at the glowing woman, who did not look pleased.

It did not stop the glowing woman from saying something, however. Too bad for her, Georgia was in here, she couldn’t hear the woman, and she couldn’t read lips. Georgia pointed to her ears and lipped a “Sorry, I can’t hear you,” before grabbing her seatbelt and buckling in.

She had just touched the emergency brake when she suddenly felt like taking a nap. Hey, where was she going again. There were some nice places to run, to visit people. Yeah, Georgia could picture herself running through a field with tall grass next to a famous Olympic runner. They were racing. This was her chance.

Her legs. Wouldn’t. Move.

A sudden burst of air through her mouth and lungs woke her. Her music was loud, but set to another song. People were pointing at her. She looked down, and her black cami now covered a very masculine chest. Her pants were no longer as comfortable as her panties now squeezed something downstairs.

Over the next few days, he discovered that he could piss wine, and only wine.

The Vandal

A car pulled to a stop along a desolate road and turned off the lights. “I don’t want to do this, I can’t afford to get into trouble – my folks will kill me!”

“Quit being a pussy and come with us!” The drunken teen tossed a bottle out the Ford’s window and opened the passenger door. “Come on Abbs, he’s obviously not got the nerve to have some fun. Wait here, we won’t be long.” He picked up the remaining beers and staggered away from the car.

The driver looked toward the girl. “You don’t have to go with him, Abby.”

She hesitated for only a second and then slid out of the car to follow her boyfriend over the fence, and on up the hill. The remaining teen swung his door open and stood beside the car contemplating his next step.

Her eyes slowly opened; listening intently she heard the sound again. People were talking not far away. She often heard the strange speaking of the living, and as long as they didn’t bother her rest, she ignored them. To return to her eternal sleep was impossible, as the commotion from above would not allow her to relax.

She lifted her head slightly and sighed. It had grown quiet above, and she incorrectly assumed the living had passed; it was then that a putrid smell came to her nostrils.

The odor seemed to be growing stronger. She frowned and slowly rose from her earthly place and looked up. Liquid was seeping into the soil overhead; she raised her ghostly hand and smelled the wet earth.

The vile expression that crossed her face would have made even the stoutest hunter of ghosts tremble in fear. She began to push her way out of the earth, hoping that the defiler of her sanctuary would leave before she reached the surface.

The two meandered through several ancient gravestones, making their way to the very top of the historic cemetery. “Check this out, Abbs!” The laughing youth began to urinate. “I’m watering the plants!”

She started to pour her beer onto the grave nearest her, “Here....” she examined the name on the grave, “Have a drink on me!”

She staggered giggling to where her boyfriend was and looked down at the stone, “You’re peeing on Constance Chalfont’s grave?”

“Who the hell is she?” he groused as he finished and zipped up.

“She was burned at the stake for being a witch!”

He shrugged and smiled, “Here’s what I think of that...” Turning back to the stone he kicked it until it cracked and fell backward. It broke again as it hit the ground.

From deep within her chest she began to shriek hideously; it started as a muffled squeal, but grew in pitch. As she broke through the ground, a look of sheer terror crossed the countenance of the teens.

As the ethereal being lifted into the air, great flowing garments seemed to twist and drift in the wind around her as though they too were alive. She lowered her gaze to the man who defiled her grave, his face now ashen in fear. With a flick of her wrist he began scream and slowly melt onto the ground. The putrefying sludge that had been the boy began to flow toward the broken cemetery marker.

Her gaze then lifted to the girl, frozen in sheer terror. Somehow, the girl willed her feet to move and began to run. The ancient witch stretched out her bony hand and caused the female to become almost statue like.

The young teen’s legs slowly became covered with bark and vines, rising up her torso and over her shoulders. Her terrified screams fell silent as the wood closed over her mouth, leaving a strange and macabre face within the twisted bark. Disjointed limbs ran askew from her arms and fingers, their ends rattling in the late autumn wind. The young female’s long hair drifted among the branches as they morphed into a canopy of dried leaves and vines.

To her left the witch watched what was left of the boy ooze and creep into the cracks of the stone, creating some sort of human bond. Each broken piece seemed to pull itself together and return to its normal upright position.

Her gaze was slowly drawn down the hill until it fell upon a horror stricken young man who stood trembling beside a car. He was trying desperately to open the door. She scowled, lifting slowly into the air and toward the fumbling teen. She knew that he had no part in the desecration of her grave, yet it was obvious to her that he was with the others, and most likely too weak to face her wrath head-on.

