Author’s Note: The following stories were originally published in the “TG Mixed Tape” flash fiction anthologies. As readers of those collections know, many of my contributions detail incidents in the life of Nina, a young trans woman. If you haven’t read these stories, enjoy. If you have, I hope that you take the time to revisit and find re-reading them back-to-back a different, richer experience.

In 1995 my family owned four pairs of scissors. There were the pink Piglet safety scissors, chunky and phallic; the small silver pair with the curved and blunted tips for cutting the dog’s fur; and the pair with the grey handles that my mum called “the grown up scissors” even when she thought that I wasn’t listening, and my dad called “the shears,” and which were cumbersome and rarely used. Then there were the kitchen scissors, which got used for just about everything. Scoring potatoes for roasting, opening packaging when digging in with nails and fingertips didn’t work, trimming the knots off Hoofer. My mum, before she’d had me, was a hairdresser and’d taken them home with her on her last day, and when my hair got long enough to need cutting they were used once more for their original purpose. Their handles were plastic and ivory white. The finger ring had a tang, which was something that none of the others had, and this made it look a bit like a Q or, to a child’s imagination, a magnifying glass. I liked to hold this up to my eye and pretend to be a detective.

Once, after I did this, I hid them. That night my parents stayed up late. And I stayed up too, in secret, lying in my bed in the dark, listening to the TV sounds and watching the TV light flicker beneath my bedroom door. My jaw was stiff from yawning when it went out. I counted as high as I could – seven tens and three – eight times to be sure that my parents were asleep, reached beneath my pillow and retrieved. I placed my penis by feel. The blades were cool against it as they pinched.

The next day I, the Great Inspector in his Batman cowl and his father’s akubra, solved the case of the missing scissors. The culprit was Pooh-bear. He’d hidden them behind a couch cushion. Pooh spent the afternoon in a cardboard box with the word "Jail" written on it. I’d done the writing myself, using stencils, though my mother had had to order the letters. My dad filmed it all with his new video camera. Christine crawled around dripping poo from her nappy. For this, I wanted to lock her away too. But mum said something about bail and when I asked her what that meant, my mother laughed, and so did dad, and I huffed off to my room. And when people ask me, “Nina, what’s your earliest memory,” or some such, at reunions, or in fancy restaurants or bedrooms as a way of establishing intimacy, this is what I will describe, even though it is only what I have seen on a screen after the fact. In truth I do not remember much of my childhood. The second, third, fourth-hand impression is that it was an exceptionally happy one. But the moments that have stayed with me are not.

Hugh tickled the dog’s stomach as he waited for Nino (Correction, Nina. It was Nina now). Cousin was Nina’s pooch. But Weston House, her digs, was No Pets. And the family home was, for the moment, a no go zone.

They (Hugh, Cousin) were on the floor, Hugh with his back to the couch. As a toddler he’d liked to press his face between the cushions. As a teen he and Nina’d slouched and gamed. And fumbled. Occasionally fucked. A pedestal fan also donated by his folks faced a wire clothes horse. Shorts and boxers swayed in its breeze, as did the Simon and Marcy graphic tee that he and Nina shared (he’d had it for the last two weeks). A canister of Estradiol that Nina had left behind last time she’d been around sat on top of the coffee table, to remind him, and to remind her that she had to take it with her along with the shirt.

A toilet flushed. A shower pitter-pattered on.

“You know piss is sterile, right?” Hugh called out.

“Ewww,” Nina called back, “Eww, Eww, Eww, Ick and gross.” She laughed.

“Do you want me to come in with you?”

“No. I’ll be quick.”

When she emerged from the bathroom her skin was flushed and her hair was sticking together and glossy. She was warm to touch. She wore black underpants and was topless. Her breasts were small, a little on the mooby side, but a little less than they had been.

Hugh stopped patting Cousin which caused the dog to get stroppy. As he and Nina cuddle-walked to the bedroom he head-butted their legs and weaved with intent to trip.

She kept her undies on. Hugh played with her genitals through them. Stroking, and with his fingertips. He traced the outline of her penis, the underbuldge of her balls. Her teeth let go of his lower lip. Her face withdrew. She took his hand and showed him what she wanted.

“Like this?”

“Yes.”

He felt the tip of her nose against his skin, her tongue with his. A hand on his cheek, guiding his face away and to a nipple. A finger in his mouth, coaxing it open, slipping out, slipping something in. He felt another hand massaging his wrist, tightening when she began to grow hard (stop!), slackening when she did (keep going!), so that when she came, she came flaccid.

She was just starting his handjob when there was a series of hacking croak-coughs from the lounge. His limp dick flopped from her hand as he leapt out of bed. Her feet hit the floor seconds after his.

The pill canister was on the floor, lidless, lying in a puddle of vomit; all watery ooze and sogged kibble.

Nina drove them to the vet. Hugh sat in the passenger seat with Cousin on his lap, scratching the dog’s belly. As his fingers brushed over the emptiness where Cousin’s testicles used to be he began to laugh.

“I really liked the one you were co-authoring,” she said. “Is that ever going to be finished?”

During the pause I arranged a coaster and the three remaining slices of Meatlovers/Hawaiian half-n’-half into a facsimile of the radioactive symbol. Christine sipped her third vodka and coke.

“I don’t know.” I replied. “Kitty’s sort of dropped off the interwebs.”

“Oh.” My sister bit her lip. “Was she like you?”

My younger sibling has always seen me as representative – first of all boys, then of all gay people, now of all trans women. “Was she like you?” meant, “She was, wasn’t she, and she failed at dealing with the same things you did.”

To which the answer was, “No,” followed by an, “at least, I don’t think so.”

Though, like Christine, I too imagined that there was some serious Not Good going down in Kate’s life. I hoped that she was OK. Us transfolk don’t have a monopoly on soul crushing psychic shit. We’re not the only people who write silly body swap stories.

I took the last slice of Meatlovers.

My sister’s phone chimed. She checked it.

“It’s Jan,” she said to me, “we’re picking her up from Abram’s.”

I asked if I’d be taking Jan’s boyfriend in too.

“No, just us girls. Remind me to grab the Game of Thrones box set as we head out, I said I’d loan it to him. Maybe you two could make an evening of it while you wait for the pick up call.”

Abram had been super supportive early on, and lately. Between times, a few years back, we were at a Hottest 100 bash, all deep in our cups. Abram called me ladyboy and Christine laughed. I left early with Hugh, my boyfriend at the time, and the two of us counted down the top 10 together in his new apartment. He danced to Get Lucky with moves that I’ve been trying to pull off ever since, and stripteased to Lorde. I won’t say what we did to Vance Joy. Later that night Christine called from Ab’s phone and gave me an earful. I retaliated with some indiscriminate Fuck You (and you and you and you too) texting.

“Maybe,” I said through a mouthful.

“You know Nina,” Christine raised her glass at me, “we should go out some time, me and you, as sisters.”

I said nothing.

“C’mon. It’d be fun. Or we could stay in and just have a few drinks. Like old times. Colab on a story, like that Animorphs fic we did when we were teeny-boppers.”

I poured myself a Coke. “I’d like that.”

“Great!” she said and checked the time on her phone. “Well, looks like I’d better start making a move on.”

Her chair scraped on the floor and she stood up. I looked at the two slices of pizza remaining. As I waited for her to call me to help zip her up, or to ask what I thought of her outfit, I rearranged them.

Sashimi Queen closes at four, but half an hour before that the end of the day specials begin. Back when we were students, Lucile and Nina and the rest of Weston House’s Primary and Early Childhood majors, when they could make the ten minute window before all the Chicken Teriyakis, Tuna Salads and Salmon and Avos sold out, had practically lived on their five rolls for five dollars deal.

I should’ve gone there first. Instead I’m in Woolies, grabbing a pack of marked down Tim Tams, and dropping them into my basket next to a box of Weat-bix, a jar of instant coffee, an iceberg, a punnet of cherry-T’s, a block of feta, a red onion, a jar of olives and two lemons. All of that so I can feel OK about the next purchase.

I’d be going through the same rigmarole even if I were buying condoms.

Exit snacks. Shiver past the cheeses, yogurts and milk. Take a turn by leaning tower of dunny roll. Transfer handles of basket into crook of my arm.

Then, newly freed hand into pocket. A tight fit. My keys scrape my knuckles. Retrieve phone and punch in password – my date of birth backwards.

If I’m getting the references in Lucile’s twitter feed right, they’re on the last or second last episode of season 3. It’s going to be close. I might be able to make it, traffic willing, and depending on how long I have to spend digging around in our collection when I drop by the apartment. (Luce’s brother’s tyke put all the discs in the wrong cases to amuse herself when we were looking after her this weekend just past). Honestly, I can take or leave the trials and tribs of Lorelai and Rory. But The Binge is a sacred rite and must not be profaned by interruption (unless it’s of the bathroom break variety).

