Grab your headphones and jam out to another great collection of tunes that are guaranteed to thrill you, chill you, and probably decide whether you'll be wearing skirts or blue jeans tomorrow when you go to work.

When Aunt Sue died, her husband had been dead for several years, and she didn't have any children. So my dad, her brother, inherited all her stuff. It wasn't a lot; she'd lived in an apartment, and after Uncle George died she'd already started getting rid of some stuff. But there was enough that we'd have to spend several weeks going through things in the weeks between her funeral and when I went back to school.

I'd just turned sixteen a couple of months earlier, and had my driver's license, but was a long way from being able to afford a car, even a cheap used one. So while I was sad that my coolest aunt was gone, I was still ecstatic when Dad told me I could have Aunt Sue's old Chevy. It was nearer thirty years old than twenty, old enough to be exempt from the emissions test laws, and I didn't waste any time checking it out.

It was also old enough to have a tape deck in it instead of a CD player. I barely remembered when we had a CD/tape deck when I was a little kid; I knew what tapes looked like, but hadn't seen any since that CD/tape deck broke and Mom and Dad threw out all their old tapes. My friend Jed told me that his uncle drove an old car with a tape deck, and had an adapter so he could connect his MP3 player to it; I figured I'd go buy one of those.

But while I was cleaning out the back floorboard, I found a treasure: a box of cassette tapes. A lot of them were published albums, none newer than fifteen years old, but there were a couple of dozen hand-labeled in Aunt Sue's handwriting. None of them were names of bands or albums I'd heard of.

"Oh, yeah," Dad said when I told him about my find at supper that night. "Sue used to make these mixtapes when we were teenagers, and kept doing one every year or two for a long time. They were really eclectic, you'd never know what you'd hear next when you were riding around with her."

When I got in the car for the first time after that discovery, getting ready to go over to Jed's house and hang out, I picked up one of Aunt Sue's mixtapes at random, and glanced at the label before I slid it into the cassette slot:

"A Boy Named Sue and Other Incongruities"

Weird, I thought. Aunt Sue wasn't a stereotypically feminine woman, but you'd never call her a tomboy. I wondered when she'd made that tape, when she and Dad were teens or just a few years ago, and what was on it... I was about to find out.

* * *

A Boy Named Sue – A TG Mixed Tape
Edited by Trismegistus Shandy & Hikaro

Table of Contents

Save Point
By MA Thermidor

Doctor Who?
By Bobbie/Roberta J. Cabot

Twins
By Zapper

Free
By Trismegistus Shandy

Haste Makes Waist
By Hikaro

Becoming Adila
By Zapper

Margarine Day
By Lyodor Tolstoyevski

Boat Dog
By Trismegistus Shandy

Experiment GC2407
By Person42

The Thief
By Zapper

~~Save Point~~

By M A Thermidor

There was one thing he wanted more than anything else, the same wish everyone wanted. A chance to fix things. Every night as he lay in his cold bed he wished for it until one night it was granted.

* * *

“Wake up honey; it’s your first day of big girl school.” Those words greeted her as she awoke from the warm embrace of the thick duvet. That was her mother’s voice meaning the wish must have come true.

“Big girl school?” She threw away the duvet as she got up and looked around at her surroundings. Pink bedsheets, white walls and a hardwood floor; this was not the room she should have just woken up in.

“Cruz!” she called out with fury. Her shout was answered by the appearance of a floating figure with skin of gold basking in a blue aura.

“Good mor…ning…” Cruz looked down at the young girl who had called him. “This is unexpected.” Anyone who saw Cruz would know instantly he was no ordinary person. Golden skin and the ability to float gave that away, but what his appearance didn’t give away was his ability to manipulate time. Specifically, he could send a person’s soul back along their own timeline with a one way ticket to the past.

“Cruz, why am I a girl?” Cruz could feel a terrible killing intent surrounding the young girl as she glared at him. At twelve years old she was on the edge of puberty. With curly dark hair and hazel eyes she certainly resembled the man she had not long ago been.

“Ah, well, I can see why you’d assume this is my fault but let me assure you it wasn’t.” A few minutes ago, well a few minutes ago from his perspective, this young girl had been a fully grown man with a wish; a wish to go back in time and fix everything that had gone wrong. It was a wish Cruz had the power to grant. Cruz took pity on him and granted his wish, sending his soul back through time to the first day of junior high school. That day was today, but things weren’t as either of them had been expecting.

“Clara are you getting up?” The door of the bedroom swung open as her mother poked her head through to ensure her daughter was awake. Her mother didn’t react to the floating golden man, for she was incapable of perceiving him.

“Just checking.” She closed the door again.

“It’s weird seeing her with ten years taken off her face…” Clara whispered. It was the mother she remembered, the mother who was kind and protective but would grow increasingly cold towards her layabout son. That was one of the many things Clara was determined to fix.

“This time around I’m going to work hard to keep her happy,” she declared with resolve. “Once you turn me back to normal!” She hadn’t forgotten the predicament she was in.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Cruz explained again. “I have the power to send a soul back along its own timeline to a point in its past. Effectively I’m allowing you to reload from a really old save. I don’t have the power to alter that save in any way. The reason you are a girl is simply because ten years ago on this very day you were a girl.”

“I’d remember that!” Clara had no memory of ever being a girl. She was born a boy and had lived the life of boy. That was what her memories told her.

“You sure?” Cruz was looking around her girlish room. It was definitely the bedroom of a twelve year old girl which was unsurprising as right now Clara was a twelve year old girl. Clara had moved to the window and thrown open the curtains to a familiar sight.

“This is definitely my street; I remember this view although it’s a little different.” Even in a suburban area like this the landscape gradually changed with time. Some trees grew taller, others were cut down and likewise new buildings appeared and old ones disappeared.

“I don’t get it, this my house, my room, my mother but this is not my body. Cruz, is it possible you sent me down an alternate timeline?”

“Impossible. I know the limitations of my own powers. The only explanation for what has happened is that ten years ago you were a girl. That’s it. There are no other possibilities. That is the cold hard truth of the matter.” Cruz knew he wasn’t the only supernatural being in existence. “I can only speculate, but I’m guessing that sometime in the next ten years the world was altered to turn you from a girl to a boy.”

“But that’s…” It wasn’t impossible. Cruz’s existence had changed the meaning of that word. He was a god capable of messing with time, so the existence of another god that could alter memories wasn’t out of the question.

“So then… I’m stuck like this?”

“Until the day you meet the being that altered your existence, yes. Remember my original warning though; your actions will alter the flow of events dramatically. The fact you are probably going to be late for your first day of school will have a big effect on your timeline.” Clara glanced at the clock on her desk. Cruz was right; she had to hurry or she would be late.

“I think the fact I’m a girl will alter my timeline considerably,” she said, grabbing her clean uniform from the coat hanger.

“It won’t because on this day ten years ago you were also a girl. Your memories may have been changed, but this is still your past.” Clara had finished changing. Now she stood in front of a full body mirror looking at her reflection.

“I… this feels familiar. Like my mind doesn’t remember, but my heart does.” The emotions she had felt ten years ago when looking at herself in the mirror of her first day of school replayed in her heart. Could Cruz’s words be true? Was this really who she was?

“Even if you erase a man’s memory of having ever ridden a bicycle, the body will still remember how to do it,” Cruz explained.

“Clara, breakfast is ready, hurry up or you’ll be late!” her mother yelled.

“I’m coming,” she yelled back on impulse. “So what happens now?” she asked Cruz.

“It was always a one way ticket. Someday in the future you might encounter the reason why you were transformed into a man, but until then, have fun re-living your life.” Clara reached for the bedroom door and stepped out into a familiar hallway. She may have been different from what she remembered, but everything else was as it should have been. Even if her wish had an expected twist to it, she had still gotten what she wanted, a chance to right the wrongs -- and she wasn’t going to waste it.

* * *

~~Doctor Who?
#2 – Bigger on the Inside
(or “Trapped in a Phone Booth in a Space Station”)~~

by Bobbie Cabot

* * *

Author's Chapter Notes:

The Doctor has disappeared, but he left his newest apprentice on 21st century Earth to help the humans while he was away, Dr. Quinn Valentine.

This is the story of Quinn’s first mission as the Doctor’s pinch-hitter. And she comes with her new sonic screwdriver, her own companion (best friend Mary Elizabeth “Binky” Kristensen), and even her own TARDIS, except Quinn’s TARDIS looks like a red London Phone Booth.

(This is a follow-on story to the one from our previous Mixed Tape entitled “Through the Fire and Flames,” that came out last September. Feel free to check out “Doctor Who?” before you read this one.)

* * *

1. About Quinn and Binky

It’s been ten months now since that day, or maybe that’s not right. Maybe I should say it’s been three years and ten months… Or actually, if you’re going by the calendar, I should say three months.

Confused? Well, that’s nothing new for me.

Hi. I’m Dr. Quinn Valentine, recently appointed associate professor of astrophysics in Cambridge University’s Institute of Astronomy in Cambridge, England.

And, as my best friend, doctoral candidate Mary Elizabeth Kristensen (who I call Binky just to be annoying), and I sit in this holding cell, I can’t help but reminisce on how we ended up here.

Almost four years ago (going by the elapsed time in my head), I was still a he then, and Cambridge’s newest wunderkind.

I was controversial, not for anything I had done, but simply because I was American. And in the hallowed halls of Cambridge, an American physics-slash-astronomy professorial candidate was almost unheard of. Despite my obvious brilliance (as you see, I am very humble, heehee), my application would have been passed on, if not for the man my professors called “the Doctor.”

The Doctor had apparently taken a shine to me, and, with his sponsorship, I eventually became one of the Institute’s few American professors.

From then on, this mysterious “Doctor” became a fixture in my life, and things would never be the same for me again.

2. About The Doctor

No one in the university really knew him, except that he was very important to the university higher-ups, and was allowed anything he wanted.

The Doctor was actually a “Time Lord” – an alien from Gallifrey, a planet located in the constellation Kasterborous, within a parsec or two from the center of our galaxy. Time Lords are able to travel to any place and time in the known universe through the use of amazing time machines called TARDISes (TARDIS stood for “Time and Relative Dimension In Space”).

The Doctor was a tall, thin, salt-and-pepper-haired crotchety old man that didn’t seem to do much of anything except fly around in his TARDIS, but when Binky and I found ourselves whisked along with him on some of his trips around space and time, I realized I was totally wrong.

Apparently, the Doctor was a kind of Robin Hood, or maybe a Batman or a Green Arrow, and he went around helping people in situations that needed help. Many times they were like world-shaking emergencies or disasters, and he traveled the universe helping where he could.

Apparently, humans had a special place in his heart because he seemed to have taken on the role of the Earth’s protector, helping to stave off invasions, disasters, the depredations of would-be dictators and other assorted bad guys.

We weren’t destined to be like the so-called “companions” that the Doctor has had over the centuries (and yes, I did say “centuries”) – simple bystanders along for the ride; he had a definite plan for us.

After that disastrous thing with the “monks” a couple of years ago (betcha can’t remember, right? But don’t fret - most of us had more-or-less forgotten what happened already), the Doctor had started looking for a sort of pinch-hitter to help him because he knew the Earth was going to need some help to get through some tough times in the 21st Century. And, apparently, I was to be this pinch-hitter.

And so began my apprenticeship.

3. About Quinn’s TARDIS

Binky and I got to join him in a few of his “adventures,” and were introduced to several of the baddies that Earth would again be facing– such as the Daleks, the Cybermen and the Martian Ice Warriors. But, most of all, we got a crash course in galactic history as well as comprehensive lessons in the care and feeding of the Doctor’s Type 40-TT TARDIS – apparently, I was going to get my very own TARDIS and needed to know my way around one.

But, instead of going to Gallifrey to get one (something I found out even the Doctor couldn’t swing, given his reputation among the Time Lords), we ended up going to a kind of Gallifreyan boneyard of discarded Gallifreyan tech at the edge of the galaxy, which included broken-down TARDISes, TARDIS parts and other things.

TARDISes were never made - they were actually “grown” in labs on Gallifrey. But that didn’t stop anyone putting one together, provided he knew where to get parts from old TARDISes.

So, under the guidance of the Doctor, my students and I found a derelict Type 40 and scrounged up all the parts we would needed to make it functional. We then used the Doctor’s own TARDIS as our reference (apparently, you couldn’t get blueprints for TARDISes, especially for obsolete versions like the Doctor’s own Type 40). We soon had a working TARDIS (although the word “working” wasn’t completely correct).