The apparition raced toward the car as the young man fought with the key in the ignition. Just as she reached the car, the motor roared to life. Toward the passenger window she flew, straight at him, his face washed with horror, his mouth agape as he screamed. At the very last second he flattened himself along the car’s bench seat.

The specter blew through the car with the force that rocked it from side to side, yet it was not enough to deter the youth from throwing gravel as he was speeding away. She flew alongside as the young man drove furiously, swerving to avoid her from coming into his own window. Quickly, he tried rolling it up in a feeble attempt of slowing her.

With a shrillness reminiscent of a horror film, she screamed like a banshee into his window. Thrusting her hand through the window, she clutched at his collar and tried to drag him out as he drove. Gnarled and knobby knuckles hang onto his shirt, pulling him close to her withered face. She hissed in his ear, her voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard. “You can surely run from me wench, but you can never flee my wrath!” He could feel her icy breath against his cheek as he raced at a breakneck pace.

Finally, she left go of his collar and laughed hideously after him for a distance. His furtive gaze kept an eye in his mirror and often he would look back over his shoulder. It was then that he realized that she no longer followed, and could breathe easy again.

Minutes later, he pulled to a stop safely in his driveway. He sat shaking from fear as what had just happened replayed over and over in his mind. Slowly he caught his breath, stepped out and closed the door. Leaning on his trembling arms against the car, he cried.

Finally after several minutes he opened his eyes and lifted his head, with a sweep of his hand he pushed an unusually long lock of hair aside and deftly tucked it behind his ear. As he started to turn, his gaze caught sight of his reflection in the car's window. His heart skipped a beat and his breath caught in his chest. “...oh my god!”

Anon has always thought of himself as a writer, even though his real-world job is nowhere near as creative. He enjoys writing stories within the 18th and 19th century period; there is something about that span of time that captivates him. Anon calls the Midwest home, living in an ancient farmhouse, surrounded on four sides by open fields. Perhaps this rural setting that he lives, is where he draws inspiration for his stories? He got his start writing back in the early 2000's, publishing his first story on Fictionmania, however most of his more recent stories are on Big Closet including his latest - a 'book' titled: A Love So Bold.”

Silent Squee

I was with Gerry and Rich, waiting in line for the Warehouse 13 panel at DragonCon, when I saw her. I mean, I'd seen her several minutes ago when she got in line behind us, but I didn't notice her badge right away, I only admired her cosplay; she and her friend were probably both dressed as different characters from the same show I'd never seen. Then someone came along and asked them if he could take their photo, and they posed for him, and I got a glimpse of her con badge when she turned: "Aimee Brightwing" in large print, with her legal name and hometown in smaller print that I couldn't read quickly. Here I was standing next to one of my favorite living authors, and I couldn't say anything.

I mean, it would probably be okay. Probably. But Gerry and Rich didn't know the kinds of things I read in private, and I didn't want them to know. They might not mind, they probably wouldn't, but I didn't want to risk our friendship over it. And if I said to her, "I love your stories!" or something similarly coherent, it might lead to awkward questions later. "What all has she written?" Gerry might ask, and "Which of her books do you recommend I try first?" Rich would add. And what could I say?

But maybe I should. Aimee probably didn't get much if any in-person validation about her work; online comments weren't the same. And I'd probably never get another chance. With the tens of thousands of people crowding into these hotels this weekend, it wasn't likely I'd run into her again when my friends weren't around, and there was only one day of the con left.

On the other hand she was engrossed in conversation with her friend, and might not want to be interrupted.

On the gripping hand...

I cleared my throat.

The Mixed Tape Interview: Desert Willow

Q: Tell us a little bit about yourself.

In South California, born and raised, in the desert where I've spent most of my days... erm... Yeah. I wish I could take my hometown seriously.

I grew up in a place where Mojave and Los Angeles collided, and the drivers forgot to pack their brain manuals. No, seriously, my hometown was named for a tree that some folks thought they saw and misidentified, and that's just an average afternoon around here. So of course I've developed a fair share of snark and sarcasm to go with life.

Thankfully, I have books and video games (and several shows) that entertain me when I'm not writing. I've been writing on and off since about the time when I was seven.

Q: What books have influenced you most a writer?