Down the aisle. Pinks, sky blues, forest greens, warm oranges, fluffy lamb white, the occasional defiant hard-core black.

The way the girls have been talking this up, it’s the menses to end all menses. Biblical proportions. It’ll flow for forty days and forty nights. Period-fucking-zilla. So I scan for something long lasting, with lots to a pack. I see a purple that, I think, I’m pretty sure, I’ve glimpsed ‘round at Nina’s and take it.

Needless to say I self-service checkout.

I arrive at Sashimi Queen too late. All that remains are a few Pickled Horse Radish, Super Spicy Super Combo, and Deep Fried rolls (and if any of those hit the spot for you, have at ‘em). Elsewhere in the food court, the staff at the Chinese place are take-away-containering what’s left in its bain-maries and the woman behind the counter of the bakery is bagging the cheese and bacon buns, croissants, and pastries that didn’t sell. My cheap meals of choice in those halcyon Uni days. Lucile’d told us about the court while she guided us around during O-week. Nina was Nino then.

“Those jeans look really great on you,” Anika said.

I leaned back on my heels and slid my thumbs behind the waistband. The jeans had been my birthday present to myself. I’d sewn a campfire and tendrils of multi-coloured smoke on the left side pocket, and a Very Hungry Caterpillar wearing a Cat in the Hat hat on its opposite. Then I’d wrapped them up in orange crepe paper and set the package aside, to be opened in the evening when Lucile and Jay came over. “You think?”

Anika put away another glass. There was an unused dishcloth slung over her shoulder. As usual, we’d left everything to dry overnight. “OK,” she said, “now you’re just fishing.” She began to rummage around in the sink we’d used once the rack had filled up. “But yeah, they look nice, and you look scrumptious in them.”

She smiled.

I smiled back. “Alright, move over,” I said, “Gotta do my bit.” I nudged Anika with my elbow. My wrist rubbed against hers.

The drying rack was empty except for a coffee mug and two teaspoons.

“So considerate,” Anika said, “however would I cope without you?”

We both laughed.

Anika tilted her head down towards the (hardly there) gap between us. “Is this enough room?”

I craned my neck, twisted, looked where she was looking, untwisted, uncraned. Then I looked at her.

She was wearing a tie dye shirt with Wirrenglen State Primary, Class of ’14 emblazoned on the back, and below that, blockier, less ornate, Christopher Hill. For whatever reason Chris hadn’t taken the shirt home with him. At her urging (Anika’s always brimming with opinions after I tell her about my day) I’d dibsed it, and the others, and’d set to most of them with a pair of scissors. The scraps filled a small esky that lived in our supplies cupboard next to a red lunchbox containing paddle pop sticks, a blue lunchbox filled with pipe cleaners and the ziplock bags containing spangles and stick-on googly eyes. The shirt was short and baggy. My eyes came to rest on her leggings and the slight plumpness of Little Bowie. (She’d been dressed as Jareth when we’d met at a singles mixer held by the Greater Wirren LGBT Alliance.) Anika doesn’t believe in tucking.

I placed my hand over hers. I felt her knuckles and her nails with my fingertips, I felt her feel my stomach. Our fingers meshed. I took her hand and placed it under my left breast (the smaller one). She tugged at my lower lip with her teeth. We bumped and ground, I backed. Her other hand was on my arse. My legs rubbed a finger. My right breast bobbled.

We fell, quite a long way it seemed, and sprawled on our mattress (we didn’t yet have a frame). Anika unbuttoned my jeans and began to unzip. I was born at 11:47 in the evening. My first sex as a quarter centurion was, if I say so myself, pretty good.

Nina looked down at the smiley face in her cup. One eye was larger than the other. The smile was wonky. The trainee Latte Artist behind the counter wouldn’t be taking off her little yellow with a black L in the centre tag any time soon. But, as the cliché went, it was the thought, and just the pick-me-up Nina hadn’t known she’d needed.

She sipped through a spoon straw, spoon end in her mouth. Its plastic wrapper lay next to a tribal patterned cardboard cup filled with plastic knives, sporks and other spoon straws. The coffee was bitter – she’d not wanted to break up the face by adding sugar – and refreshing.

Nina’s phone vibrated half a centimetre towards the other side of the table and began its fairy chatter chime.

It was the mechanic. Her car would be ready to pick up at four.

To kill time Nina loaded up a fic. The screen of her phone couldn’t display more than a few sentences at a time. She wished she’d brought her laptop. Having to tap to continue, then tap to continue, then tap to continue, always tap, tap, tapping to continue, was frustrating. She wanted enough words in front of her to sink into. To get lost in. So much to lose herself. And then she did.

She had to stop and take a deep breath when she saw that Reese – it was strange to think of him by than name; she’d know him for such a long time, and of him even longer, by his pseudo – had written her in as a character. It was only two lines of dialog in a minor scene, and she’d been expecting it, but it was all she could do to stop herself from having a total Mike Wazowski moment.

It took her out of the story though. She reread the line before her stopping point – the polyjuice potion glooped and glopped in its cauldron in a way that gave Neville the serious heebie jeebies – then checked the time. It was “Three Fifteeeeen on the Rock-ket Clock,” as her preppies would say.

On her way out she looked for the girl who’d served her. She wasn’t behind the counter or picking up dishes from the tables. Nina thought she saw her ponytail through the circular window in the kitchen door. But when she looked again she could only see a man in a white apron bustling back and forth.

It wasn’t a long walk to where she needed to go but she dawdled. Ballard the Mechanic was polite but his discomfort showed and that made Nina uncomfortable.

The waiting room was spartan. There was no one behind the desk. Nina did not ring the little bell. She sat down and looked at the receipts stuck in a neat row on a cork board. There was a picture stuck to the board too. Claire, Ballard’s daughter, had drawn it during arts and craft time.

It’s a butterfly person. And that’s its chrysanthemalis. It’s you.

If You Were a Woman (And I was a Man): A TG Mixed Tape

On thanksgiving a trans girl prepares to come out to her family. A mysterious entity wreaks havoc on a porn set. While experimenting with each other’s sexual fantasies, a man learns more about his partner than he bargained for. These are just some of the stories on offer in this collection of short, short fiction by twelve different voices in TG Fiction. [Includes an interview with Dorothy Colleen.]

The smoke looks like fire. The embers of the capital light the base of the cloud an orange-red that flickers and flings out tendrils which dance, spasm, collapse in on themselves, and seem to leave behind them a roiling black mass that rises higher and higher and is torn at by the wind and scudded across the sky.

Towns and villages, isolated cabins and crops, burn too. The silhouettes of the barbarians caper around them.

The women on the ridge watch them as they strip the corpses. They wear short servant’s shifts. Beneath the grime and the blood their skin is pale and smooth. Their earlobes are pricked. Their legs shaved.

The Merlin kneels beside a berserker. The dead man’s eyes have been punctured – maybe in the melee, or maybe by a crow after the skirmish had ended. Their insides streak his face; globby, black, caked on tears. He wears a bear skull headdress and is tattooed all over. An arrow protrudes from his beard. The shaft and the hair around it and the teeth in the man’s open mouth are crusted with dried blood.

With his knife The Merlin cuts a piece of blue whorled flesh from the warrior’s chest.

“Maia, to me.”

Nearby a young woman is scattering dirt over a fallen imperial guardsman. She drops the clod in her hand into the man’s red mash of a face. She looks to a woman who is raking her fingers through the fur of a coat. Dark flakes stick to her hands. The sweat on her palms is tinged pink. The woman nods at her daughter.

The Merlin proffers the meat to Maia as she approaches. She takes it.

“Into your mouth.”

Maia obeys. She feels maggots crawl from hunk and over her tongue and gums.

The Merlin does not need to tell her to strip. She hands over her shift. He bunches it up and throws it away.

From the folds of his cloak the old man produces a small rectangular box. On the side that Maia can see is a circular pattern of tiny holes positioned a little more than a fingernails width apart, and a small window. Through this Maia sees something with two gear like things set into it.

A thin cord runs from the artifact. It forks. The Merlin offers Maia the two budded ends.

She looks again to her mother. She is handing the cloak to Lady Rayelle, who takes it arms that are as thick as a great ape’s and crisscrossed with scars.

Beyond them Maia’s younger brother urinates high into the air with his man’s manhood.

Lady Cassadra practices with a heavy looking battleaxe. Triss, her lady in waiting pulls on a pair of hose.