My TARDIS was essentially lacking the stuff that gave a TARDIS character, but the Doctor said I’d eventually accumulate that over time. But the Doctor did select a “desktop theme” that he thought was nice (it was similar to the theme that his eleventh incarnation preferred).

One thing that we never did get used to was the fact that a TARDIS was bigger on the inside. On the outside, it looked like a ten-foot-tall metal cylinder, but once its chameleon circuit was engaged, it would look like some normal feature or object from its immediate surroundings. So, when the Doctor landed in 1960s London, his TARDIS took on the appearance of a British 1950s police callbox. However, apparently, its chameleon circuit was damaged so it was stuck like that ever since.

As for my TARDIS, since we were using the Doctor’s TARDIS as our pattern, we inadvertently copied its stuck chameleon circuit as well. But, at least, my TARDIS was able to update itself a little – mine now looks like one of those red telephone phone booths that you see in London. Thank goodness it didn’t look like a 1950s police box. But, like the Doctor’s, mine was stuck as well.

On the inside, though, it was as if the space inside the TARDIS was infinite. I didn’t really understand the Doctor’s sketchy explanation, but I didn’t care. All I needed to know was that there was enough closet space for all the clothes I would eventually be buying.

4. About Quinn’s Regeneration

After we got my TARDIS working, it was then that the Doctor revealed the second part of his plan.

Through some contrived pretext, he exposed me to something called The Eye of Harmony for a whole week (something you shouldn’t do), and I became a sort of human analogue of a Timelord, somewhat similar to the infamous Dr. River Song. This was essential because, in order for my TARDIS to start working, it needed to imprint on its Gallifreyan pilot, and that was to be the transformed me.

Furthermore, I discovered that I could also undergo what are called “regenerations” - you see, real Gallifreyan Time Lords could regenerate their physical selves when they found they were close to death. And, apparently, even “fake” Time Lords like me also regenerated. My first regeneration was necessary so that I would be able to survive the “brain dump” that I was going to be given, like the brain dump that Donna Noble, one of the Doctor’s old companions, experienced, but since she was just an ordinary human, she almost died because of it until the imprinted knowledge was erased.

So, the Doctor arranged for an “accident” to trigger my first transformation.

Of course, no one told me about the regeneration, the data dump, the fact that the regeneration would turn me into a physically different person, and that the change would be completely uncontrolled. Oh, well. I guess there are worse things than turning into a blonde bombshell, right? As well getting the attendant blonde bombshell attitude and personality: Binky said I’ve turned into a bimbo, but I don’t think so. She’s just jealous. (Although I do seem to have this new instinct to start wearing sexy clothes. Heehee.)

Anyway, soon after the regeneration and brain dump, the Doctor told us about this old-time cassette tape we had to pick up in LA (see my story from our third Mix Tape post - Bobbie), and as soon as we left, he disappeared to parts unknown, along with his friends Bill and Nardole. And we never saw him again.

Anyway, instead of the hoped-for plans to fix my TARDIS, it turned out the cassette was full of instructions for our first, ummm, “mission.”

The cassettes said we’re supposed to investigate this space station currently orbiting the planet, and to stop whatever nefarious plans its builders had for it. What the station was, who its builders were, and what they had planned for it, we didn’t know, except that it was going to be something “very, very bad,” as the Doctor said in the cassette.

Well.

5. About the Mysterious Space Station

Anyway, it seemed that we were all alone on this one - no Doctor to help - and Binky and I began with some reconnoitering. Not difficult if you had a TARDIS.

We went through all the Internet feeds and channels, and I found, in the secret ones run by the government, that people were already aware of the station. They were trying to find out who sent it up, but they weren’t having luck. Some were backtracking and tracing all rocket launches in the last few years. Their theory was that it was assembled from parts sent up and assembled in orbit piece by piece. But then, how come no one saw it being assembled? In fact, it was only found by accident a few months ago, courtesy of some high school kids with a homemade telescope.

The natural conclusion was that it was of alien origin.

But, looking at its picture in the TARDIS’s monitor, it was clearly of human origin. In fact, it looked like the ISS, except for a ginormous module attached to it – a big tin can-shaped thing about the length and width of a football field. It was so large it was as long and wide as the rest of the station.

There was like a kind of scaffolding that connected the flat side of the can to the ISS part, and it had four equidistant rows of ports on its curving wall.

“What are those?” Binky said, pointing at the ports. “Thrust vents or something?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. I then flipped switches in a certain sequence. The knowledge of what to do seemed automatic to me now.

Binky looked at me. “So,” she said, “the brain dump is finally working, huh?”

I shrugged. “Well, not completely. I seem to be getting bursts of stuff, but it’s all random. Anyway – look.” I pointed to the screen.

The close-up shot showed that the ports had something stuffed inside them. Binky squinted. “Those look like rocks inside the ports.”

“Yes, they are. And look at this.”

A kind of shuttle was fast approaching the space station. As we watched, it laboriously maneuvered and parked itself right above the flat side of the tin can. It then opened its bay doors and mechanical arms started transferring rocks into the tin can via a large hatch. And the shuttle’s cargo bay seemed full to the brim with rocks.

“Now why would they be collecting rocks?” Binky asked.

Putting two and two together, my blood ran cold.

“I think I know why,” I said. “Hold on!”

Almost instinctively, I reached for a lever and pulled it down. The familiar wheezing sound reverberated through the control area.

6. About Breathable Air

After a few moments, we felt the TARDIS land, and the sound slowly diminished.

Binky and I looked at each other. “You coulda’ warned me, you blasted…”

I waved her down. “No time for that.”

I started walking back into the inside of the TARDIS.

“Now, where are yeh going?” she asked exasperatedly.

“To change outfits, of course!” I exclaimed.

In a while, I came out wearing a little black dress with a short skirt, heels and smoky tights, and with my dark-blonde hair in kicky little ponytail. I thought it made me look professional, not to mention cute.

“You have your equipment with you?” Binky asked.

“Yes,” I said as I typed a long email on my phone and then pressed send. “I got my psychic paper, sonic screwdriver, makeup kit…”

She sighed in irritation. “Dammit…”

“Here,” I said, and handed something to her, mostly to shut her up.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a modified cellphone. So we can keep in touch with each other if we get separated.” I then put my Wayfarer sunglasses in my outfit’s breast pocket, my phone, my girl-wallet, a packet of tissues, my special compact makeup clutch, the psychic paper and, of course, my sonic in various other pockets.

“Why not use a purse for all your stuff?” Binky waved her own purse.

She’s right, of course. Now why didn’t I think of one? Clearly, I’m still done regenerating yet.

Before I could open the doors, Binky put a hand on my arm. “Wait! Is there air out there?”

“You’re forgetting – the TARDIS makes its own atmosphere. We’re safe to walk out.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not forgetting. I didn’t know it in the first place. That brain dump must really be working on you now, huh?”

I shrugged.

We stepped out and started looking around. Apparently, we materialized, or “landed” as the Doctor might say, inside one of the station’s landing bays. (Mentally, I was congratulating myself for my piloting skills – I landed us in the place I was aiming for.)

That fact alone was impressive – as far as I knew, humans haven’t been able to build anything in orbit large enough to even have a landing bay. And, of course, if there’s a landing bay, then there were ships that would make use of the landing bay. Seeing the words “Bay 02” on the wall also told me there was at least one other landing bay. Wow.

Binky pointed to the sign. “English,” she said. “Definitely a human station, then.”

I didn’t bother to point out that, having come from inside the TARDIS, everything we would see would be translated to English, but since I knew that the sign was indeed in English script, I just let it go.

I took out my new sonic screwdriver and waved it around.

“Well,” I said, “the station itself is fully pressurized, including that attachment we saw. But no one’s around in this part of the station. Everyone’s on the other side.”

“You can tell all that with the sonic screwdriver?”

“Well… yes?”

“What is that attachment anyway, do you think?” Binky asked.

“Well, essentially, it’s a bomb bay. They’ve set up this station into something like an orbital bombing platform. They’ll be able to drop rocks onto the planet like bombs. And with the speed, size and mass of the rocks, they’ll have enough kinetic energy that they could be like little nuclear bombs exploding on top of cities.”

“Oh, my god!”

“Not planet-killer size rocks, though – those ports we saw are too small for those.”

“What do we do, Quinn?”

“Well, offhand, I think we have to destroy the station, or at least that bomb bay. The question is, how?”

“Yes, indeed, that is the question,” we heard a deep voice with an Italian accent emanate from the intercom speakers.

“Oh, my god,” Binky whispered, “they know we’re here!”

7. All About Captivity

We looked around in the little holding cell we were put in. Nothing except the bunks and the chairs.

Binky took a sip of her drink.

“It’s ironic,” she said. “We’re trapped in a space station, and the drink they left us with is Tang.”

We both giggled at that.

“Eat your heart out, Neil Armstrong,” I said.

We heard someone open the door of our cell.

“Good evening, ladies,” the man at our door said. It was the man from the intercom. The thick Italian accent was a giveaway. “Hope you are feeling well today.”

“We’re doing okay,” Binky said, and nonchalantly sipped her so-called orange juice.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” he said, nodding to Binky, “but I’m even more pleased to meet the famous Doctor,” he said and bowed to me, “and his magical phone booth. In my organization, you, Doctor, are quite famous. I do love the new you, though. Excellent regeneration.” He wagged his eyes suggestively. “And I have so wanted to perhaps see the inside of your TARDIS?”

“I’m sorry, but you have me mistaken for someone else.”

He laughed. “I doubt that – we find two women in my station without spacesuits, with no spaceship parked anywhere near, a strange phone booth parked in my landing bay, and one of these women carrying one of these.” He brought out my brand-new sonic screwdriver.

“You know,” he continued, “we’ve heard of what your sonic screwdriver is capable of. Still, none of my people can figure out how it works. I would ask you for a demonstration, but I don’t know if that’s safe.”

I shrugged. “How about our other stuff?”

“You mean these?” He gestured to the other guy, who brought out a Ziploc bag with all our stuff. “I’m afraid I can’t let you have them, either, my dear.”

I decided to use another tack.

“You know,” I said, “you seem to know all about me. But I’m afraid I don’t know anything about you. I think that’s a little unfair.”

The man laughed. “Of course, you’re right. Let me introduce myself, then. I am Tomas Stelisto, from the beautiful and historic city of Milan, and formerly of the United States Space Program. I’m fairly sure you don’t know me, but I’m sure you know my employers – the Slitheen Family of Raxacoricofallapatorius? Goodness – that is indeed a mouthful.”

“The Slitheen? No wonder. I take it this station is theirs?”

“Ah, no. It’s mine. I built it, under contract to the Slitheen.”

“So, you built a space-based meteor-bombing platform for the Slitheen. Did they tell you why they wanted one?”

“Well, not really. I can assume they want to enslave the human race – use the station as their bargaining chip, perhaps.”

“Well, no. The Slitheen don’t really want the people. All they want is the planet itself.”

“Well, whatever. I never did plan to give it to them. So, I took their gold, used it to get whatever I needed to build the station, but I never intended to give it to them. No one is going to be taking over the Earth anytime soon, except for me.”

“I don’t get it. So, it’s not good for aliens to take over the planet, but it’s perfectly fine if a human did?”

“Sure. Especially if that human happened to be me.”

“What made you think the Slitheen would just leave you alone after you take their station?” Binky interjected. “Do you even know what they’ll do to you once they find out what you’re doing?”

“Ahhh! That’s why I called UNIT. Anonymously, of course. They’ll chase away the Slitheen for me, which they already have, according to my mole. Now, I’m free to do what I want.”

“UNIT,” I said. “I imagine they already know about your station.”

“Hah! We’ve been constructing the station for years now, and, during all this time, they never even knew we were here.”

“How is that even possible?” Binky asked.

“Because of this.” He then brought out a little device about the size of a pack of cigarettes.

“That looks like a Slitheen cloaking device,” I said. “They’re pretty effective.”

”Indeed, it is,” the Italian said. “This one little gadget allowed me to hide our station.”

“That small, little thing?” Binky said incredulously.

“This was all we needed. The anonymity of my entire operation depends on this one little device.”

“That’s all I needed to know,” I said.

I reached out suddenly, grabbed the little box and threw it against the bulkhead. It smashed into little bits and, just for a second, the lights blinked out.

“There,” I said. “You are now visible to Earth-based radar and other detection stations.”
“Why, you…”

While he was still reacting, I reached out, grabbed my sonic from his hand and pointed it at one of the control panels on the wall.

8. All About Running In the Dark

The station’s power was turned off, but I made a slight miscalculation – since it was spin gravity, we didn’t start drifting up when we lost power, as I was intending it to, hoping to distract the people that way. So I made some slight changes in my plan.