Anything written by Brandon Sanderson (especially Mistborn, Warbreaker, and Stormlight Archives), Neil Gaiman, and Roger Zelazny; as well as (mostly pre-New 52) comics in the Gotham lore. Most particularly Robin (Tim Drake and Stephanie Brown) and Batgirl (Cassandra Cain and Stephanie Brown). Questionable Content and Gunnerkrigg Court are also worth mention.

Q: Can you talk us through your writing process?

I wake up, open a Word document for whichever story (or stories) I'm working on that day, oftentimes with an idea or a dozen of what I'm going to get done, and then I proceed to play video games until my hands wander to the keyboard and type out the rough draft of my project(s). I'll quickly go through for typos, but typically what I've posted on TGS so far has been my rough drafts. It usually isn't until way later when I read through it again and fix the little things.

Q: Most useful piece of writing advice you've ever received?

If you ever get stuck trying to figure out a scene or a sequence of chapters, look to what you know.

That can be what you know of your setting and characters, so that you aren't assassinating your own story with itself—seriously, facts set in stone aren't known for flexibility or taking yoga classes—or it can be what you know about the real world or the arts. For me, personally, I'll sometimes pull out a deck of tarot cards, though I haven't needed to do this in a while, and read for my characters or their situation.

The point is, whatever your method, stick to what you know, and build from there. It's much harder to go wrong that way.

Q: Can you tell us a bit about the universe your stories take place in?

The Paragon Verse stories? Sure.

Paragon City is the world's capital of superheroes and villains. Not everyone agrees with what makes a hero or villain, but the general consensus often allies itself with the vast majority of laws. Somewhere along the way, things happen that no one expects or plans for until it's too late.

There are plenty of pop culture parallels to our own world, so I try to highlight those and make references (that hardly anyone has acknowledged).

What made you want to write in this setting?

I was already familiar in writing in a similar setting with my own superhero series I’m working on outside of the site. When I saw and immediately identified what Minikisa was doing, I just knew I had to make my own story set in the same world as her and Baronesa, being a City of Heroes/Villains player. I did this knowing that there was a chance I’d be in Minikisa’s shadow unless I could outshine her.

At the time, it was going to be a short story about a man turned succubus, her friends rushing to help her, and maybe two endings (a good and bad). The length grew well on its own, but by the time I got to the 2/3th mark of These Tights, Minikisa told me her plan with her third story—well, a big part of it—and I stuck with the good ending.

Was the Paragon universe a collaborative endeavour early on? If so, to what extent?

Early on, it started as just my own story because it was going to be short. Then, as it developed, I started sending Minikisa emails asking for a few details she had in mind so that I wouldn’t step on her toes while telling my own story. Between that and the fourth person expressing a desire to write for what was now a universe, she had to make a Google Doc for everyone to keep track.

I wanted to collab more directly, and so did she to some degree, but she wasn’t sure how. I invited her to write a scene in my audition chapter of These Tights where Captain Patriot showed up in disguise, she said yes, and then it never happened. However, The Event happened in the universe, and I became one of the writers to contribute a scene for it, by writing the scene on the Google Doc. I then had her permission to include Elaine/Amethyst during Rancor Night at the end of TT, but I wrote more than her scene in there (oops).

Q: The Paragon verse was inspired by the MMORPG “City of Heroes”. Did you play and if so how did your experiences with the game influence your stories?

Yes, I played City of Villains (and some Heroes as well) for over a year and a half.

I remember running into the "heroic" Longbow (whom the Vambracemen were based on) and the Circle of Thorns just as frequently on the villain side. Sometimes I even had to fight both at the same time when they were violently tense toward one another, but both had it out for us villains.

Something else is that, when I write while my characters are out in the city, I try to imagine the NPCs wandering around below, randomly spouting off your exploits when you're in earshot, I try to recount the music and overall feel of the game, and I think about what certain other players I met would have done in a situation. I miss that game so much that, when I read about mine or Minikisa's characters going around the city, I want to be able to feel like I'm there again. I didn't quite catch that feeling in the prequel story, partly because it's so far in the past and things hadn't quite developed yet to what they are by OHAV and These Tights, but re-reading TT and my notes for A Cape on the Villain Side, I almost feel like I'm home.

Q: How do you feel you’ve changed as a writer since you started writing the “These Tights” saga?

It's the Dallevan Trilogy actually, just to clear things up a smidge. As for your question, I mostly feel like I've finally managed to get something out for people to find and read at their leisure, even if it started out below my usual writing abilities.