In the mountains to the west the beacons have been lit. They are small and dim. Maia looks to the brightest, which marks the fort at Orem pass. It will, she thinks, be a difficult journey, even with a body capable of making it.

If you were a woman (and I was a man)

“We have to get off the road, Billy. There are bad men coming.” Mom took my hand and I helped her down the muddy hill into the storm drain. “It’s okay, Mom, they won’t see us here.”

We moved here a week ago and right away people were rotten to us. Especially to Mom. My Dad got into some fights over it and the police came to our door a couple of times to say watch out or they’re going to lock Dad up. But he was the one who got attacked. He didn’t start anything.

“Yes, this is better. We can wait here. I told your father to come this way and look for us once he gets his truck.” Mom smoothed my hair back. She’s always fussing, making sure I wear clean clothes, my homework’s done. I like to sit with her on the sofa in the big room and let her read grown-up books out loud. We were reading Lord of the Rings like that when Mom heard them coming. I brought the book when we ran. That way, we could read some more and not be afraid.

I snuck back up to take a look; no one was coming. When Mom first came to live with us, she was different than now. She was more muscle-y, and she didn’t have a lot of clothes. But after a while she started to look like she does now. Her boobs got bigger and she lost weight. When I got older, my Dad and Mom explained that Mom had been born in the wrong body but doctors fixed her and now she was in the right body. The one she’s supposed to be in. That’s when we started reading together, between the times she was in the hospital.

A truck rolled up overhead and Dad yelled to get in. I jumped in the backseat. Mom was in and shutting the door when there were shots, lots of them, from behind us. Before Dad could pull away, Mom got out and started to run. “Go. Take Billy and go!” She ran towards them, to stop them, make them stop shooting. Dad says that Mom saved us and that she’s in heaven. Shouldn’t God apologize for his mistakefor making her life so hard? She was the best Mom ever and I miss her.

Toxis writes stories about transformation, how events change people, make them something they weren't and leave them as something else. If you like this story, you might also like "Bianca Paragon" and "Spellbound" on Fictionmania, "Race Queen" at mcstories.com, and "Everything's Good" at Bdsmlibrary.

Paul looked around the beach feeling a little disoriented from the transition. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and noticed Jill waking up on the beach towel next to him.

“Paul, is that you?”

“Yeah,” Paul looked down at the six pack abs that had replaced his beer belly and then at his bulging biceps bulged and flexed. “What do you think?”

Jill glanced at Paul and then down at her enhanced body. She ran her fingers through her hair, “You’re looking good, I always wanted to be a redhead.”

“This is the coolest thing ever!” Paul stood up and offered Jill a hand. “Should we find the others?”

“Do you think we’ll recognize them?”

“Good point. The Doctor said to change our avatars. Why don’t we just explore the resort? If we bump into anyone we recognize, great, if not . . . well . . . we’re supposed to be checking this place out looking for flaws?”

Jill slipped her arm around Paul’s waist, “There’s a bar up by the pool.”

Paul finished his third beer when a loud siren split the air and everything froze up.

“What’s going on?”

“I think it’s an emergency shutdown.” Paul said.

Then everything went bright white and they lost consciousness.

Paul blinked, his eyes felt heavy and his head hurt. He lifted a hand up to rub his eyes and felt the VR helmet.

“Here let me help you with that,” a woman said. A pair of hands push his away and removed the helmet. Paul blinked in the bright lab light.

“How are you feeling, honey?”

Paul tried to sit up but his body felt odd, off, like either his chest was heavier or his stomach wasn’t as strong.

“My head is killing me!”

Shocked at the sound of his voice Paul lifted a hand to his mouth and felt soft lips and a delicate chin that didn’t belong. This time when he tried to sit up his adrenalin fueled muscles made it easy, despite the shifting orbs on his chest. Then he spotted his body sitting up in the VR booth next to him.

“Jill?”

“Paul? Why do you look like me?”

“It’ll be okay,” the man who’d been helping Jill said. “There was a problem with programing, something to do with identity tags, that’s why we ended the test. I’m sure we’ll get you sorted out once the program is fixed.”

“How long will that take,” Paul asked from Jill’s body.

“Normally, just a week or two, dear.” the woman responded.

The doctor looked over at the technician and then out at the eight VR booths and the unconscious volunteers. “How are they doing?”

“There was a spike in brain activity a couple of minutes ago, but things are settling down now.”

“Good, this was set up for twelve hours of real time, what’s the VR ratio?”

“Two hundred to one.”

“Excellent,” the doctor said, thinking about the paper he’d write.

Zapper started writing in December 2011 and has contributed a number of short and long stories to various websites, including Fictionmania and Big Closet Top Shelf. A few of his TG stories include: The Security Consultant Trilogy ("The Security Consultant," "The Consultant and the Mask," and "The Consultant and the Hounds of Heaven") the Bounty Hunters Trilogy ("Bounty Hunters," Bounty Hunters II: "Family Reunion," Bounty Hunters III: "Silas Revenge") "Conan and the Blade of Costa" and his first story, "A Favor for Anna."

“That was fun, yesterday,” Gina said. “I never knew you had a doctor fantasy, and you looked really cute in those nursing scrubs, but today it’s my turn.”

If only you knew why I wanted to be the nurse, I thought as she left the room.

I waited on the edge of the bed, wondering what she had planned for me. She finally came back holding a really pretty dress, but it didn’t look like her size.

“I’ve never seen that before. Does it fit you?” I asked.

She smiled at me playfully. “No, silly, this is for you!”

“What!?” I exclaimed. My heart stopped. “No! I can’t, Gina!” But secretly I wanted it. I was fascinated by it. Still, I had to protect my dignity.

“There’s no backing out on Fantasy Weekend. Besides, I did yours.”

I knew she was going to get her way. She always did, and besides, I wanted it, too. I just couldn’t let her know, or I’d never hear the end of it.

My pretense didn’t last long, however, and she smiled knowingly when she looked between my legs. I could only blush.

She began by shaving and washing the hair from me and dyed my nails and feet. After she got the dress on me, she painted my face with her makeup. Then she put a blonde wig on me.

“How do I look?” I asked nervously. I didn’t think I could look pretty, but I was hoping she liked me anyway.

But when she just stared at me for several seconds, I began to worry. Did I look so horrible?

“Oh, my God,” she said at last. “You’re beautiful. You look just like her.”

She took me in a tight, tight hug, and sobbed onto my shoulder for a long time. I thought she might never let go. I didn’t know what to think, so I just sat there, lost. Finally, she pulled back and wiped her tears.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite expect this. I guess I have to explain.”

I nodded.

“Before I met you, I was in love with my soul mate, but a few years ago, she was taken from me by a drunk driver. I just knew I’d never love anyone like that again, but then I met you, and well… you reminded me of her in so many ways. And now...”

She broke down and hugged me again.

“I never knew. I’m sorry,” I told her, unsure what else to say.

“Will you keep doing this for me? Please?” she asked. “I really love you, but I miss her so much.”

“I love you, too,” I said for the first time, and I knew I meant it. I would do anything for her.

“Will you be my Christina for me?”

“Yes, I will.”

Kara Ryker is a science fiction and fantasy writer who began writing TG fiction in 2013. She attempts to combine strong character development with science fiction elements and sometimes controversial themes. Many of her stories lead to conclusions that are not apparent from their beginnings. The completed “CyberRealms: Into the Underworld” story is now available. Her other works include Cassia, short stories, and the ongoing epic series, the Archon Saga. All of her TG fiction can be found on TGStorytime and BigCloset.

It spun in the air as it sped towards me, little green plastic disk that it was. The approach was faster and lower than I was expecting, but practice had born instinct and I snapped it out of the air between my ankles.

"A little low there, hey?" I waved the frisbee at Eric before swinging my hand back and launching it at his position at the foot of my hill. He jumped to grab it, but only managed to knock it with his fingers.

"Or maybe you're a little high," he stooped to pick the frisbee up from the grass. "Get back down here, that hill's too steep."

Reluctantly, I trudged forward as Eric stepped back, one heavy foot planting in front of the other, depressing dirt and grass with each step. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, jingle. I stopped about halfway down the hill. It had come early.

"What are you doing," Eric called at me, "get down here!"

"I... can't."

"What do you mean, you can't? I'm not throwing the frisbee until you're somewhere flat."

I took a breath, and then I took a step forward. Jangle. I looked down at my feet. Yep. Bells on my shoes. Both of them. I gingerly stepped the rest of the way down, hoping not to make any more noise or draw any attention to my feet, but every step produced a sound I wished it hadn't. I got to the base of the hill and made another assessment. Bright red slippers. Bright red slippers with bells.