Despite the total darkness, I knew where Binky was. It was like I had a photographic memory now. I grabbed for her hand and knocked Tomas aside. I then reached out to where the other man was and grabbed the bag with our stuff and ran through the open door. The two fumbled around in the dark, trying to grab us.

“Owww!” Binky exclaimed when she hit her shoulder on the jamb, but I didn’t stop and continued running down the hallway.

I randomly pointed my sonic to the wall, hoping to hit one of the control panels. As I waved the sonic about, I was able to trigger one of the panels. The lights and power came back on. I went to the nearest panel, punched up the satellite plans and looked for the route getting back to Bay Two.

“Stop!” one of the people that saw us yelled. Dammit!

I switched the power off again, but I was sure of my bearings now.

“Binky,” I said, “just hold onto my hand and follow my lead, okay? Don’t get scared.”

“Okay, Quinn,” she said. “I trust you.”

“Now, run!”

In complete darkness, we were actually running.

We collided into several people, however, and Binky bumped into some walls, but I didn’t let up, knowing they’d be able to turn the lights back on soon.

9. About UNIT

We were at Bay Two’s main doors when the lights finally came on. Thank goodness for that.

The people around us were starting to get their bearings but I didn’t wait for them to notice us. I slammed my hand on the Door Release, and the blast door slid open.

I pulled Binky inside, closed the door, pointed my sonic at the controls and short-circuited it. It felt good to finally be safe. But…

“Umm, Quinn…”

I looked around and found us surrounded.

Thinking quickly, I lifted my sonic again and pointed it at them. The sonic’s warbling was loud inside the landing bay.

“Don’t move!” I said, “unless you want some of this!” I waggle the sonic.

They complied, and even raised their hands.

“Okay, now move away from the phone booth!”

They backed away from my TARDIS. I opened the TARDIS’s door with my key, and we jumped in.

As soon as we were secure inside, I went to the main controls and started the TARDIS. In moments, we heard that familiar groaning noise, and we materialized back into outer space, about eighty kilometers from the station.

Binky laughed. “Would the sonic have really hurt them?” she asked.

“No,” I giggled.

Binky turned on the monitor and saw the station.

“What’s that?” Binky said, pointing to half a dozen metal slivers approaching the station.

“I imagine that would be UNIT’s missiles. I called them earlier saying I’ll take care of their cloaking.”

“Ahhh…”

A light started blinking on the panel.

“A message!”

I turned the monitor on, and a video message from the Doctor was displayed.

A blonde woman was looking at us. “Good work, Doctor Quinn. Congratulations. Now, I need you and Ms. Kristensen to go somewhere. There’s another cassette tape you need to find.”

“Dammit!” I exclaimed.

“Did the doctor regenerate?” Binky asked.

* * *

Roberta “Bobbie” Cabot is a transgender girl from DC. She transitioned in 2004, and has been living as a girl full time ever since. With a mom from Italy, a dad from Quebec, and a spouse from Kyoto, her writing (and her speech) is less than perfect. However, she doesn't really speak Italian, French or Japanese, although she can puzzle them out a bit. She is a fan of sci-fi, drama, love stories, romcoms and comedy/sitcoms, - these are the kinds of stories she looks for. Her only “claim to fame” is her still-incomplete story, “Danny,” which was first posted in Crystal’s Storysite back in 2009 (“Danny” is also posted on TG Storytime). Her most recently posted stories in TG Storytime are “Shepherd Moon,” “Autobots Revisited” and “Drew Nance, Girl Detective - Book 1: The Secret of the Old Clock.”

If anyone wants to contact Bobbie, one can click “Roberta J Cabot" in the list of authors in the story header, then click “Send author a message”.

* * *

~~Twins~~

By Zapper

* * *

There was a loud roaring in Axel’s ears followed by an eldritch tearing sensation and then a burst of wind hit Axel as he knocked on the door to Heather’s apartment. Abruptly, everything went dark and then Axel found himself in a familiar apartment.

“Oh, fuck, really Tessa?!”

The sound was all the confirmation he needed, because the voice that had given life to the words belonged to his twin sister! Axel looked down at the diaphanous nightgown that did nothing to hide the soft full weight of his pendulous breasts, or the tiny waist that sloped down to the newly shaven vagina between his legs. Axel took a deep breath, Tessa’s floral perfume filled his nose, and he felt the garment brush, feather light, over his sensitive skin, teasing his bright pink nipples to full erection. Axel glanced around and saw a pair of dolls. Each fashioned to look like the siblings, bound together with enchanted twine.

“Really, Tessa, this no-notice body swapping has got to stop.”

Ever since Tessa had learned that she was a witch and could swap bodies she’d been doing this to Axel. The first time she’d asked his permission, and curious to see what it must feel like to be female he’d agreed. What he hadn’t known was that every time they swapped bodies a connection built between them, making the next swap easier. The first time they’d had to hold hands while Tessa used her magic and Axel had to take part in the rite by agreeing to the switch. That first swap had just lasted two days and Axel had admitted to Tessa he’d enjoyed it.

That hadn’t been enough for Tessa. The next time she’d invited him over and swapped bodies halfway through lunch, by brushing her hand against his. That swap had lasted a week. It had still been fun, especially getting dressed up and going to church as each other while their parents remained clueless.

Then a few weeks later he’d been helping Dad in the garage work on his project car and Tessa had poked her head in. “Hey, Mom is taking me to the spa, she wanted to know if we should pick up dinner on the way back?”

Axel looked at her from under the hood of the car and muttered, “Must be nice.” While their dad had shouted not to worry about the men, they’d grab a beer and a burger when they finished up. Tessa’s eyes met his and the world spun around. Axel had a great time with his mom and Tessa had claimed she enjoyed spending the day with Dad.

That swap had lasted a month and Axel had to practically beg Tessa to swap back. She’d refused until after Axel finished his first period. Except for the cramps and bleeding, Axel explained several weeks later to Tessa over lunch, it had actually been a lot of fun.

Then he’d met Heather at the University. She was bright, sexy, funny and amazing in bed. Tessa had tried to call several times and something told Axel she wanted another swap. So he’d been avoiding her, and spending as much time as possible at Heather’s place. There was a part of him that loved every second he spent as Tessa. A part that was growing stronger every day. He sometimes caught himself looking at Heather’s dresses, wondering how they would fit and imagining himself as Tessa trying one on. These thoughts both scared and thrilled him. All the more reason to avoid his sister. Now, evidently, she’d figured a way to swap from across town!

The door to the apartment opened. “Tessa, I’m home!” Axel jumped as Colton, Tessa’s current live-in boyfriend, sauntered in. “Ah, babe, I see you’ve got one thing on your mind!” Colton exclaimed his eyes drinking in Axel’s scantily clad form. He moved across the room and swept Axel into his arms. Axel felt his soft nubile flesh mold to the firm athletic form of Tessa’s lover.

“I’ve missed you,” Axel heard himself say and to his dismay felt a deep moist ache grow between his legs. Colton lowered his mouth to Axel’s breast taking his hot nipple between his teeth through the thin material. Jolts of carnal delight raced through Axel’s lithe body and he reached out to caress the rock-hard cock between Colton’s legs, “I need you sooo bad.”

Then it hit him, in addition to swapping bodies, Tessa had bound him to act like her until swapping back. ‘That tricky bitch,’ he thought before Colton stretched him out on their bed and he lost himself, to his delight, in a world of feminine orgasmic bliss.

Across town Tessa pressed her masculine lips to Heather’s sensual mouth. When the kiss broke the blonde nursing student, with the body of a stripper, leaned back to look up at her man.

“Axel, don’t you have work today?”

Tessa reached out to caress Heather’s amazing ass and nuzzle her succulent globes before responding, “Screw work, I have to have you. Right now!”

* * *

~~Free~~

by Trismegistus Shandy

* * *

I rushed toward the hospital, siren blaring and lights flashing. My partner was in the passenger seat, breathing heavily, eyes half-lidded. "Stay awake," I told him, and reached over to shake him. "The nanites can't reprogram your brain as easily if you stay awake. GREG! Wake up!" His eyes flew open and he looked at me, then at himself.

"We're not gonna get there in time," he said. "Promise you'll kill me if this stuff turns me into a mindless --"

"No," I said, "you know I'm Catholic, we don't believe in assisted suicide, and besides you're going to beat this thing." I kept coaxing him to stay awake for another mile; toward the end he had his eyes wide open, looking fixedly at me. I didn't blame him; in his place I wouldn't want to look at myself either. "We're here," I announced as I pulled into the emergency room entrance. I parked as close to the door as I could get -- there was an ambulance there too -- jumped out and ran around to open his door, then hefted him out and supported him on my shoulder as we staggered toward the door.

"Black market nanite infection!" I called out as we stepped in. "We need to flush them from his system as soon as possible before they infiltrate his brain!"

The receptionist hit an alarm button and a minute or two later a couple of nurses and doctors in biohazard suits came and got me and Greg and escorted us to a couple of rooms. They quarantined me and tested my blood, while they got Greg anti-nanite treatment as fast as they could.

But not fast enough.

* * *

They stripped me and took away all my stuff to disinfect, and kept me bare-assed in a hospital gown for the rest of the night and much of the morning. They checked my vital signs every hour and drew blood
every couple of hours. I kept asking how Greg was, and the nurse who drew my blood wouldn't tell me -- patient confidentiality. They asked me who his emergency contact was, and I said he didn't have any family, which was pretty much true. He had an almost-ex-wife, but he hadn't spoke to her without a lawyer present in months, and his parents were dead. "I'm one of his closest friends," I said. "Please let me see him."

"Not until we're sure it's safe," the nurse said.

"I can put on a biohazard suit."

"Maybe. I'll talk to the doctor." But it was more than an hour before I heard any more.

When they finally let me out and gave me back my stuff around dawn, the doctor said: "He's been asking to see you. And the active stage of the infection is past, he's not contagious now. But you should be
prepared -- he looks different."

"I figured," I said, remembering the small changes I'd already seen in the squad car on the way to the hospital."

"Actually, she's female now."

"Yeah, that's what that bastard Tillman said. I could rush Greg to the hospital and maybe you could stop him from turning into a -- I won't use the word he said -- or I could stop to arrest him." I'd shot him, but he must have been wearing body armor. I didn't stop to chase after him after he shot Greg with the nanite dart, obviously.

"Well, we weren't able to stop the physical transformation. It was too far advanced by the time he got here. The changes to her brain... well. There were several strains of nanites in her blood. We managed to flush some of them but not all. We think there was one that was supposed to increase her sex drive, and one that was supposed to decrease her intelligence..."

"Yeah, that fits what we've seen with Tillman's other victims."

"Well, we got rid of those. But there was at least one we didn't catch in time."

"What?"

We'd arrived at Greg's room. The doc opened the door and led me inside.

There was a woman in a hospital gown lying in the bed. She smiled up at me. Her hair was long, and blonde for the first eight or ten inches, with brown tips that were Greg's original short hair. Her figure -- well, you can imagine what a misogynistic asshole like Tillman would do to his enemies, I don't need to describe it.

"Master," Greg said, "I would rise to greet you but I'm so tired."

"You need to rest," I said with a sinking feeling. "But what's this about 'master'?"

"You're my master, aren't you? You'll take care of me, I'm sure of it."

"We think she imprinted on you," the doctor said, "on the way over here. The slave conditioning nanites got to work on her brain early on and you were the first person she saw. You said she has no family?"

"His parents are dead," I said, not mentioning his almost-ex-wife.

"If we can't get rid of the nanites and come up with a way to undo the conditioning, there will have to be a competency hearing. The court will appoint a guardian for her, and you'll need to command her to obey whoever her new guardian is. If you're right and she has no living relatives, you could ask the court to appoint you her guardian."

Or they might award custody to his almost-ex-wife. Damn. Belinda would make Greg's life a living hell, not that it wasn't already heading that way even with the best-intentioned guardian in the world.

"Or he could convince the court he's competent to take care of himself," I said. "Right, Greg?"

"Anything you want, Master."

"Please," I said. "This isn't an order. But please call me Jack, like you've always done."

"All right... Jack." It took her a visible effort to use my name.

"Do you still know who you are? Your name, and all the stuff that's happened to you for the past thirty-four years?"

"I'm Greg Jermyn," he said. "Unless you want to call me something else, M-- Jack. Sorry. Um. And I can't remember thirty-four years back, only about thirty-one, and those early memories are pretty vague."

"That's good." At first I'd been afraid the nanites had erased his memories. But he went on:

"And I used to be a police officer, but now I'm your slave. You take care of me, and I do whatever you say."

I felt sick, and swore I'd bring Tillman down if it killed me.