On the other hand, however, it also gave me an opportunity to write These Tights in a narrative style I hadn't tried since I was nine. I totally needed the practice, and might still do, before working on one of my non-TG trilogies.

So, exposure and practice are key, if you can point out any differences at all.

Q: You took a bit of a break, what was it like to return to your characters and their adventures after that hiatus?

It was a thing. Like I mentioned before, I try to go to that place in my heart and mind for These Tights (and the sequel), and was on my way to doing that for Paragon Girl before the hiatus happened for a couple reasons (Minikisa becoming so busy with life, and me playing Final Fantasy XIV). So, coming back to Paragon, the drama I endured at the end of my FFXIV run kinda stuck with me, and I spent the whole prequel story trying to break out of that and back into the Paragon mindset before the (in story) tragedies all kicked in.

Q: Superheroes are a staple of TG fiction; why do you think that is?

Empowerment. People look to heroes who can do what they presently cannot. Transgender people aspire for change and acceptance, and see superheroes and their struggle with the dark side as a caricature of our own real life struggles. In the darkest of worlds and times, true heroes triumph more often than not, and often at a price. Seeing their success empowers us.

Q: How do your experiences a trans woman inform your fiction?

I realized something was off when I was a little kid. I didn’t understand what was wrong at the time; the internet wasn’t yet what it is now, and my godfather (who happens to be ftm and I didn’t know this at the time) was on the other side of the country so I couldn’t exactly talk to him about my feelings in a way that he might understand. I finally understood around the time I was 12, but my family was broke and already dealing with enough hardships thanks to my father’s melanoma (skin cancer).

When my father died, I was 14. I decided to “Man up and be the manly support for the household.” This was a terrible mistake, of course. I put my feelings out of my mind until my early twenties when my physical and mental health had both deteriorated, and I needed to re-evaluate everything that mattered in life if I was to keep on living. I’ve been writing since childhood, but my TG writings didn’t start until a short time before OHAV came out.

The closest I’ve come so far to writing any part of my past was actually not that close at all. It was in Paragon Girl, with me writing about the support Judy got from her mother and friends that I wish I had gotten from my mom, older sister, and friends when was 14. Transitioning takes time, effort, choices, and adjustment. In sci-fi and magic situations, one or more of these (usually the time for change) is thrown to the wind.

For example, TT's Mary sees her change and rolls with it because that's the way s/he is, but she knew nothing about being a woman at the time until Tatiana finally had a number of chats with her. One being when she used her fingers to illustrate for Mary the proper way to sit like a woman. Compare to Judy who wanted the change her whole life, and was too overjoyed for words when it happened.

Beyond that, every project I write has so far been closer associated to either my dreams, or events I heard about in college History classes.

Q: Current jam (what music are you listening to)?

I'm almost always listening to Classical, Classic Rock, or Metal. Most recently, I listened to Iron Maiden's latest album a few times.

Q: Any last words?

Not yet. "Not yet? Is that famous?"

Afterword

Every trans person has a period of realisation. For me, reading and writing stories like those you’ve just read was a way of exploring my gender identity during that time. However, this stuff can also limit your thinking. There’s a discussion to be had about whether stories like the fantastical pieces – written by a mixture of trans and cisgender authors – that make up the bulk of this collection are transgender fiction or not.

This is my perspective: Before I understood myself to be trans, I found the scenarios described in transformation stories compelling fantasies. At the same time such stories seldom detail the inner life of the closeted trans person, or present the process of “turning into a woman” or “turning into a man” as something which is possible in the real world (it is). They are often written for the sexual gratification of their authors or their audiences, and like many forms of sexual roleplay depict gender in exaggerated and/or simplified terms. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with this, but it isn’t true to how trans people – or, I hope, anyone – really understands the concept.

I imagine that some of you who are scanning these words are in a similar position to mine not too long ago. To you I say: You aren’t going to find all the answers here. Don’t ever let yourself feel invalidated by anything you read. If you find yourself preoccupied with “I’m not trans because…” and “this is just my kink” thinking, that almost certainly means something. You are awesome. I wish you more than luck.

Anyway, I hope that you enjoyed this collection of stories. The last couple of Mixed Tapes have been on the shorter side, but this, as you may have noticed, is a long one, our longest yet in fact, which is, I think, a fantastic milestone to end 2015 on.

Yes, this is the last collection for this year, but don’t worry, the Tapes will return! Keep an eye out for further announcements in the near future.

Until then.

Persnickety Bitch