"Finally!" I jerked my head up to see the frisbee sailing straight for my chest. That instinct took over again, and I grabbed it just at the last moment. Trinkiti-trinkiti. I had caught a tambourine. White lambskin stretched across a wooden frame with metal jingles in the sides. And my sleeves, I notied, were a flowing red velvet that came down to my wrists. It was spreading more quickly than usual. I resigned myself to being screwed as my arms moved of their own accord, shaking and hitting the tambourine in rhythm.

I already knew what was coming, but instinct still had me at least try to get out of the field. Instead of walking, however, my feet began tapping at the ground, knees gracefully kicking out the bright skirt I now wore, a bell ringing at every step.

"Max! Are you okay?" Eric's urgent whisper notified me that he had come over while I was distracted by my own dance.

Amber locks fell around my face, now the only thing out of place on a body that wanted nothing more than to sing and dance. I could feel the pressure building. Soon even my mind would be lost to it. Squeezing my eyes, pursing my lips, using the last bit of me left before I gave over full control of my body, I extruded my last words to Eric: "It's my minstrel cycle."

Lyodor Tolstoyevski is man of honor. Lyodor writes many short stories, and sometimes long stories too. Short pieces of Lyodor's include "Take Me Home," "Breadwinner," and "The Witch of Wallonia." Long pieces include "Allegra" and upcoming ebook for which all should keep eye out at Amazon Marketplace: "Inside the Girls' Room." Do not be hesitating to read all works of Lyodor Tolstoyevski!

Why do people use the holidays for every uber-emotional drama queen moment?

Who knows?

There's one thing I do know about holiday confessions. Your particular trauma better not be the last one on the list, because that's all people are gonna remember. Big bro could announce he’s joining a cult and changing his name to Baba Ganoosh, and it STILL wouldn't inspire the same reaction as the poor schmuck last in line.

Care to guess who that is this year?

And boy, have I got a doozy.

I'm a girl. Problem is, nobody else got the memo. Not the doctor who wrote "boy" on my birth certificate, not my school, and certainly not my family. They still think "big hair" is in style, so this is as far outside their orbit as the Hubble telescope.

Maybe they'll be too full of turkey to yell.

Score! Cousin Sam just dumped gravy in my sister Zoe's lap. The perfect distraction while I compose my speech.

"So, Taylor, what are you thankful for?" my mother asked.

Oh, that lame tradition. Thanks, Ma--just the opening I needed.

"I..I…”

"PASS, you bastard!" yelled Pop in between bites of drumstick, neck craning toward the large-screen TV in the living room. "Goddamn offense fell asleep out there."

"Stanley, quit yelling at the television, you're going to choke to death!" yelled Ma, at a decibel level guaranteed to dissolve the wax in my ears. "Our son has something to say...."

“Now? The Jets are in double overtime!”

“Stanley,” Ma said in her “I’ll rip out your nose hairs!” tone of voice.

“OK already,” Pop half-whined. “So talk.”

Relieved that I had at least two pairs of eyes looking in my direction, I began again. “I'm thankful…well, you always let me be me, y'know? And speaking of that….”

"Ewww, baby Max just crapped his pants! Gross!" Zoe had both hands clasped over her nose, should any stray diaper fumes reach her innocent nostrils.

"Don't say 'crap', and don't interrupt," said Ma, giving Zoe “the look.” “Go on, Taylor.”

“Well—“

“Greetings, parental units! Did I miss the pie?” said big brother Dave, late as usual. “Whoa, chocolate!” He scooped half of it, bare-handed.

Frustrated, I slammed my head down onto my plate, getting mashed potatoes up my nose.

That did it.

I sprang to my feet, waving a butter knife, daring anyone to interrupt.“I’m a GIRL, damn it!” I screamed, surprising even me. “You can’t stop me!”

Silence.

“We know,” said Ma.

“Duh, you play with my Barbie more’n me!” Zoe added, earning her another look from Ma.

“This is news?” said Pop. “Hey Dave, what’s the score?”

“Your counselor spoke with us last week. Your new school uniform’s on your bed,” Ma said, stirring her coffee. “You start Monday.”

“What? No yelling, no argument?”

“Would you prefer I grounded you?” said Ma.

“Yes…no…oh, I give up!” I stomped from the room, slamming my bedroom door.

Leave it to my family to ruin my moment . They’re diabolical.

Rachel has been around longer than you might think, publishing her first story (the SRU tale “A Box Full of Dreams” as far back as 1999.

Rachel has this to say about her writing: "My TG fiction protagonists are young, usually child to early teen range, because they represent the child I wish I could have been--one who could freely live as her true gender at a very young age. Many are also disabled as well, a subject area not usually covered in TG fiction. I do this because I myself am disabled, having had cerebral palsy from birth, and I take the adage "Write what you know" to heart."

“Alright everyone, for this scene Michael is a pizza delivery man, and you Sahara don’t have any money. Make it look real. Make it look sexy. David I want to see tits, ass, pussy, and a big dick, don’t disappoint me,” Harry told the actors and cameraman. “Action!”

The actors were experienced if not well known. They were able to get through their few lines without any difficulty, then started to strip each other, moaning dramatically for the camera as they sucked, grabbed and licked each other. Harry muttered directions, telling Sahara to go down more, Michael to push her hair out of the way and grab her head, all fairly common stuff. David circled them getting the best shots, with only a nod or a gesture from Harry.

Sahara, completely naked except for her hoop earrings, got onto her back on the wide leather couch, spreading her legs and pussy wide. Michael took his time, building up for the big moment.

Then things got weird.

A woman, who didn’t look entirely human appeared. “Power has been granted to you both. But your forms are not correct. You shall be reborn today Dazzle and Squirm.” She touched the two actors and vanished in a flash of light.

Harry watched as Michael’s chest expanded forming the most perfect pair of breasts he’d ever seen. His body shrank, the hips widening, his dick disappeared, he developed a firm bubble butt you could bounce a quarter off of. Long rainbow hair covered his shoulders and back, his nails grew, shining like jewels in the light.

Sahara was changing as well. Growing larger, developing perfectly defined muscles even as her chest shrank down and her waist became larger. A dick slipped out of her pussy, her lips disappeared as two balls appeared. It was the longest dick Harry had ever seen. Stubble appeared on her crotch and her chin.

It was over in less than a minute, but he’d never forget it.

Michael began playing with her new tits in wonder. Sahara looked at his new penis waving in the breeze, he smiled and tentacles rose from his crotch, each one ending in a perfectly smooth and rounded head that leaked a white fluid. They circled Michael.

“Uh, Harry!” the Michael said in a squeaky voice. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with thi- oooohhhh!”

The tentacles massaged Michaels’ nipples and pussy, and she was loving it. The man who had been Sahara grinned like an idiot as he somehow made more tentacles, all of which headed for his partners mouth and ass. Michael began to glow like a psychedelic rainbow while she gasped and arched her back as she was penetrated.

David was staring at the scene in disbelief, his camera at his side. Harry hit him. “You idiot! Get this on tape. We’ll be millionaires as soon as the Japanese see this!”

Harry didn’t bother giving anymore instructions, his two newest stars were doing very well on their own.

A_Kent is a professional writer, who has recently begun writing TG stories. He has several stories posted on TG Storytime ranging from the horror story "Virtual Girl, Virtual Nightmare", the YA fantasy "The Kings Sword", to a slightly futuristic slice of life "Switched". As well as the Kindle short story "Dating Amanda" on Amazon.

Lights, Camera, Tentacles is set in the Brave New World superhero universe originally created by Hikaro, and later expanded upon by A_Kent and several other authors. You can find the original story at http://www.tgstorytime.com/viewstory.php?sid=1736, and the entire series here http://www.tgstorytime.com/viewseries.php?seriesid=124

A_Kent has written several other stories, including an original superhero story Far From Home: http://www.tgstorytime.com/viewstory.php?sid=2201

Hugh tickled the dog’s stomach as he waited for Nino (Correction, Nina. It was Nina now). Cousin was Nina’s pooch. But Weston House, her digs, was No Pets. And the family home was, for the moment, a no go zone.

They (Hugh, Cousin) were on the floor, Hugh with his back to the couch. As a toddler he’d liked to press his face between the cushions. As a teen he and Nina’d slouched and gamed. And fumbled. Occasionally fucked. A pedestal fan also donated by his folks faced a wire clothes horse. Shorts and boxers swayed in its breeze, as did the Simon and Marcy graphic tee that he and Nina shared (he’d had it for the last two weeks). A canister of Estradiol that Nina had left behind last time she’d been around sat on top of the coffee table, to remind him, and to remind her that she had to take it with her along with the shirt.