"You want me to take care of you? Right now I'll do the best thing know how to do to help you. I'm giving you one and only one order, the only order I'll ever give you: Act like a free person. Think for yourself. If I ever slip up and give you an order, question it. Don't obey it unless you think it's a good idea and you're doing it for your own reasons. If you ever find yourself wishing for someone to tell you what to do, ask yourself, 'What would I do if I didn't have any master?' and do that. Got that?"

"Yes, Jack."

"Good. I'll see you later, Greg," I said as a nurse came in. "It looks like they need to work on you some more."

The doctor shook his head as we left the room. "It's a good plan, but I'm not sure it will work. She'll still get anxious when she's away from you for too long. You'll need to give those orders regular reinforcement. Maybe you can use the conditioning against itself and eventually wean her off her addiction to pleasing you, but I'm not sure."

"We'll make it work," I said, sounding more confident than I felt.

* * *

Trismegistus Shandy is the author of more than thirty transgender stories, available at Smashwords, Amazon, BigCloset, Fictionmania and TGStorytime.

* * *

~~Haste Makes Waist~~

By Hikaro

* * *

Ethan Winters picked up the antique lamp and laughed at just how 70s it looked. His parents were still in diapers when this thing would have been new. He held it in the light and looked for chips or breaks. A little dusty and in need of a new shade, but nothing major. He knew it would be a perfect gift for his dad for Father’s Day.

The old woman behind the register had a facial expression that said I have worked here for decades and no one has ever bought this piece of shit when Ethan stepped up to counter to pay for the lamp. He thought she didn't even want to sell it to him, honestly, though he didn't run into any trouble.

He drove back to his apartment and set the lamp down on the kitchen table. He put it out of his mind as he watched TV and Google Searched on his iPad for something to read to pass the time with. He had three hours until he had to leave for work and knew it would be an annoying day.

The first hour was comprised of TBS reruns of American Dad, about the only Seth MacFarlane show Ethan could still stand. Even so, it was mostly background noise, he’d seen that episode a couple dozen times.

The second hour was when things got interesting.

Ethan got up and walked into the kitchen to grab a soda. He passed the lamp and swore he heard an odd noise. He picked it up and turned it this way and that, upside down and rightside up. Nothing was out of the ordinary, though he still had to clean it up.

So where had that sound come from? Nothing was rolling around inside the lamp when he shook it, nothing else was on the table near it, it was almost as if the sound had come from nowhere. He held the lamp close to his ear.

But the voice wasn't coming from the lamp. “Hi there!” came the voice of a young woman, around Ethan’s age. He looked around for her, but couldn't see anyone or anything. He checked the lamp for a speaker, but found nothing.

Something was… Wrong, for lack of a better term.

“Over here, Master,” the voice said. He was a little disturbed by the Master part, but he followed the voice to its source and saw a very cute face smiling at him from the TV.

Ethan walked over to the TV and saw her eyes tracing his every footstep. “You… Are you…”

“Talking to you? Yes, Master, I am.”

“Why are you calling me that?”

“You bought my lamp. By Djinn law of the Magical Concordance, Page Eight, Section Nineteen, Paragraph Three, I am hereby in your service until you either die or sell my lamp. I can only grant you three wishes per day as dictated by Page Seventeen, Section One, Paragraph Twenty-two. Wish one can be reversed, wish two can be reversed with caveats, and wish three cannot be reversed.”

“You… You’re a genie?” Ethan asked, his voice full of surprise and confusion. Genies were the thing of Disney movies and TV shows that were on reruns when his parents were young, they weren’t real, were they? He stepped closer to the TV. “You’re really a genie?”

She nodded. “Yes, Master, if that’s the term you wish to use. I’m here to grant you the wishes you desire. Now, would you kindly let me out of my lamp?”

Ethan looked down at the lamp in his hands. “How… How do I do that?”

“Just remove the light bulb and say Najwa.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that some sort of magic word?”

She giggled. “Sort of. It’s my name.”

Ethan sighed. This sounded crazy, but he was talking to a cute girl inside a TV. Maybe if he did what she asked, he’d wake up and realize he was late for work. This whole thing being a dream would be a kindness.

He unscrewed the bulb, removed the shade and set the lamp down on the floor in front of the TV. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and said, “Najwa.”

And then nothing happened.

He opened his eyes and saw nothing but static on the TV. He looked down on the floor and saw the lamp. Had he just imagined everything that had just happened?!

“You have so much porn stashed away on here,” she said from behind him. He spun around and there she was, sitting on the couch, holding his iPad. She was dressed in what looked to be a belly dancing outfit, pink and gold with a transparent veil over her face. Her chestnut brown hair was short and framed her face. “Wow, I’ve never had a master with this strong a masturbation habit.”

His eye twitched. “I don’t… I mean I…”

She giggled. “I’m just teasing you, Master.” She set the iPad down on the coffee table and sprung to her feet, stood at attention and then saluted him. “Najwa Djinn, reporting for duty, Master! Please give me your first wish of the day!”

Ethan just stared at her blank-faced. “Do… Do I havta do it now?”

She lowered her hand almost as if she’d been scolded. What’s with her? he thought. “Do you not wish to take advantage of your first wish as soon as possible, Master?”

He scratched at the back of his neck. “I mean… I can’t think of anything to wish for. Do you… Do you have any suggestions?”

She frowned. “I don’t make the wishes, I just grant them, Master.” She put her hands on her hips. Her skirt swished this way and that. “Please, think of something? I want to serve you, and I haven't been out of my lamp in centuries, I need to know if my powers are still sharp.”

Ethan stammered, “O… Okay… Um… Can I… Um… What are the rules again?”

She sighed. “I can only grant you three wishes per day. Wish one can be reversed, wish two can be reversed with caveats, and wish three cannot be reversed.”

“So, if I wish for… Say… Godzilla to attack the city, you can do that and there's no consequences?”

She nodded. “Yes, though I don't know what this Godzilla is. I’ll have to peer inside your mind.”

She stepped around the coffee table and touched Ethan’s head. He watched as her eyes glowed and felt some sort of vibrations radiating from her. Her hand became warm, almost too warm. He tried to move her hand away, but found he couldn't move!

And then he could as she moved her hand away on her own. She shook her head, as if in a trance. “So, Godzilla is a giant lizard monster from Japan. Why do you want it here?”

He shook his head. “No, that was just a… Wait… You’ve been locked away in that lamp for centuries and didn't know what Godzilla was,” he pointed at his iPad, “but you know what porn is and how to use an iPad?”

She turned red. “I’m… It’s a little complicated, now, do you have a wish yet, Master?”

Ethan rubbed at the back of his neck. “Fine, I… Wish my car was newer.”

Her eyes lit up - in the metaphorical, happy sense, not the literal sense from a few moments ago - and she smiled. “Thank you, so much, Master!” She walked over to the window and looked around. “Um… Which one is your car, Master?”

Ethan sighed. “The red Toyota Prius down there.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath and started to say something in a language he couldn’t understand. Suddenly, wind began to kick up, as if there was a tornado in the middle of the apartment. The lights flickered, the pictures began to fall from the wall, the coffee table was suddenly in mid-air. Ethan tried to back away, but he found he was already up against a wall he didn’t even realize he’d backed against.

The wind intensified, lifting the TV from the entertainment center and ripping its plug from the wall. The couch was thrown back against the wall close to the door, cracking the wall in several places. The window itself cracked, then broke, the wind throwing thin glass shards all around the room. Ethan ducked before several of them hit where his face would have been on the wall.

And as suddenly as it began, the windstorm in his apartment died. He looked up and saw the window and the wall it had been a part of were now gone. Najwa stood there, a smile on her face as she motioned for Ethan to look outside at her handiwork.

“Cuh… Can you... “ he stammered. He needed a second to collect his speech again. “I really wish you’d clean up this mess somehow.”

She smiled wider. “Of course, Master!” She started speaking in that language from before, and the wind once again kicked up. This time, though, the micro-tornado in Ethan’s apartment was spinning the opposite direction, the pieces of wall and glass were all being sucked away from where they’d landed, the furniture moved itself back to where it had been, the TV plugged itself back into the wall.

Ethan stood up again and looked around at his once-again pristine (well, aside from the odd empty pizza box) apartment. “Do… Do you need to make the place go all twister-y?” he asked.

She looked surprised. “Oh… You don’t like that?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Oh, sorry. My previous Master loved it when I would summon the winds of change to precede a wish. Also, your car is much nicer now.”

Ethan sighed. “Can you just… Don’t use that wind again, please?”

She nodded. “Of course, Master. Now, do you have a third and final wish for today?”

He crossed the room to the window and looked outside. No one seemed to even realize anything had happened, let alone that an apartment had been essentially destroyed by a localized tornado. People were walking around, talking, ignoring everything. “Do your powers change reality in general?”

She nodded. “Oh, yes. By the Magical Concordance, any magical being such as a sorcerer, sorceress, witch, warlock, succubus, magical girl, demon or angel will be immune to the mental effects of my changes, as will you, my Master.”

“So, everyone who knows about my car remembers…” He looked down and saw his car parked along the sidewalk. Where there had once been a red Toyota Prius now sat a significantly newer, considerably more green Dodge Challenger. If This whole situation wasn't already crazy, Ethan thought he’d be going insane.

He laughed. “Now I wish I had a hot date to take around in that thing,” he said.

And immediately regretted the first part. He hadn't meant that as an actual wish at all.

“Ooh, that's a good wish, Master,” Najwa said as she took his hands. “Now, let me see… Ooh, you have several neighbors to pick from.”

“How do you know that?”

“Whenever I touch you like this, I can see limited thoughts. Oh, yes, that one should do.”

Ethan realized just a second too late. “But all my neighbors on this floor are men...”

“No problem, Master!” she said with much glee in her voice as her eyes began to glow and the floor beneath them turned a bright white.

Ethan looked down at the bright white, his head the only part of his body he could move. He watched the light travel up his legs, watched his pants melt away. He felt the hair on his legs burn away, almost painfully so. The light reached his crotch and he wanted to double over in pain as his dick felt as though it was being beaten into him with a hammer. He looked away for just a moment, then looked down again and saw his legs had been replaced by the most gorgeous pair of legs he’d ever seen on a woman, and his crotch was buried in hair that wasn’t even his natural brown but a reddish blonde. His hips were wider, and his ass felt like somebody had plastered a pillow onto it.

The light moved further up his body, shrank his stomach, thinned his waist. He felt his organs being moved, shrunk, changed. His bones shifted size. The light moved up to his chest and suddenly he felt the weight of what he knew had to be breasts. He couldn't tell how large they were, but they felt too heavy for his comfort. His hands and arms shrank, and his fingernails took on a glossy sheen. The light shrank his shoulders, giving his body an almost perfect shape.

The light engulfed his head, now. He felt his face rearrange itself, his lips grew fuller, his eyes wider, his nose shrank and his cheeks puffed out. His skull snapped, cracked, broke, then melted into itself, almost like liquid being poured into a mould. Hair tickled his neck and settled on his shoulders. He heard a high pitched squeak escape his lips, likely his vocal cords tightening and adjusting.

Najwa let go of Ethan’s hands and stepped back. Her mouth was curled into the most cartoony smile he could imagine. “You look PERFECT!” she screamed. “It shouldn’t be too hard for you to get a date now.”

Ethan wanted to hit himself in the face. “Did you need to make me a girl?! Couldn’t you have done it to somebody else?! Or, I dunno, just made a girl appear out of thin air?!” For some reason the idea of actually dating Najwa herself didn’t enter his mind, but he was quite distraught over what had just happened.

She shook her head. “Sorry, Master. I can’t just make a person appear out of thin air, as you suggest, because that would be breaking Rule Thirty-Seven, Section Two, Paragraph Nine of the Magical Concordance. Only God and those bound by Heavenly magic are allowed to do that.”

“God and Heavenly… How many magic people are there?!”

“Oh, lots, Master. And as for why I couldn’t change someone else, I have a certain amount of time to grant your wish before the wish is then erased from existence. If I hadn’t changed you immediately, you could have never wished for the potential for love again. And I can only change someone if I’m near them, as I just did with you.” She stepped forward again and wrapped her arms around Ethan. “Oh, Master, don’t worry! I’ve put all the required feminine knowledge in your brain to help your transition, and I’ll be here in case I forgot anything. Plus, there’s a lot of hunks in this building, so finding a guy shouldn’t be a problem at all!”

Ethan sighed. “You don’t even know if I like guys…”

She patted him on the back. “I took care of that, too, Master!” She took a step back but kept her hands on his shoulders. “You especially like well hung, handsome men.”

He rolled his eyes. “So, basically, you made me any female soap opera character who isn't experimenting with her sexuality.”

“Well… I sorta just mixed my second Master with my own preferences. My second Master liked to wish for well hung guys whenever she was bored, that's why the law about making people appear from thin air exists.”

Ethan was about to say something when he heard a knock on the door. He recognized the (wonderfully deep) voice as belonging to Winston, the guy who lived across the hall from him. “Mia! Did you still need your sink fixed?”

Najwa stepped back and… For lack of better term evaporated back into her lamp. After a moment, she appeared on the TV again. “You may want some clothes on, Master.”

Ethan - or rather, Mia - sighed. She really did need her sink fixed, and Winston was a decent guy. Maybe if he was between girlfriends, she might have a chance with him. After all, Najwa had decided to make this her permanent wish for the day. Mia would need to start adjusting to her attraction to guys sooner or later.

But, she thought, tomorrow, I wish for smaller boobs. These things are too big, even though my mind is adjusted to them.

* * *

~~Becoming Adila~~

By Zapper

* * *

Garth settled onto his back, the stars in the night sky were intensely bright. He looked up with a hungry grin as Ashley, the buxom blonde captain of the cheerleading squad, lowered her dripping pussy onto his iron-hard shaft.

“Oh, damn, that feels good Ash!”

Ashley slowly continued to impale herself, taking the full length of his cock into her tight wet love tunnel. Then eyes going wide she leaned forward grinding her sensitive clit against the pelvic bone at the base of his cock. “Oh God, Garth, you’re so big! I love having you inside me.”

Slowly, the teenagers moved against each other in a sensual dance as old as time. Then just as Garth couldn’t hold back any longer an image floated into his mind. The raven-haired beauty, Adila, from Saudi Arabia, naked, in a dark canopied bed holding up a piece of parchment and chanting. The image came into sharp focus and Garth felt his attention split. He could still feel Ashley and his body as it moved beneath her, yet at the same time he felt like he was in the same room with Adila, like he could reach out and touch her.

Adila attended the same elite high school as Garth and Ashley. Garth recognized her because he loved to tease her using every racist and sexist name he could think of, but at the same time he couldn’t deny the attraction. He’d just found out, on Friday, that her parents were returning to the Kingdom. He’d laughed at her, telling her that she was going to be married off soon to some Sheik. When Adila had dashed away in tears, Garth had felt bad, and wondered, for the first time, if maybe his taunting had hit too close to home.

Abruptly, Garth felt his balls clench up and an explosion of sperm shot from his dick deep into Ashley’s womb, “Allah, help me, that feels amazing!” Garth heard his own voice say. ‘What?’ he thought as he watched his own large hands move up to caress Ashley’s milky globes. Then the world seemed to spin around and he felt his spirit pull up and away from his body.

+++

There was a loud pounding at the door and Garth rolled over feeling the massive movement of soft succulent flesh on his chest. “Eadilat, tastayqiz!” At first the words made no sense and then his sleepy brain translated, “Adila, wake up!”

Garth struggled to sit up, his body felt unbalanced, strange, and he brushed back a curtain of silky ebony tresses and then his saw his massive naked breasts. Gasping Garth reached up to cup the luscious orbs and discovered what it felt like to feel a boob being groped from the receiving side. Then he slid one tiny hand between his thighs and discovered only smooth skin and a tiny slit where his once mammoth rod had been.

Before he could wrap his mind around the impossible truth the door burst open and shock raced through his feminine body. A woman he somehow knew was Adlia’s mother stomped in. Garth let out a soft screech covering his naked chest, “'Ana yaqiz” he gasped, “I’m awake,” in Adila’s dulcet tones.

“Good, we are all packed. The limo will be her in thirty minutes. Now get dressed, it is a long flight back to the Kingdom.” When she shut the door, all Garth could do was stare in shock. Somehow, he knew Arabic. Somehow he’d become Adlia!

* * *

~~Margarine Day~~

By Lyodor Tolstoyevski

* * *

We had always believed that things wouldn’t change. I mean, not too much, anyway. Children grow, the old die off, lives weave back and forth into and out of each other’s spheres. Those were expected.

But Margarine Day changed so much more than those things. Do you know what it’s like to watch your wife turn to margarine? I’m sorry, that was an insensitive question. Of course you do. Sometimes I can forget that we all lived through it. Sometimes it feels like I didn’t even live through it. Like it was some dream. That life before Margarine Day was just this thing I’d made up for myself to feel better.

I’m rambling. You know the basics. You probably lived the basics. I woke up like it was a normal day, took a shower like it was a normal day, ate breakfast like it was a normal day, kissed Tabetha goodbye like it was a normal day, and then, very unlike a normal day, she began to melt. And then I began to melt.

This wasn’t a metaphor. This wasn’t in the “I’ll stop the world and melt with you” sense of the phrase. She melted, and I melted, and suddenly there were two gelatinous puddles on the floor of my foyer. I’m lucky I hadn’t opened the front door yet.

I’m sure you know the rest of the story, too. After a few hours we reconstituted, just like the rest of the world. And as our puddles had mixed while we had been goo, we had reconstituted with some shared traits. Both of us were my former height of 5’9”. Both of us had her springy little chestnut curls. My eyes. Her nose. My hands. Her genitalia.

Yeah.

For her, things almost went back to normal. Sure, she had to buy some new clothes, and sure she had to deal with a few friends or coworkers who had changed, and she didn’t quite have a husband anymore, but Tabetha was still, in essence, just a taller Tabetha.

I wasn’t the same. And my changes did not stop that day. I suddenly had a uterus. A menstrual cycle! Eye color, height, those things don’t change a person too much,but my very chemistry, the hormones that my body began producing, were radically different, and they made me radically different.

My body started changing. Developing. Over the months, my face rounded out. My thighs rounded out. My muscles became slimmer, my frame slighter. I remember one day, Tabetha came home with a bag from Target. She acted coy and lead me to our bedroom, and then I discovered that she’d bought me a bra. Without noticing, I’d developed into a moderate A-cup, and Tabetha had decided it was becoming noticeable.

Those changes didn’t stop either. They kept on developing gradually. Every so often I’d have to buy new clothes or new underwear.

Somewhere along the line, people started to treat me differently. Not the people I’d known before Margarine Day, but the people I met afterward. At least at first. How I was treated would affect how I acted, and I found myself forming habits while around new people that would carry over to old friends. I knew I would be talked over, so I learned to wait, to pick my spots in the conversation, to commit key points to memory and integrate them on the fly into my response when I did have the chance to speak. And because of that, I learned to speak more quickly. My mouth had to keep up with my mind, everything had to come out lest I lose it.

I learned that people paid me more attention when I paid my appearance more attention. Again, this started just when I was around new people, but I got into the habit, and I noticed that even old friends, even female friends, even Tabetha, just seemed to be nicer to me when I had invested more time into my makeup routine.

One lazy Saturday morning, I woke up and got dressed and made my way into the kitchen, and when Tabetha followed me in, she stopped.

“Are those my jeans?”

They were. I’d grabbed hers by mistake.

“You should keep them. They look better on you than they do on me.”

They did. So I kept them.

It was a few weeks later when I woke up to Tabetha’s kiss and had to cut it off. I told her it didn’t feel right. That something was off. And she agreed. She had felt it for a while, and had been trying to keep up a brave face for my benefit. She seemed relieved that I felt that way too.

It wasn’t until that afternoon when it clicked that I was attracted to men.

Which is why I’m here. I need to file divorce papers. We’re doing it amicably, but we’ve decided that two heterosexual women can’t stay married to one another, no matter how much platonic love they feel. I know, you’re probably disinterested in the details, you just need to know what terms we’ve agreed to. But thank you anyway for listening to my story.

* * *

~~Boat Dog~~

by Trismegistus Shandy

* * *

Three men, a woman, and a dog sat in the lifeboat, watching the ship they'd barely escaped from disappear beneath the waves.

"Stop touching my breasts," the oldest man said to the woman.

"They're mine now, I'll touch them if I want to," she replied.

"This is your fault," the second-oldest man said to the oldest man.

The youngest man yowled and scratched his butt, while the dog looked on resentfully.

"How is it my fault?" the oldest man said indignantly.

"If you hadn't botched the body swap spell and shuffled everybody on board --" the second-oldest man retorted.

"Who barged in and interrupted me while I was working the spell?" the oldest man interrupted, glaring at the woman.

"Hey, I had no way of knowing you were working a spell," the woman said, pausing momentarily from feeling herself up. "It's not like I wanted this."

"You sure are acting like you enjoy it," the oldest man replied. "And even then, we would have been okay, mostly, if the captain hadn't wound up in Rover's body."

The dog barked once, as if in affirmation. The youngest man turned his head and barked as well. The oldest man ruffled his hair.

"Anyway, we'll be fine when we get back to civilization. I almost had the counterspell figured out when we hit those rocks. Once we get to a big city, I can buy the ingredients I need to switch us back."

"If we ever get there," the woman said.

* * *

~~Experiment GC2407~~

by Person42

* * *

A group of researchers stood in front of the camera screens; why they were standing was anyone's guess. Sometimes one of them pointed a pencil at one of the many screens and mumbled something unintelligible, writing quickly.

One screen in particular was being watched, for the seventeenth time that week.

* * *

"Hey! Look at all this coke!" Max said, pulling out his credit card and arranging the sodium nitrate into lines. His group laughed, and one boy in particular, in another group, rolled his eyes.

"Get a grip, Max," John said, going back to his own experiment.

Why the teachers decided it was a good idea to shove a bunch of random students into a room and have them perform experiments about different things was beyond John. John only knew that Max and his group were supposed to be dealing with aqueous solutions, not solids.

Solids was Group Thirteen's job. Group Thirteen scared John.

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" Group Thirteen simultaneously screamed, a thermite reaction going off. John, despite standing fifteen feet away, suddenly felt very hot.

"That's downright dangerous, assholes! Take it outside!" John, ever the mediator, screamed.

Group Thirteen hi-fived, laughing after the reaction petered out. The entire class had felt the reaction (indeed, Jessica screamed and caught fire for standing next to it; she was under the chemical shower now) and was shocked silent. First explosives, now thermite reactions, and John was pretty sure their next experiment was radioactive.

He went back to his own experiment, the shock factor silencing the whole class into doing the most hated thing: Calculations. And then more calculations, when they inevitably forgot to follow Hess' law, or whatever.

John didn't know what he was supposed to do. He was alright at chemistry, but he couldn't think of anything his experiment was supposed to do. It had isotopes of Cobalt, Iron, Silicon... even a tiny bit of Gallium was hidden in there.

He waited for his solution to begin boiling, at which point he would dump it into his other solution, and hopefully they would react to fill the balloon with a gas. John still didn't see how they were going to reach the gas phase, especially since it was so highly pressurized that it would make a supercritical fluid if anything.

His testing environment was highly, highly pressurized. He was very eager to see iron as a supercritical fluid.

The solution started boiling, not enough pressure. John retracted his arms out of the apparatus, upping the pressure. So many bars of pressure. SO MANY.

John was frankly amazed no heat was leaking out. The temperature was so high in there, the pressure incredible...

The solution was poured into the other, and the whole thing.... disappeared. An invisible gas, detected solely because the balloon had inflated.

Then it deflated, the gas leaking out.

"Uh oh."

John broke the silence of the class, backing away. "So, some super-hot solid is just going to appear in a few moments, and probably burn down everything."

* * *

The group nodded to each other, dropping the clipboards. One of them signed onto a computer, composed an email with a subject of a variety of letters and numbers, the content simply saying "Experiment successful. Release them."

* * *

John spun around, eyes darting about. He was beginning to panic. It had been three minutes, the solid should have shown up by now. But it hadn't.

He felt a chill down his spine. Everything was getting so cold, but that didn't make sense. His was the only experiment being active, and it should be warming everything up... He screamed as his eyes went milky white and his entire body felt like it was on fire. Every nerve in his body activated in pain, and his vocal cords gave out. It felt like he was liquefying. Faintly, he believed he saw a small cloud of silver form. Was that the experiment cooling down directly above him?

An eternity of pain later, and nothing felt the same. Everything was so sensitive, even the air. His chest rose and fell at different intervals than usual, as if his lung capacity was smaller. Either that, or something was constricting her chest. The cloud of gas was also completely gone.

Something felt wrong within her head. It felt as if her brain was on fire.She quickly went through what she could remember. She wrote her name on the paper… wait, that was it. She kept remembering the name “Jane”. Why? That wasn’t her name. Other things felt both weird and familiar.