A toilet flushed. A shower pitter-pattered on.

“You know piss is sterile, right?” Hugh called out.

“Ewww,” Nina called back, “Eww, Eww, Eww, Ick and gross.” She laughed.

“Do you want me to come in with you?”

“No. I’ll be quick.”

When she emerged from the bathroom her skin was flushed and her hair was sticking together and glossy. She was warm to touch. She wore black underpants and was topless. Her breasts were small, a little on the mooby side, but a little less than they had been.

Hugh stopped patting Cousin which caused the dog to get stroppy. As he and Nina cuddle-walked to the bedroom he head-butted their legs and weaved with intent to trip.

She kept her undies on. Hugh played with her genitals through them. Stroking, and with his fingertips. He traced the outline of her penis, the underbuldge of her balls. Her teeth let go of his lower lip. Her face withdrew. She took his hand and showed him what she wanted.

“Like this?”

“Yes.”

He felt the tip of her nose against his skin, her tongue with his. A hand on his cheek, guiding his face away and to a nipple. A finger in his mouth, coaxing it open, slipping out, slipping something in. He felt another hand massaging his wrist, tightening when she began to grow hard (stop!), slackening when she did (keep going!), so that when she came, she came flaccid.

She was just starting his handjob when there was a series of hacking croak-coughs from the lounge. His limp dick flopped from her hand as he leapt out of bed. Her feet hit the floor seconds after his.

The pill canister was on the floor, lidless, lying in a puddle of vomit; all watery ooze and sogged kibble.

Nina drove them to the vet. Hugh sat in the passenger seat with Cousin on his lap, scratching the dog’s belly. As his fingers brushed over the emptiness where Cousin’s testicles used to be he began to laugh.

PersnicketyBitch is the creator of the Mixed Tape Anthologies. She is Australian, but don't hold that against her. If you do she will sic her pet drop bear on you.

I was a young scribe at the time in which the peace talks were being held. King Berdius, Ravan’s father, worn and tired from many years of war was eager to bring it to an end, but the righteous King Roland and son Magnus were angry over of the atrocities committed against their people and would make no concessions.

It was my opinion that the peace talks would break down as they always did and the long pointless feud between Gaman and Desperia would once again commence and lead us all to ruin, but then something remarkable happened. Prince Ravan collapsed to the ground, his body shifting and turning. As he slowly stripped the armor away from his body we watched his carefully sculpted biceps fade and wither away like leaves falling from a tree on an autumn afternoon.

It was not immediately apparent what was transpiring, but when the young prince ripped the shirt away from his chest to reveal the pair of budding breasts growing out from it, no one could have any doubt. To this day I have not seen a man show such terror as the Ravan did on his face nor have I entered a room that was so silent. We all watched the prince’s transformation in rapt fascination. In just a few moments, it was over, the young prince once all hard edges and angles became soft and voluptuous, the perfect image of feminine beauty.

No one could understand the cause, for none of us had ever witnessed the like before, but fortunately, or unfortunately, whatever the case may have been, it was the new Princess Ravan who provided the answer. She climbed to her feet, her breasts displayed proudly for all of us to see and began to speak in a melodic voice.

My mind has grown old and feeble in my advanced years and I cannot remember her exact choice of words, but she did explain to us that her transformation was, in fact, the work of the Goddess Tirsha. It was her will that Ravan and the illustrious Prince Magnus be married as equals in order to unite the two realms as one nation. It was the only way to end the war once and for all.

Naturally, this was debated to no end, but eventually it was agreed that Ravan’s change was an act of divinity and the new Princess Ravan and Magnus were married. After all who could argue with the will of a goddess? It was only years later that we understood the full truth of what had transpired that day, but by then it was too late and Ravan was already queen.

—An excerpt from the History of the Phinyl Realm by Evgard of the Silver Scroll

Daniela A. Wolfe is a fan of science-fiction and fantasy who brings her love of the genres to TG fiction. She is the author of "Facades" and the "Ragnarok Rising Trilogy" ("Incompatible: Birth of a Spellbinder", "Transfigured: Ascension of a Spellbinder" and "Destiny: Legacy of a Spellbinder"). She has contributed to several shared universes including Enemyoffun's DarkRealms Universe ("Hunger Pangs") and Morpheus' Twisted Universe ("Virtually Twisted").

“I call you forth! Lord Satan, lend me your power!”

The teen double checked his sigils, make sure that his circle of power was unbroken, and that the pentagram was complete. He then made a single cut on his arm, and bled into a chalice in the center of the pentagram. When the chalice was full, he wrapped his arm in the gauze he had set aside for just that purpose.

He tipped the chalice over and the blood immediately ignited, burning up in a plume of maroon flame. When the smoke cleared, there was a man in a tailored black suit with crimson trim. It had those tacky tails that you see every now and then. “Might I persuade you to re-evaluate your life choices? Making these deals takes a long time, and I have other duties to attend to.”

The young man was taken aback, “D-don't you want my soul? I thought that's what the ruler of hell wanted.”

“Not particularly, I'll get it anyway when you die. How about this, you specify the terms, I agree to them, and pick my price afterwards? I won't take your soul. On my, admittedly questionable, honor.” Satan made a claw over his heart with his right hand.

“Fine. I want the love of the girl of my dreams.” The boy truly had no idea what he was getting into. Of course, he had read the stories about making deals with the devil, but those were just stories. He didn’t need to worry about them. They didn’t apply, however great the similarities were.

The man pulled an iPad out of his jacket pocket and tapped the screen a few times. “It's done. You need to break the circle for the spell to take effect. I'll leave before you do it. I have other things to do, and you won't break it until I leave anyways.”

Satan snapped his fingers and disappeared in a cloud of black smoke, leaving a single red rose behind. Affixed to it was a note. The boy reached for the rose, breaking the circle in the process. As soon as his hand crossed the plane, the rose turned into black smoke and enveloped the boy, leaving the note behind.

When the smoke cleared, the boy was gone, and in his place was a teen girl in a cute dress. Satan had taken the boy's maleness, and as he couldn’t just leave behind nothing, he left femaleness. The former-boy screamed.

A girl ran into the room and froze. “Oh my god! Johnny what did you do!?”

The note read, in a flowing, feminine script: “Enjoy your new life. Best wishes, Satan”

StephAD writes primarily urban fantasy and sci-fi stories. She has two stories on TGStorytime: Swarm Rising: A Brave New World Spin Off, and Henrietta: Ruler of the Underworld. She has an urban fantasy story planned, and a few sci-fi ideas floating around, none of which are getting published anytime soon.

I spent a couple of days phoning the families. Since the “kids” we had profiled ten years ago were now adults, in many cases I ended up having to call them separately.

Eventually I got four who were willing to consent to an interview.

And one Maybe. Rather than giving me the kid’s number, his parents said they would pass on my number to their child, and it would be up to them if they contacted me or not.

I shrugged, and co-ordinated with some of my co-workers for interviewing the four who had consented.

Then I got a phone call, and a woman on the phone asked me if I was still interested in hearing from James Parker, the number five kid on our list.

I said “sure”, and the person on the phone said they were willing to meet me at a restaurant here in town.

“You’re ... James Parker?”

“I go by Joanne these days.”

“I ... see.”

“But you’re out now.”

“Yes, but that’s not the same as having my picture in your magazine. Yes, my college administration knows, as do my family, but I am not sure about having it splashed everywhere and read by everybody.”

“How about I make you a deal. You tell me your story, and before I run it, I’ll let you edit it, and if you’re not comfortable with the result, it won’t run.”

“Fine.”

I took notes as she talked. It was obviously very emotional for her, but she gave me everything I could need to share her story in the best light possible, which is what I tried to do.

I got my editor on-board, and Joanne approved the article when it was finished, and we waited to see what would happen to her once September’s issue hit the shelves.

I was blown away by the response.

A lot of people who took the time to say that they admired her, and there were even some other trans people sharing their own stories as well.

Sadly, there were some extremely negative responses as well, especially on the online version of the article.

There was everything from people trying to psychoanalyze her and saying it was the loss of her father that caused her to want to be a girl, to disgusting messages about having sex with her, to people saying she was going to Hell “for her sin”, to, oddly enough, messages from supposed feminists saying a trans girl “represents a larger threat of rape than even a regular man.”

I kept in contact with Joanne, and although it was clear that some of the stuff bothered her, I was impressed with her resolve.

Eventually, the firestorm died down, Joanne went back to a quiet life as a student, and I was left with a lot to think about.