Jane, who kept trying to think of herself as Jane, stood up. No, not Jane, Jane. JANE. As hard as she thought, her old name would simply not pop into her head.

She got a decent look at herself by looking down. She was very obviously female. That... wow. It sort of made sense. Now why was none of this freaking her out? By all rights this should be the literal worst experience ever.

Jane stood again, as she had fallen, shuddering. She... felt the desire, no, need to do more science. She basically ran to her calculations and began writing down notes. She didn't know how she knew they were notes, as they were not in English. It was almost as if she were in a trance. Her brain felt on fire once more.

Fourteen men in hazmat suits walked in, two of which indeed were carrying something radioactive. Instinctively, Jane knew the other twelve were for her.

She spoke some language, probably Latin. Though, it may have been Ancient Greek. Either way, she didn't actually know the language. It was if she were but a mere passenger in her own body. It was quite the thrilling experience, actually.

No no no that was wrong in every way. She hated this. But that experiment she ran did something to her. Something bad. She loved, no, hated it.

Well, she got the feeling she was the head of the testing here rather than a mere participant of the experiments, so that was acceptable. Quite a new life to jump into, but she was adapting well.

* * *

~~The Thief~~

By Zapper

* * *

“Ugh, my head hurts!” Sitting up, Zach used one hand to brace himself. His head pounded, and then he noticed how the tight red dress clung to every curve and he could taste the hint of cherry from Kathrine’s lip gloss. Glancing around he spotted his body in an identical chair only a few feet away. “Oh, fuck, it worked.”

“Of course, it worked,” Thomas answered. “Now, we need to hurry and get you upstairs to the party before Kathrine is missed.”

Zach climbed unsteadily to his feet trying to adjust to the four inch heels. “What about her?” He gestured toward his body, “How long will she be out?”

“I set the machine to keep her under for the next four hours. Plenty of time for you to get in and get out.”

“You think? Four hours to find Senator Harrison’s safe, crack it, and steal the documents?” Then Zack looked down, “And I’ve got to do it while wearing this ridiculous body?”

“Your agent, Dexter, said that you can crack any safe. Just an hour ago you were telling me that this job shouldn’t be too tough, as long as I had a way to get you in. Well, my boy, you are ‘in!’ You are wearing Senator Harrison’s daughter’s body. You’ll be able to move freely through the penthouse without needing to think up an excuse. He’ll never suspect you’re there to crack his private safe.” Then he leered at Zach, “And that is one of the sexiest female bodies I’ve seen. Ridiculous is a misapplied adjective!”

Slowly, Zach made his way out of the room and then to the elevator. The fact that Thomas had somehow rented an apartment in the same building and just five floors below the Senator’s penthouse told Zach that the man must have some serious backing. Arriving at the penthouse, Zach was greeted by Kathrine’s father.

“Baby, you look fantastic!” the distinguished looking man exclaimed, wrapping Zach in a hug and kissing him on the cheek. It took all of his self-discipline not to pull back. Then Harrison whispered, “Mr. Taylor is here. His divorce just went final, I’ve got you seated right next to him.”

“Oh, er, thanks . . . Daddy.” Zach stumbled, wondering what the business tycoon looked like and if he was supposed to recognize him.

Harrison gave the woman he thought was his daughter an odd look, “Kathrine, you know he is my single biggest campaign donor? He just joined the billionaire club. Be nice, you never know, Kathrine Taylor has a nice sound.”

Zach moved away from Kathrine’s father and into the lavishly decorated penthouse. The sound of his heels on the polished marble floor felt too loud to Zach, he was used to moving with as little noise as possible. As if this wasn’t strange enough, Zach became increasingly aware of his soft, sexy, body and the flesh on his chest that seemed to move with a mind of its own.

His normal body was over six foot and he made sure to keep it in the best condition possible. There was no denying that Kathrine’s body was fit, but everything felt so soft and the absence of his normal member between his legs was as disturbing as the flesh that Kathrine had put on display with this red dress. Zach glanced at the slim lady’s watch on his wrist, “Only an hour to go until dinner!”

“If you’re hungry, I can grab something for you.” The young man in the tux was handsome even if Zach couldn’t remember his name. For a second, Zach thought about telling him that his eyes were “up here” since he was staring openly at Zach’s chest.

“That would be lovely.”

Anything to get rid of another guy trying to get his temporary body into the sack. Using the opportunity, Zach broke away from the pre-dinner mingling and headed into the private part of the residence. It took him a few minutes to find Harrison’s study. After that, locating the safe was a snap. With a glance at his watch he knew he had enough time and went to work.

Once open, Zach ignored the diamonds, the bonds, and the neatly stacked rows of cash. Instead he scooped up the documents he’d been paid to steal. Rolling them up he stuffed them in the handbag he’d brought back to the penthouse. Zach made his way to Kathrine’s room and dropped off the bag before returning to the party. He’d have to wait until after dinner to retrieve it and return to the lab.

Several hours later, Zach slipped once more into the apartment converted into a lab. “Doc! I did it! I’ve got them.” He was greeted by silence. Slowly, Zach made his way through the quiet, dimly lit apartment and into the living room where the equipment had been set up. Then he froze in stunned shock.

The chair that had held his body was now empty, but laying next to it was the seventy-year-old body of Dr. Thomas Kraft. What was more shocking was the knife sticking out of his chest. “Oh, fuck,” Zach whispered in his new, soft, sexy alto.

* * *

The gentle breeze caressed Zach’s perfect, delicate, feminine skin causing his flesh to prickle and sending a shiver down his spin. Trying to look calm and sophisticated he continued walking through the park.

“Dexter said that if anything went wrong, to wait a week, and then to meet under the Fifth Avenue bridge at midnight. Well, it couldn’t have gotten much worse!”

After finding Thomas’s body Zach had searched the lab for clues. That’s when he’d found the backpack and the bomb. Knowing there were innocent lives in danger, he’d quickly called 911 and reported a bomb in the building. Shortly after the evacuation the damn thing went off. Luckily, it was small enough to only destroy the lab although it had set off a serious fire. The fire had ruined several floors of the building including the penthouse, but Harrison had assured his “daughter” that she shouldn’t worry, everything was insured.

The drama from the bombing was enough for everyone who knew Kathrine to write off any of Zach’s odd behavior, during the last week, as PTSD. Suddenly, a tall figure stepped from the shadows. Zach took a deep breath, very aware of how small he was, how vulnerable, and that he was totally alone.

“Dexter?”

“Not exactly.” A familiar voice said from the shadows.

“W-What? No, it can’t be.” Zach gasped as his former body stepped out from under the bridge.

“You look surprised.” Zach spun to her right now seeing the tall sinister form of Dexter, the agent she used to set up her jobs.

“What’s going on?”

“Not particularly bright, is she?” his former body said, moving to stand in front of Zach.

“No, Zach was a great safe-cracker, but he was always a little slow.”

“Would someone tell me what’s going on?”

“First, the documents.” Dexter demanded. Slowly, Zach reached into her purse and pulled out the papers.

“Here, just as promised. Now, what’s going on?”

“Excellent,” the new Dexter said, then looked at Kathrine-in-Zach.

“We’re square.”

“Agreed.” Then with a chuckle, Kathrine ravished Zach’s new luscious curves with his eyes. “To answer your question, I’ve been trying to escape my controlling father for years. The ass plans to force me, well you, to marry some businessman or politician. Thomas, here, with his mind-swapping device offered me a way out.”

“What?” Zach gasped looking at Dexter, “Thomas?”

Thomas nodded, and flashed a grin. “After you left, Kathrine and I met Dexter. Unfortunately, he wasn’t very happy going from thirty years old to seventy. Luckily, Kathrine here is quite a skilled fighter. All those years her father forced her to study martial arts paid off.”

“That and a young, strong, fit male body!” Kathrine said with a grin. “I never dreamed how good it would feel to be so strong!”

“So, you’ve got those corporate research documents, when do we swap back?”

At this Kathrine laughed, “Whose life do you think it was Thomas arranged for me to take?”

“What?”

“I’ve always dreamed of being free of my family and my obligations. I managed to hide several million dollars in offshore accounts. What I never expected was that I’d love being a man so much that I wouldn’t want to give it up! Enjoy your new life, Kathrine!”

* * *

~~Afterword~~

Woo boy. Y’know this was supposed to go up in March? March! A good 90% of that was me (Hikaro) not getting off my ass and doing better with trying to get contributors. I take full responsibility for that, and I intend to do better next time.

On the subject of next time, if you want to contribute to the next Mixed Tape, please email me here:

Bandage131@yahoo.com

Or get me a PM on BigCloset or TG Storytime. The next Tape will come out when there are enough contributions, so I dunno when that will be, but don’t expect it any sooner than in two or three months if we’re lucky.

Oh, ya want the rules now? Okay.

1) Story length is 500-2500 words, 4000 at the outside, but not recommended
2) Anything goes as far as content
3) More a request than anything, but an author blurb, we’ve been kinda lax on those recently

Again, the next Tape won’t go up until there are enough contributions. As it gets harder and harder to get people who want to contribute, it takes longer and longer to get a Tape out that isn’t like three stories long, and thus it makes it harder to determine when a Tape will be posted. Remember, you can’t read a Mixed Tape if nobody contributes to one, so don’t hesitate!

Also, in case you’re wondering about the division of work here, Trismegistus Shandy did all the editing, picked the story order; Hikaro just put them in order and pretty much roped people into contributing.

See ya next time. Whenever the hell that is.

Anything Goes, Don't Blink

A man wakes up with his wife’s nose. Two girls concoct a scheme to sneak a friend into an Elvish gathering. A dragon hatches and makes a decision that will change a young boy’s life. These are just some of the 14 stories on offer in the biggest Mixed Tape collection yet. Hit play and embark on a journey through time, space and unconventional fantasy, with a full cast of mad scientists, demonic bureaucrats, Time Lords and Ladies, and extraordinary ordinary individuals.

The man with the tape recorder wore a brown trench coat, a trilby and reflective aviator sunglasses. Even though he was inside and the heater was going full blast, he had not taken them off. He had, however, unbuttoned the coat. This revealed a white shirt and lighter brown trousers with suspenders. There was a packet of cigarettes in the breast pocket of the shirt. Half a dozen scuffed and bent medals were pinned to the trench. His skin was pale and he did not cast a shadow.

“Can I get you anything?” Said Kaitlin, half hidden by an open cupboard door. Her back was lit up by the light spilling out from the fridge. “I’ve got chock-chip cookies. The regular type, and white with macadamia nuts – those are real nice.”

I’m not hungry, said the man.

The man with the tape recorder does not, cannot, eat.

Kaitlin turned around to face the fridge. “Drink? There’s Pabst. My ex-roomie left it. It needs drinking up and I can’t trust myself to. Fourteen months and staying that way, thank you very much. And lemon cordial. Homemade. Not by me though. Mr Sanders – you probably saw him doing his lawn on the way in, with his old hand mower; I know, right, a devil-darn hand mower, I can’t believe it either! – makes it and brings it over; which is nice of him don’t you think? But I do go on don’t I?” Kaitlin turned to face the cupboard again. “How about a coffee? Or Ovaltine?”

I’m not thirsty.

The man with the tape recorder does not, cannot, drink.

“Suit yourself.” Kaitlin began to prepare a glass of chocolate milk. Two spoons of powder into the glass. One into her mouth. A sheepish grin. Pour milk and mix. Sip. “What did you say your name was?”

I didn’t say it was anything. It isn’t important. Tell me about your stories.

What follows is what Kaitlin believes to be the truth. You cannot lie to the man with the tape recorder.

“Oh those, they’re just a bit of silliness. Not at first; I was a kid then. Going through a phase, you know. But I didn’t really want to be a guy; I just wanted to have a different life. I’ve kept them up because people like them. More than the stuff I’ve submitted to the Student Union ‘zine. More people read them too. And, pin it on habit, pin it on a need for validation, on fetish, on whatever, it’s just fun to write.”

She is not deceiving herself. He can tell.

Kaitlin spooned the chocolaty sludge left in the bottom of the cup into her mouth. The man watched her, consuming vicariously.

Tell me one.

Kaitlin licked away her milk moustache, drew a breath and began.

The man listens and lives vicariously. The tape recorder preserves her words and his experiences, as it has preserved many others. When she finishes he will leave, leaving her with no memory of his visit.

Janice stopped working to flick the back of Nelly's ear. "Sit still, or I'll have to erase it and start over."

"Fine, just hurry it up," said Nelly.

Janice continued to paint Nelly's back, proceeding cautiously as she constructed the magic symbol. She was using a thin brush and green liquid and the result resembled a sparkling vine.

Half an hour later the symbol was completed. Nelly slipped her clothing over it with a sigh of relief.

Once Janice hid her supplies in the closet she turned to Nelly with a grin. "Alright, let's go find Saul..."

Saul Algrad was attending to his duties as a squire, removing the dents out of Sir Gale's shield. While the young boy hammered away at the large metal sheet the two girls were able to sneak up from behind.

Janice tapped Saul's shoulder causing him to jump. The shield fell out of grip, landing on the hay-covered ground with a muffled clank.

"What are you two doing!" yelled Saul, "Sir Gale will be furious if I damage his shield!"

Nelly arched her brow. "Weren't you in the middle of fixing it? Does falling on the ground do more against his mighty shield than being struck with a mace?"

Saul opened his mouth to retort, but found himself without a proper complaint. "Oh, well... I supposed I may have overreacted."

"Yes, you did indeed. Luckily we have more important matters to discuss." said Janice.

The girls strolled over to the nearest bench and sat down. They purposely left the middle spot empty, then gestured for Saul to sit between them.

After a bit of hesitation Saul placed his hammer down and joined the girls on the bench. "So... what is it that you wish to talk about?"

Nelly made a show of reaching into her satchel, pulling out three red crystals. Each one looked hollow, with a dim light radiating from inside.

"As you can see," said Janice, "we managed to get three separate invitations to the Elven Queen's Jubilee."

Saul slowly nodded. "Congratulations."

"We'd like you to join us," said Nelly, "as a friend and as a bodyguard."

At that Saul chuckled. "To the Jubilee? Have you two forgotten it's only for ladies? They wouldn't want me anywhere within a day's journey to the grove."

While Saul continued to snicker Janice looked around the courtyard for any witnesses. When none were seen, she nodded towards Nelly.

Without any warning Nelly grabbed Saul's collar and pulled him into a kiss. Saul was confused, and found that he couldn't back away.

The glimmering green symbols slipped into view, slithering up Nelly's neck and transferring over to Saul through their lips.

As their kiss broke there came a flash of green.

A moment later Saul found himself with his arse against the ground. Nothing seemed right, he couldn't recognize the feeling of being in his own body.

The girls smiled. "Come along now, Sally. Time to get ready."

Ruexin is a long-time fan of the fantasy genre, and recently took interest in writing TG fiction. Ruexin's first story “Suhara of Curses” is available to read at TG Storytime, and on other major TG fiction hosting sites.

It was late. A family - Mom, Dad, twins - sat around in the woods, a campfire blazing before them. They were gathered around close. The kids were roasting marshmallows.

"Story time!" The father said.

"Yay!" The kids exclaimed in unison. They looked to their mother as a cue for her to go first.

"Ah, campfires. I remember my own childhood and our camping trips." The woman paused, getting completely lost in memories. "It was an all-boys affair. My mother wasn't allowed to go. My brothers and I would have to do everything, my father said it was training. He wanted me to be like him, to grow up to father a family, to be 'strong and proud' like him."

The woman didn't notice her husband choke on the water he was drinking after she said "all-boys affair" and "father a family."

In fact, the woman didn't notice that she’d revealed the one secret she vowed to keep to the grave. Her family was dead, just her husband, kids, and friends were left. Nobody knew that she was born male. She was a housewife with no college education, no need to tell anyone. She said she had a hormone deficiency in order to keep getting her estrogen.

Taylor, the woman, shakes her head. " 'Taylor!' My father would yell, 'go fetch some water to boil! And be quick!' I would reply with a 'Yes, father,' before running away."

"T-taylor? You said an 'all-boys affair,' no? Do you have something to tell me?" her husband, Bill, asked, suspicious of something he feared.

Taylor looked just like a deer in the headlights. Her eyes went wide and she froze. What she had said couldn't be un-said, and she realized it.

"Well?" Bill asked.

"I didn't mean for it to come out this way. I didn't mean for it to come out at all..." Taylor began.

Bill just gathered his gear and began his trek home. "You coming, kids? I'm leaving your 'mother' out here. Faggot deserves it."

The kids, horrified at their father's language, scooted close to their mother. They had never seen their father act this way. He usually wasn’t like this with their mother.

"No! Why would we? Mommy is our mommy. So what, she was a boy? I'm a boy!" Taylor's son said defensively, picking up on his mother’s cues.

"And she wanted to be a girl, which is much better than being a stupid boy!" The daughter exclaimed.

Bill walked away, throwing the keys at Taylor.

"Don't worry, Mommy, we'll be here for you." The kids say, their voices in unison. Taylor, her eyes wet with fresh tears, always wondered how they managed to do it.

"Thanks, kids. Our life is going to change a lot now."

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.

Dr. Stein fumbled with the laptop. His hands were shaking and everything was blurry. He fought back a yawn. Finally he managed to turn on the camera, setting it up to save directly to all his social media. There was a hammering on the metal door. They'd found him. He didn't have much time left.

He looked straight at the camera, ignoring the sallow skin which hung from his flesh, the black bags beneath his eyes, the dried flaky streaks that lined his lips. His once impeccable clothes were ripped and shredded, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the warning.

“To whoever may see this, you have to warn the world, they don't know what is coming, what-what I have created,” he said.

He had to speak louder there were moans outside now, screams of pleasure, and a steady rhythmic thump against the door. Soon one of them would figure out how to open it, they were morons – he'd designed them that way –, but when they were blocked from what they desired, they could become scarily intelligent.

“I just wanted to get some companions, and I needed to punish those who mocked me. I am a genius but no one ever respected me. So I made a chemical, it changes men into women, beautiful, lust filled women,” he said. “I only wanted to make a girlfriend or two, I took those who abused me, stole my research. The chemical it also destroyed their minds. It made them the perfect bimbo. But I made a mistake.”

The door started beeping. One of the bimbo's must have opened the electronic lock, they'd have the door open soon.

“I don't have long. The bimbo's can be very intelligent when they want something. And they wanted friends. Somehow they made the chemical so it affects men AND women. Now every man and woman in town is a a bimbo, except me. They, they've been using me to pleasure themselves. I only ju-” he stopped, as the door slowly started to open. His hand slapped the override switch.

“I just got away after almost eight hours of pure sex. These bimbo's will have sex with any man they find until he is dead or they change him into one of them,” he cried. “I saw some of them driving cars away from town, they want to spread. They want to turn everyone on earth into a bimbo or a sex slave.”

The door began to open again. Pretty hands reached through looking for their man. Moans of want and pleasure filled the room.

“Oh God, what have I done? Call the army! You have to stop the bimbo's before they overrun everything! STOP THEM!” he screamed as he was buried in a dog pile of naked flesh.

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.

Author’s Note: This story takes place after the events of the Comic Relief special “Doctor Who and The Curse of Fatal Death”. If you have not seen CoFD I suggest that you watch it before reading any further.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Do-wDPoC6GM

Through some quirk of quantum mechanics the planet Dwinn – “the EXTREME sports capital of the universe” – was moving backwards in time. This happened in a stop start kind of way. Every 28 galactic standard hours the topology, any buildings constructed from local materials, and the life forms native to the planet would reset to where they had been 56 hours before. Time would then precede as normal until the next reset. This cycle had not, as yet, affected the thought processes of Dwinn’s inhabitants. Which was why many of them were, at present, jumping, sans chutes, from a hovercopter into the smoking crater of nearby Mt Umbarpo.

The Secret Agent watched this through the bar’s glass walls. Just this morning, he’d slit the throats of the agent who’d been tailing him. There’d been hired help as well, and they’d died even harder. But they were locals and would be back at the next reset. To kill him? Or had their contract ended with the permanent death of the individual who’d employed them? He began to tap tunelessly on the bar with his empty shot glass.

The Archaeologist was hardly listening to the dealer’s spiel. Instead she was watching the handsome man at the bar. Partly because of the vortex manipulator he wore on his wrist, but mostly because he looked delicious. The projection from her holophone held up several amulets. Priceless, he was telling her. Nang dynasty. But for her, 30,000 cosmibuks. A bargain.

The honeymooners had attracted as small crowd of well-wishes, and not a few snickerers.

“I say, that’s a lovely pair you have there.”

“They’re etheric beam locators,” grumbled the husband.

“And they’re incredibly firm,” said his wife.

“What happens on Ursa Minor Beta stays on Ursa Minor Beta, eh.”

“Oh, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Really? Tell me more.”

“After the reset.”

A hush descended on the bar. All eyes turned to the wall window. On the slopes, Dwinnian skiers tried to squeeze as many guaranteed bone breaking stunts into the minutes they had left as possible.

When it happened, it was underwhelming. It looked like a bad jump cut.

The bartender was pouring the Secret Agent another drink when all the doors into and out of the bar were blown off their hinges.

Chaos.

The Agent dived, rolled, came up firing at the silhouette’s behind the retina searing laser pulses, downed one, winged another, rolled again, to the cover of a tipped over table and onto the laps of the honeymooners and the Archaeologist.

The window walls fragmented under a barrage of Plasma blasts from a hovercopter.

The Archaeologist and the wife, each to the other’s surprise, grabbed for the Agent’s wrist. The husband took advantage of the confusion.

The Secret Agent readied himself for the consequences.

As the vortex manipulator tore a hole in Dwinn’s tortured quantum fabric, he wondered whose eyes he’d be seeing out of when they arrived wherever, and whenever, it was taking them.

Kittykait has been writing TG stories since 2007. She is the author of “The Pseudonym Paradox” and “Knot Real” and the creator of the Flippedverse series. You can find Kait’s stories at TransFic.net.

Drek watched his sister, the Dragon Rider Tal’Sora, disappear along with her Great Brown Dragon behind the Iron doors. Drek waited for a minute and then took off at a run. To the freewomen and dragonriders of the hold he was just a slave, male, and invisible. Drek made his way down a seldom used side passage under the hatching grounds. The light was poor here but Drek fished out a glow-stick Tal’Sora had enchanted for him. By its light he found the crevice. He was a small boy and easily squirmed in and up. ‘I hope it won’t be over before I get there,’ he thought. At last Drek peeked out a crack from the back wall of the cavern.

The crack was recent and because it went down almost a hundred feet sand from the Hatching grounds had slowly been falling in. This created a slight depression in the sand by the back wall. Drek had spotted it a few days ago while tending the eggs. Now he had the perfect spot to view the hatching.

The eggs had been sorted by color; green, brown, blue, black, white, and of course the special egg. Royal Purple, indicating a new Queen. The most numerous colours were closest to the pillars, ledges, roosts, and platforms where the Dragons and their Riders watched. Dreck spotted his sister near Queen Tal’Elana and her Great Purple Dragon.

Among the eggs the Chosen, teenage girls, waited nervously.

Then Drek saw it. The purple egg just a few feet away. Six daughters of the nobility stood in a semi-circle facing the now rocking egg. Most of the eggs were rocking now and then a brown egg cracked and a dragon spilled out. Eager girls closed in, but the dragon ignored them. It cried out and lurched one way then another, looking. A shy girl who’d been standing farther back gasped.

“She says her name’s Angreneth.”

Tears running down her face she touched Angreneth’s snout. A spark jumped between them and the watching Dragons rumbled approval at the bonding.

The purple egg jerked violently and the waiting noblewomen closed in. To Drek’s surprise the egg shattered along the back, closest to him, and through the shards of dragonshell he saw the most beautiful eye. His heart stopped. Light took on strange hues. Time slowed, and stretched. He was on the sand. He could hear shouting and roaring. Drek ignored them.

*My name is Isilialyathar.*

Drek slowly reached out to touch the tiny queen, part of his mind told him that he would be punished for this, men were only allowed to bond male dragons and there were none in this clutch.

His hand touched the soft baby scales and a burning wave of power swept through Drek. With the power came pain and then it was over. Tal’Drek let out a feminine sigh and brushed her long purple hair back with a delicate hand. The dragons’ roaring turned triumphant. A new Queen had bonded!

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.”

“Harry Truman, Dorris Day, Red China, Johnny Ray…” my clock radio blared.

Billy Joel and a hangover. I don’t recommend it.

My clock radio.

Why wasn't it my phone going off?

I looked at the bedside table and saw what looked to be a late eighties alarm clock. I hadn't owned one of those in years. I hit the snooze, got out of bed and tottered to my closet. I had to get dressed and head out to work. Late three days in a row wouldn't go down well, especially since I was swimming in dark waters with my boss already. I ignored the light switch. My brain wasn't ready for that stimulation

I grabbed a pair of jeans from my closet. They didn't feel familiar. They seemed more like those leggings that girls wear. I felt around for something else, but I couldn't find anything as far as long pants went. I found shorts and skirts, but that's about it. Why the hell would I have this stuff in my closet? I had to find that light switch.