Dorothy is the author of over 150 stories, poems and autobiographical works including "Rock Star Makeover" which can be found at Fictionmania and Big Closet, "Fearfully and Wonderfully Made: A Memoir" which can be found at Big Closet and the novel "Quest for the Silver Cleric" which can be brought on Amazon.

Dawn Keeley toyed with the teaspoon in her coffee. She played with the diamond ring on her left hand, watching it sparkle. She adjusted the collar on her coat. It was too cold to be sitting outside here, in the chilly Parisian Autumn morning. The waitress had looked at Dawn as if she was crazy when she had sat outside the cafe. Maybe the waitress looked at all English people as if they were crazy though.

The Paris trip had been Dawn's idea - a romantic getaway to mark the first anniversary of their meeting. Dawn glanced at her watch again. Where was Richard?

A shadow fell across the table and Dawn looked up. "Oh, it's you."

"Yes, me I'm afraid," said the elderly gentleman. He perched on the chair opposite Dawn. "I do hope you didn't expect that this little trip would allow you to escape me. The.. ah... cross is a nice touch," he added, as he waved his hand at Dawn's neck. "Completely useless of course."

Mr Hooke - that was the name he gave Dawn a year ago - bared his teeth at Dawn. It wasn't a smile. "I don't want this anymore," said Dawn, her expression sour.

"Yes, quite," muttered Mr Hooke. "Well be that as it may, a deal was struck Miss Keeley, a compact reached. And now payment falls due."

"I didn't..." screeched Dawn. She stopped herself. Her nails bit into her palms as she continued quietly. "I didn't understand."

"Well the terms were all laid out quite clearly on the contract," frowned Mr Hooke. "If I may surmise: The first party - that is, to say, myself - shall supply to the second party." Hooke paused and raised one skeletal finger, pointing it at Dawn. "The identity of one Dawn Keeley, beautiful and high powered lawyer. An identity, I may add, perfectly crafted to capture the heart of one Richard Armitage, investment banker. Is this not what you wanted Miss Keeley." Mr Hooke's lips curled in amusement. "Is this not what happened? Perhaps you should have read the small print better?"

Dawn said nothing. It was all true.

"I do hate to use the term 'soul'," said Mr Hooke as he stood up. "But there is no more apt term for the payment that must now be extracted." Mr Hooke place the palm of his hand on Dawn's unresisting forehead.

One Dawn Keeley vanished.

Another Dawn Keeley sat down. If any of the passers-by had noticed Mr Hooke's sudden disappearance, or Dawn's equally sudden move from one chair to another, none of them acted upon it. "A most regrettable occurrence," she said to no one in particular before reprimanding herself for using the old man's speech patterns. She was Dawn now and Dawn talked differently.

A little while later Richard Armitage sat down opposite Dawn. Wealthy, influential, Richard. "Hiya Sweetie," Dawn said.

He had been Mr Hooke's real target all along.

Imaj mostly writes interactive fiction arcs for Seuzz's The Book of Masks universe on writing.com, of which this short story is a part of. You can read more about The Book of Masks here and here.

I was vaguely aware that I was naked. The creature looked at me with the most disturbing eyes I'd ever seen, then repeated, "Tell us what you don't like about yourself." I rubbed at my arm and felt my skin falling off, quickly replaced by fresh, more tan skin. I looked at the creature, who told me, "You have chosen your complexion. It shall be adjusted."

"But I didn't say anything!"

"You have also chosen your voice. It shall be adjusted."

"Stop this!" I clamped a hand over my mouth. What came out was not my voice.

"It cannot stop."

The flaking skin reached my crotch. I scratched at my balls. "I didn't want this!" I shouted back at the creature. It nodded.

"They shall be removed, then."

It took me a second to realize what it meant. My cock and balls dissolved. It took less than a second, and I barely felt it, but as soon as they were gone, their absence felt horrifying enough that I would rather have had pain. The slit that replaced them looked as sweet as any I'd seen on a real woman, only it was on me.

"Why'd you do that?" I asked.

"You asked for it to be removed."

"No I didn't!"

"The change cannot be undone. You shall be adjusted accordingly to your species."

My chest started pushing outward, centered beneath my nipples. The breasts grew, and once they were finished, I felt their weight for the first time. I cupped one in my hand and felt the soft, feminine flesh.

"You have chosen your chest. It shall be adjusted."

My eyes widened in horror. My feeling myself made that thing think I wanted bigger breasts!

Unfortunately, the other changes to my body to make it feminine hadn't stopped. I didn't know when my hips had widened, nor did I realize it when my ass had grown. My waist shrank. My hair lengthened. When my feminizing was done, the creature put a mirror in front of me and I saw my new female self. I hadn't been an unattractive man, but as a woman I'd send people walking into walls.

"Now, you shall be adjusted to fit your new role."

"What?!"

Almost like a DVD chapter menu, my life appeared in boxes. One by one, I saw things replaced. The doctor told my mother she'd had a girl, that summer I'd broken my arm now had me with pigtails, I wore a blue bikini to the family reunion we spent at the beach, instead of sharing my first kiss with Sally Rogers, it was now Derek King.

Worse yet was the fact that my own mental pictures of them changed accordingly. My own past was being erased and replaced, and I could just barely tell. By the end, the only thing I remembered of my male life was that it had existed, and even that was fading fast.

"Now, you shall be returned," the creature said. After that was a bright light...

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.

Subject: Dorothy Colleen

Duration: 00.25.59

Date: 20/11/2014

00.08.03 - 00.20.32

For anyone who hasn't read your work, can you talk a little bit about the type of stories your write?

I don't really write any one "type" of story. I've written sci-fi, fantasy, real life, and autobiographical stories. I just go wherever my muse takes me. Either that, or I might be crazy (giggles)

What's the most useful piece of writing advice you've ever received?

Someone told me that the key to writing was to just keep writing. Write every day, never quit. And read. The more stories you read, the more lessons you can learn about writing. I only wish I could remember who it was who said that. (giggles)

What books have influenced you the most as a writer?

I grew up on Issac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, C.S. Lewis, and J.R.R. Tolkien. Of those four, I think Bradbury have the most influence on my writing. A lot of my stories seem to take place in the kind of small towns Bradbury liked to write about.

As for books I've read recently, I really like "The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever" Its the story of a writer who contracts leprosy, loses his family, is rejected by his town, and then suddenly finds himself travelling to another universe called "the Land" where magic works, and he is the reincarnation of their greatest hero, arriving at their darkest hour. He doesnt accept it, and calls himself "the unbeliever" and fights against his supposed destiny until he finds himself caring about the Land and its people. I've read it before, and some of the ideas in the story found their way into my story "Quest for the Silver Cleric".

You've written over 200 stories, what are your favorites?

My favorite stories? Gee, that's a little like asking which kid you like best. (Giggles). But "The Lucky One" was fun to do, I tried to make it as silly as I possibly could. "Rock Star Makeover" is my most popular story, so I'm pretty happy about how that turned out. I probably worked hardest on the "Vision Spring" stories, even if the last one didn't turn out as well as I would have hoped. "6:45" is the most personal story I've written that's not strictly autobiographical. The story is about a student who after a day of bullying, wishes everyone would go away. He wakes up to discover his wish has come true, and then he has to figure out why, and what makes him act the way he does. It actually surprised me how much of me slipped into that one. I honestly didn't even realize it until I saw a comment on the first chapter that described the character as "consumed by stress". I re-read the chapter, and had to agree, and also saw that you could have used that description for me at that age. Between my gender issues and my PTSD, I guess I had reasons to be stressed. (Giggles)

You've transitioned since you've started posting stories. How do you think the experience has changed you as a writer, and more importantly, as a person?

I discovered I was Trans… well, I knew something was strange when in elementary I couldn't figure out why they made me go to the boy side of the schoolyard. I fought against it, especially after my rape, and I only got more desperate after I became a Christian. It took me trying every possible way I could think of to "man up" before I surrendered to the possibility that I might actually be a girl. I'm stubborn like that. (giggles)

I started transitioning about 2 1/2 years ago when I first went out in public in a skirt, and discovered to my surprise nobody noticed. Since then, I came out to my family, found a job, started on hormones, and tried to work on my other issues. I have a consult for getting SRS coming up in March of next year, and so if they say yes, I could be having the surgery by this time next year, although I consider my odds of being accepted to be less than 50-50. Regardless, within two years, I hope to be as done as its possible for me to be.

I sometimes worry I won’t be able to write as much now that I am in transition. A lot of my early stories came out of the pain and confusion I was dealing with. With me having at least made a beginning on dealing with both issues, I worry I'll lose my creativity. Art often comes out of pain, they say. But so far, I've continued to produce stories, and my latest works seem to be just as well liked as my early stuff ... As for me as a person, I find transitioning to be a mixed experience. I am much more relaxed, but in some ways I am more vulnerable - without the male mask, I am more exposed …

What was the most unexpected part of transitioning?

The most unexpected part of transitioning has been how ... easy it has been. I assumed I would never be able to pass, never be able to find a job, never be accepted by my family. As it turned out, I was wrong on all counts. People have been incredibly generous and patient with me, I am very grateful for it.

You're religious. Can you talk about what role faith plays in your work and your life?

In my stories a lot of my characters end up being at least nominally Christian, although I try and avoid "preaching' in my writing. That said, I've written stories that take place in Heaven or Hell, so I guess my faith does seep in there sometimes (giggles).

In my personal life, my church runs something called an Affirm Committee, and I’m really involved with that. It’s not so much a support group as an attempt to make sure groups who are often made to feel unwelcome at church feel welcome. They've done lectures of racism, on the horrible treatment of aboriginal Canadians, and one on the odd tolerance of lesbians in Germany between World War One and World War Two.

My faith kinda fills two holes for me. - One is a need to believe I matter, that I have value greater than the status of "toy" that my rapist placed on me. The other hole is a need for justice - that just because he never went to jail for what he did to me doesn't mean he got away with it.

Aside for my faith another thing that has helped me a lot was going to the rape crisis center and taking counseling. Over the course of 24 sessions, I managed to learn a lot about how to process what happened to me. Its not "done" yet, I still have bad times, but I feel like I am moving in a positive direction.

What would you say to someone who is where you were five years ago?

If I could say something to someone who was where I was, I'd tell them to get help. And if the first place you look doesn't work, find another. And give yourself a break. Nobody asks for this condition, so try to be kind to yourself. And you never know, if you try, you might succeed in ways you never even imagined you could. And if they were really like me, they'd probably not believe me. (giggles)

Trans Issues

http://www.advocate.com/commentary/2014/11/20/year-trans-voices

The advocate is one of the big deal LGBT publications. You should be checking in on it from time to time, if you aren’t already. Here’s a list of Op-Ed’s about transgender issues that they’ve published this year.

Writing

http://www.quickanddirtytips.com/education/grammar/grammar-girls-editing-checklist

You probably know about Grammar Girl since she’s always, always one of the top results when you Google anything related to the subject. The number of episodes is overwhelming and it’s hard to know where to start if you want to learn from the show in a structured and comprehensive way. This list of episodes won’t change that, but it’ll provide a good foundation for further excursions into the hyperlink labyrinth that is her site.

Sex/Sexuality

http://www.ohjoysextoy.com/category/comic/

A fantastic edutaining erotic webcomic. Here’s an example of the sort of content you can find on the site:
http://www.ohjoysextoy.com/eroticcomics/

Just for laughs

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5bEOOAdX-o

Fiction

Doctor Who recently switched the gender of one of its iconic villains, PersnicketyBitch and DAW weigh in.

Q: First up, what do think of the new Doctor so far?

PersnicketyBitch: I really like him. Doctor Who works well when the Good Doctor is at odds with the universe (or multiverse, or whatever) he inhabits. I feel the production team forgot this during Matt Smith’s run where the supporting cast, and the settings, and the genre pastiche’s the Doctor’s Time and Relative Dimension in Storytelling dropped him into would frequently feel like extensions of Eleven’s quirks, manic personality, and wackier flights of fancy. It’s great to have a Doctor who doesn’t fit in with his surroundings again.

DAW: I’m not quite sold on the new doctor. Most of the episodes he’s done have been fairly enjoyable and I think Capaldi is a fine actor, but there just hasn’t been a defining moment that really resonated with me yet. I actually enjoyed Smith’s goofy sense of humor, but I think you’re right the doctor does need to be at odds with the universe. There were times where eleven really frustrated me. So far, Tennet has been my favorite he had the funny parts, but he could turn deadly serious in flash and there were a few places where he could be downright scary.

Q: And his nemesis, what’s your take on the new female version of the Master?

PersnicketyBitch: I’m disappointed that they’ve gone the flamboyant route again. The Master has gotten a lot of hype in the show over the years, but whenever he shows up he’s usually written as a bit of a pantomime villain. It’d be great to get a story featuring a “No Fucking Around, Stone Cold EVIL” Master like the version that showed up for five minutes before regenerating into John Simm’s incarnation of the character. But if we have to have another flamboyant take on the character, I can’t think of anyone who’d be able to do it better than Michelle Gomez. The scene where she floats down from the sky holding an umbrella like a demented Mary Poppins was inspired stuff. As was her “Beep Boop, I am a robot” bit.

DAW: There is a time and place for flamboyancy, and really it does seem to be pretty rampant in the show as a whole, but it would be interesting to explore a stone cold killer type of Master. I’d would have liked to have seen a femme fatale who could pull all the doctor’s strings and make him think they were on the same side then stab him in the back when he least expected it. That being said Michele Gomez was fantastic, she was kooky, eccentric, creepy and in a few spots she got a good laugh out of me.

Q: It definitely throws the door right open for a female Doctor? Are you in favour?

PersnicketyBitch: It sure is, and yes I’m all for it as long as the Doctor isn’t written as a River Song alike. Just… no.

I think it’d be interesting to cast a Tilda Swinton type. Someone who does otherworldly and ethereal well. Go with a fairy queen version of the character.

DAW: You know I can’t decide what I think of a female doctor, but they certainly seem to be headed that way, don’t they? I keep racking my brain trying to think of some woman who might fill the role and honestly Tilda Swinton could certainly offer an interesting interpretation of the character, but I always end up coming to the same conclusion. If they cast a woman to fill those shoes I want someone who’s relatively unknown.

Q: What do you want to see from the show in the future?

PersnicketyBitch: I’d like to see celebrity guest writers become a fixture. It was something that almost started during the Smith era. Richard Curtis (Blackadder, Love Actually) did an episode. Neil Gaiman (Sandman, American Gods) did a couple. The show has been around for over 50 years. It has influenced generations of storytellers. There’d be plenty of major talents who’d jump at a chance to dabble in the whoniverse.

DAW: The one thing which I’ve really liked about Capaldi (especially in the final episode of this latest season erhm excuse me “series”) is that the doctor really seems to be towing the moral line. How far will he go to do the “right thing”, to keep the baddies from doing innocents harm or to protect his companion(s)? How far can he go before the things he’s done are no longer justifiable? I’d like to see that further explored.

Afterword

This is the last Mixed Tape for 2014. I hope that you enjoyed reading these collections as much as I and my fellow contributors enjoyed putting them together. I hope that you found a story that turned you on. A story that made you laugh. A story that made you squirm. A story that made you think. I hope that they introduced you an author, or several authors who have since become favourites. I really, really hope you’ll take the time to leave a review (Hint!).

The Mixed Tapes will return in January 2015. Keep an eye out for a more detailed announcement closer to the date.

If there’s anything you’d like to see added to or changed about these collections, speak now.

Until next time.

Cheers

PersnicketyBitch

And because it seems appropriate, given the conceit of these collections, here’s a playlist of all the songs that have been referenced in the Tapes so far: http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLfnx3RRZ6o_uqJVuOHNrq5_kwsojD24uk

Enjoy.

In a world almost but not quite like our own where bodies change on a monthly basis, a young woman feels conflicted about her sexuality.

Originally published as part of the anthology, "Irresistible, Kissable: A TG Mixed Tape"

T-minus 00:00:15. The roads are nearly empty. The car idles.

Rachel drums her fingers on the wheel.

Casey fiddles a switch. The automatic windows rise and fall. Glass and rubber seals kiss and part. Casey prattles.

“And just… Garhhh. Your Dad is such a pig, Rache.”

Rachel ah-hums agreement.

“I swear, next time when he calls you Butch. I’m going to…”

The light greens. Acceleration. A sigh. “He’s getting better Cass. Baby steps.”

“I hope so. Otherwise, some fucking change of perspective. You never should’ve gotten back in touch.”

“It’s good to see Mum again though. The Changing has done her good.”

“She’s very quiet.”

“She’s a different person during her month but. More assertive. Confident. It bleeds over a bit.” Rachel checks the car clock. T-minus 00:00:10. “Don’t you think?”

“Baby steps?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

At T-minus 00:00:07 the car lurches to a stop in their garage. Doors are thrown open.

Lips lock in the corridor. Onto neck. Onto lips. Fabric slides on skin. Is left discarded and crumpled on cool tiles.

The mattress molds itself to their bodies.

Casey’s tongue finds the pink press stud of Rachel’s left nipple. The plain of Rachel’s right breast brushes against the curve of Casey’s cheek. Casey’s finger enters Rachel’s sex. Rachel reciprocates.

T-minus 00:00:02.

A sensation anticipated begins to build. Prickling and tickling from the inside out. Goosepimpling smooth skin.

Rachel kisses her way down from Casey’s mouth. Nibbles chin. Raspberries breasts. Whistles into belly button.

Her finger withdraws. Runs wet down Casey’s leg.

T-minus 00:00:01.

A pause. To taste. To savor.

Ten seconds.

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

Two.

Casey moans and as she moans her voice deepens and her skin stretches and ripples in ways that hide, reveal, then hide again the changing shape of the body beneath and, as her labia parts and Rachel licks the base of the ripening testes pushing through, Casey moans louder and runs her hand through Rachel’s hair as it darkens, writhes, grows longer and spills down over Rache’s neck and upper back, drawing Casey’s gaze to the hour-glassing waist and swelling arse, and moans even louder still as he feels his lovers tongue tickling the nub that will become his penis, and then Casey is breathless and gasping as Rachel kisses her way upwards and he grasps for her now full and heaving chest and then their lips meet and she straddles him and takes his ejaculating cock inside her.

T-minus 29:22:15.

TV humming from lounge. Words half heard over a bubbling kettle. No road closures or electricity outages. The Changeover is going smoothly. So far.

Rachel adjusts the cups of her bra. Scowls. The weight of her breasts is uncomfortable except in Casey’s hands. To think she used to envy her younger sisters. Her girlfriends.

Casey fondles his well filled tiny whities.

Lips lock in the kitchen. Rachel’s leading. Mind recalling the day they met. Placards. Raised voices met. Disapproving stares unheeded. Their first.

This feels better.

She gently pushes him away.

Reorientation started as pure smut. It gained a bit more substance as I wrote it, but when I set out I didn’t have much else on my mind except for “I’m going to write a scene where the characters transform while having sex; I haven’t read or seen anything like that before.”

Originally the story was set in BobH’s Changeday Universe, which takes its name from an event which causes everybody on the planet, for as yet unknown reasons, to transform into an opposite-gendered counterpart every month. It seemed to me that since the moment of transformation is known in advance that people would schedule their live accordingly and some would see the moment of transformation as an opportunity for sexual experimentation.

The opening conversation in the car was my solution to the self-imposed challenge to “establish the setting quickly and concisely and without using exposition.” The idea was to have the characters talk briefly about a topic unique to the Changeday world and that got me thinking about a few things including how people would cope with switching back and forth between sexualities. In most cases the change would be from female heterosexuality to male heterosexuality or vice versa. But there’d also be people who’d switch from homosexual to straight, and those people interested me.

When a person belongs to a group that deviates from the societal norm – such as the LGBT community, or one of the many migrant communities, or communities for people with certain disabilities, etc. – especially when that group is a stigmatised one, a common response is for that person to make belonging to whatever group they belong to a deep down core part of their identity. What would happen to such a person if they lost that part of themselves?

This was my first draft. I’ve annotated the bits that stayed the same.

T-minus 00:00:15. The roads are nearly empty. The car idles.

(I like to think the countdown is a dramatic way of getting across the cyclical nature of the transformation. It also dictated the clipped style of the piece. I wanted the story to read like it was ticking alongside the countdown.)

Stephanie drums her fingers on the wheel.

Virginia fiddles a switch. The automatic windows rise and fall. Glass and rubber seals kiss and part. Virginia prattles.

(I like the kiss and part line. I wrote the ending to resonate with it.)

“And just… Garhhh. Your Dad is such a pig Stephie.”

Stephanie ah-hums agreement.

“I swear, next time when he calls you Butch. I’m going to…”

The light greens. Acceleration. A sigh. “He’s getting better Vee. Baby steps.”

“I hope so. Otherwise, some fucking change of perspective. You never should’ve gotten back in touch.”

“It’s good to see Mum again though. The Changing has done her good.”

“She’s very quiet.”

“She’s a different person during her month but. More assertive. Confident. It bleeds over a bit.” Stephanie checks the car clock. T-minus ten. “Don’t you think?”

(Some beta readers found the countdown confusing. I think there are enough clues - such as during her month - to work out that it goes DAYS: HOURS: MINUTES)

“Baby steps?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

At T-minus 00:00:07 the car lurches to a stop in their garage. Doors are thrown open.

Lips lock in the corridor. Onto neck. Onto lips. Fabric slides on skin. Is left discarded and crumpled on cool tiles.

The mattress molds itself to their bodies.

Virginia’s tongue finds the pink press stud of Stephanie’s left nipple. The plain of Stephanie’s right breast brushes against the curve of Virginia’s cheek. Virginia’s finger enters Stephanie’s sex. Stephanie reciprocates.

T-minus 00:00:02.

A sensation anticipated begins to build. Prickling and tickling from the inside out. Goosepimpling smooth skin.

Stephanie kisses her way down from Virginia’s mouth. Nibbles chin. Raspberries breasts. Whistles into belly button.

Her finger withdraws. Runs wet down Virginia’s leg.

T-minus 00:00:01.

A pause. To taste. To savor.

Ten seconds.

(Yet another clue re. how the countdown works)

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

Two.

Virginia moans and as she moans her voice deepens and her crema skin turns espresso black and stretches and ripples in ways that one second hide and the next reveal the changing shape of the body beneath and, as her labia parts and Stephanie licks the base of the ripening testes pushing through, Virginia moans louder and runs her hand through Stephanie’s hair, which is alive and writhing, curling and growing longer and spilling down over Stephie’s neck and upper back and drawing Virginia’s gaze to the hour-glassing waist and swelling arse, and moans even louder still as he feels his lovers tongue tickling the nub that will become his penis, and then Virgil is breathless and gasping as Stephanie kisses her way upwards and he grasps for her now full and heaving chest and then their lips meet and she straddles him and takes his ejaculating cock inside her.

(Well the earth certainly moved for them! The change in style here is meant to convey a sense of overwhelming sensation and the rhythm of the act that they are engaged in.)

T-minus 29:22:15.

TV humming from lounge. Words half heard over a bubbling kettle. No road closures or electricity outages. Changeday is going smoothly. So far.

Stephanie adjusts the cups of her bra. Scowls. The weight of her breasts is uncomfortable except in Virgil’s hands. To think she used to envy her younger sister. Her girlfriends.

Virgil fondles his well filled tiny whities.

He kisses her. She kisses back. The boyfriend her father has always wished she’d had.

She gently pushes him away.

The Setting: For my story I decided to make my two characters a lesbian couple and have them turn into a straight couple. To make this work I took a liberty with the universe and decided that there would be rare people who’d change into a different body but of the same gender. This was shot down by Bob, hence the change.

The Names: In the Changeday universe most people adopt a different name to match their new gender during their changed months. However, a couple of my Beta readers weren’t sure if Virgil and Virginia were the same person (they are). To make the story flow better I changed Virginia to a name that is traditionally applicable to every gender and Stephanie to a name that complimented this new name better. I don’t know about anyone else but I think that rhyming names sound odd.

The Ending: At the end of the story Stephanie/Rachel finds it impossible to reconcile her own self-image with the person she is and the situation she’s in and pushes Virgil/Virginia/Casey away (for good, or is it just a momentary thing is up to you to decide). Most of my Beta readers had trouble picking up on this in the earlier version. Hopefully it comes across more clearly in the version that was included in Irresistible, Kissable.

I’m putting another Mixed Tape collection together (you can read Irresistible, Kissable here and the first collection, Miniskirts, here). If you want to be part of it e-mail me at [email protected]. Let me know if you’re interested in the comments.

The guidelines are:

• Write a short piece no longer than 500 words (such as the story above). Apart from that limit, write whatever you want. However, I do want the Mixed Tapes to showcase a wide variety of stories – from the serious, to the silly, to the erotic – and because of this, this time around, I’m especially interested in stories focusing on female to male transformations and realistic pieces dealing with gender dysphoria and the day to day lives of LGBT protagonists. I feel that there haven’t been enough of these types of stories in these collections so far.

• Write a short “Also by this author” blurb.

• The finished anthology will be published on Big Closet, TG Storytime and Fictionmania. Make sure you have accounts set up on all three sites (all are free to join). I want to get as many authors credited on each site as possible.

Submissions are due by Sunday the 15th of June 2014. All contributors will be sent a copy of the collection before it's published. If you read it and decide that you do not want your work to be represented in it then you may withdraw your contribution. Publication will occur sometime (hopefully early) during the last week of that month (between the 23rd and 30th).

Until then, or until I hear from you.

Cheers

PersnicketyBitch