I found the TV remote first. It was larger than I remembered it and completely flat. Since when did we go back to these things? Where'd my comfortably ergonomic, modern, remote control go?

I switched on the TV. I must have found one of those VH1 specials that look back on past decades, because I ended up looking for the light switch by the weird neon lighting of one of those Pepsi commercials that played rock 'n roll. I wasn't even born when these commercials were popular.

I flipped on the light switch and looked around a strange room. The same room I'd fallen asleep in, but different. The furniture was far older, everything looking plain. There was a poster for an 89 Corvette that looked disturbingly new, and almost exactly like the one my mom had once had in my bedroom when it had been her's. The walls were an off-white, and the floor a tan carpet that I'd helped rip up when I was younger.

A calendar on the wall read November, 1989, with every day up until the 24th crossed out. I reached out and caught sight of my hands for the first time since I turned on the light. My fingernails were painted a deep red.

I looked around for a mirror. There should have been one in the closet, but there wasn't. There was a standing mirror set up in a corner of the room, right next to the vanity that I'd never once owned in my life. I walked over to it and the sight took my breath away.

The reflection wasn't mine, it was my mother's. A seventeen year old version of my mother, going by the calendar. The sight of her shocked me, thanks in no small (literally) part due to her naked breasts. I looked down, saw those same breasts attached to my chest and gulped.

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.

I suppose I didn't really have a problem when I woke up with her nose. It took me a second to notice that the face in the mirror was different. A second longer to recognize how.

But a nose by any other name would smell just as sweetly, as they say, and a differently-shaped nose, even a femininely-shaped nose doesn't really change all that much, so I ignored it.

And it somewhat prepared me a week later when I woke up with her eyes. They were green instead of brown. I told her about it and she said she loved my new eyes, so I didn't worry.

I had her support, both emotionally and physically, the day I woke up with her bust. Her bra strained to close itself around my larger chest, but the cups fit and it was better than nothing.

I gave in my two weeks' notice when my coworkers started looking at me oddly. A week later I woke up with her hands. They were larger in size than hers, but the same shape.

On my first unemployed day, I woke up with her height. As though something out there was waiting for me to remove myself from the world that would recognize that impossible difference.

And the weeks passed, and she helped me with my changes, each week seeing me look more and more like her. She didn't question a thing, and her calmness kept me stable.

The whole time, the whole experience, she never stopped looking at me as she always had: devoted, loving, understanding that I was dealing with things as best as I could.

We came to wonder what each week would bring, what would be added to bring me closer to her. Hair, chin, waist, knees, the months passed and this became our new normal.

But this morning, things are different. This morning I woke up without anything new. Granted there isn't much left to change. My feet are still untouched, my ears, maybe one or two other things.

But when I went to brush my teeth and picked up the toothbrush, it looked odd. It felt natural, but my eyes told me something was wrong. I put down the toothbrush and repeated the motion.

I'm right-handed now. It's such a small thing. I've lost my face, I've lost my shape, I've lost my whole identity, and I've dealt with it. But this is it. This is what breaks me.

Plastic and bristles clattered to the tile floor, and my knees followed.

She found me an hour later, still on the floor, and still in every other sense of the word. She extended her hand to pull me up. Her right hand. I did not reach up to meet it.

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!

She was the perfect woman, forget the big breasts and the perfect smile, there was just something about her that made her seem so alluring. She was so sexy, so… sultry, but completely unavailable. I thought she was amazing, but she seemed to have nothing but contempt for me. To be honest, she was a self-absorbed bitch, but I just couldn’t get her out of my head. It wasn’t that I was some dateless looser, I actually did pretty well for myself, but Melissa was in a league of her own.

Completely enthralled by her I watched her from afar, but was unable to think of a means to woo her. I’d tried on several occasions, but each attempt resulted in very public humiliation. She seemed to enjoy turning down men, tossing them aside like yesterday’s garbage, but that was all about to change or at least I hoped so. A part of me kept wondering if I was being scammed, but I couldn’t turn away. Not when I was so close.

I’d just taken a seat as the metro lurched forward, beginning my morning commute which would take me to the office, when he came to me. I was told it would happen that day, but I’d expected someone to find me at home. He didn’t look like anything special, but what he slipped into my lap was something wonderful. It was a blue stone, a perfectly formed sphere that had a rainbow pattern circling its exact centre. It almost seemed to glow and I quickly stashed it inside my suit coat before anyone could get a look at it. I’d ordered it from a catalogue called ‘Aethermysts’ which I’d found sitting atop my desk at work. I had no idea where it came from and at first I’d thought the thing was a joke, but the more I looked it over the harder it was to convince myself it was anything but genuine.

I told myself I was going to wait until I got somewhere more private, but I couldn’t resist the lure of the wishing stone. I only had one wish, but that was okay I only need one.

“I wish I was someone Melissa could love.”

The world spun, lurching at a sickening speed. Then it was over and I opened my eyes. I was at the office; I shook my head and felt hair brush against my neck. I reached up to bat it away and saw a pair of perfectly manicured hands rise up to perform the task. I gasped and looked down and found myself looking into the crack between a pair of nice melons. I caught my reflection from a small mirror mounted on the office wall. I’d become Melissa. In the end, there was only one person a bitch like her could love, herself. I glanced in the mirror and felt my lips form into a smile. What did I have to worry about? I’d become perfection.

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” (the first Meridian story) 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”).

cmd://smile!

“Greetings, Master.”

cmd://hands in the prayer position, bow the head

“Welcome to The Island. I am Noriko, your pet for this week. I hope I give you great pleasure. I am here to serve your every desire, but if I am displeasing, just feel free to discipline me, or ask the administration to do so.”

Oh god, it’s all a mistake! How can I convince them it’s all a mistake? I was snatched off the street in broad daylight and taken to that awful training centre, where they sealed me into the bodysuit and shipped me out to The Island. But I’m a middle-aged man for heaven’s sake, not this 20 year old Asian female!

“So what was your name before you put the suit on?”

Of course he knows. The one who will be my Master for the week knows I was male. They always do. It’s a major part of the attraction.

“Colin, Master.”

cmd://smile!

“Really? Well Noriko, I think you and I are going to get along just fine.”

Oh god, he’s going to enjoy humiliating me, this one. A taste of my own medicine, he imagines. He’s a spanker, I can tell. I can see it in his eyes. He’ll find fault, and then he’ll put me over his knee and spank me. Pervert!

I won’t be able to resist because my body is that of a 20 year old Japanese woman who could easily pass for 14, especially wearing a sailor fuku like I am now.

And I shouldn’t be here at all! Lord Sebastian, who owns me, runs this tropical island as his private fief. It’s his hobby, taking male chauvinists, shits and abusers, putting them in female bodysuits, training them and renting them to his invited guests. Justice, he calls it. But I’ve never abused a woman in my life! Never, never! If anything I supported women. He must have got me mixed up with someone else!

I don’t understand bodysuits, don’t understand how their technology works, how they can change the outward form of someone into someone else. Or how they provide a masking personality. All I know is you can’t wear them too long or there are problems. I’ve been Noriko for six months, and it’s become part of me. The seam has disappeared, and it won’t come off. It’s made me into a girl, who’s petite and

cmd://glance upwards.

– oh god! –

cmd://glance upwards, smile!

irresistibly cute.

It was just a joke anyway, what I said about Asian girls being naturally submissive and obedient towards men, and how Western girls ought to learn to be more like them.

Okay, perhaps I laboured the joke too much. Perhaps the women I worked with didn’t find it funny anymore. But I don’t deserve this punishment!

“Do you actually enjoy this? Tell me the truth!”

cmd://program off

“Yes Master, I love it so much! Let me show you.”

I drop to my knees.

cmd://program on

No! no!

cmd://smile! smile!

*

Kandijayne has been reading transgender fiction for many years, but only recently began to write it, and has this year published her first stories on Fictionmania, BigCloset and TGStorytime. Most popular seems to be “You’ve been drafted, Girlie!”. In the ‘Real World’ ‘he’ retired at the end of 2013, so should in theory have plenty of time to write more.

“You know I hate it here. Do we always have to come to the mall?”

“Calm down, sweetie, you complain too much. We always have so much fun here!”

“You have fun. I hate it and you know that.”

“Don’t know why you do. I mean, really, you look fabulous and the boys drool all over you.”

“I look like a girl – which I am not - but everybody thinks I am. And I hate it. You know I can’t stand it the way everyone stares at me. Someone’s going to find out and then what?”

“Oh, I love it when you get into a hissy fit. You may not love it now but you will; you can’t help it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know how she is. How she makes you over the way she wants. And definitely not how you want. Here let’s turn you on for a few minutes.”

“Don’t do that!! You know that thing drives me crazy, and it hurts going in.”

“Of course, it does and that’s just what she wants. How long have you been edging this time?”

“That’s none of your business but, like, three days.”

“And now you’re so terribly horny, aren’t you, gorgeous?”

“Please, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s too embarrassing.”

“Of course it is but that’s what makes it so special. So embarrassing to be horny. So embarrassing to be dressed like a girl and horny. And so embarrassing to be dressed like a girl, have lots of boys staring at you and be so horny – all at the same time. So confusing. So delicious.”

“Please stop, I can’t take this. I’ll do anything you want if we can just get out of here quietly.”

“Sorry, but you’ll do anything anyway. And besides, you’re going to get a big reward in a little while. If you’re very good and put on a big show as we walk out, I’ll give you the best blow job ever.”

“But you’re not a girl either. And I’m not gay. I don’t want that.”

“Of course you don’t but she does. See, I’m an oral queen. That’s what she turned me into. And she’s going to make you into an attention whore. The only way you’ll be able to get off is after lots of public display and humiliation. You’ll get conditioned. There won’t be any resistance; you’ll get to like it and then love it.”

“So grab your purse and get your flirt on. It’s a long walk to the car.”

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.

He hadn't planned on jacking Olivia. The seventeen-year old with the long legs (he'd never learned her name) was supposed to be the last. But sex as a female was better than anything he'd experienced as a man and soon he was jacking a new girl every weekend. He couldn't get enough. The problem was too many girls were waking up in bed with strangers, far away from home, causing people to ask questions. It was time to stop.

He'd found the “Jacker” (his name for the device) on a hike through the canyons, its pink shell peeking through a tangle of metal covered with strange hieroglyphics. Curious, he took it home. He was playing with the device while watching the weather girl on television when it happened. He was watching her, then he was her, but only for an instant. That was the flaw. The swap only lasted until someone panicked and the girls always did. Seconal solved that problem. Swallow one orange pill, then jack just before it took full effect. It worked perfectly.

Though he swore he was done, tonight he couldn't get Olivia Mason out of his mind, needing to know what was beneath those baggy boy clothes she always wore. He'd seen hints of the curves she tried to hide. He was sure she was a virgin.

He glanced at the Jacker lying on the cot, then at Olivia's photo on the wooden table next to the orange capsule and the half-filled glass of water.

“One last time.” he said, his resolve melting away. Popping the Seconal in his mouth he downed the pill in a single swallow.

He strode to the pink cone with a purpose, placed it on his head and fastened the strap. Then he stretched out on the cot. As the drowsiness settled over him he pictured Olivia in his mind. The Jacker began to hum.

Dirk slipped inside the girl like he would his favorite pair of jeans, slow and easy. Opening his eyes he found himself lying on a bare mattress on the floor, dressed only in a tee shirt and panties. He got to his feet, found the light switch and flicked it on. The room filled with the harsh glare of a bare bulb. The place was a fucking dump – peeling wallpaper, a worn carpet that smelled of urine! How could she live like this?

Then he noticed the dark purple bruise on his left wrist and the fresh cigarette burns on his right forearm. Suddenly things fit together—the mattress on the floor, the long sleeve shirts, it all made sense.

He paced the room with troubled steps before pausing in front of the dirty window that looked out on an equally dirty street. There were a thousand other girls out there like Olivia. He might jack into any one of them. Gazing out into the deepening night, Dirk wondered what to do next?

Jennifer Ravyn’s stories have appeared in both electronic and printed form under various pseudonyms. You can find her work–in-progress serialized novel How I became the Baddest girl in Clarksville, at Fictionmania and TG Storytime.

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.

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.

Kylie examined her image in the mirror, a giggle almost breaking through her serious expression. She liked what she saw.

No, not liked. She adored it.

Pure joy tingled up her spine, with a power Kylie believed could rocket her to the moon, free of the walker and plastic braces that bound her.

“Splendiferous,” Kylie half-whispered, repeating her daddy’s favorite word. Nothing in her five-year-old vocabulary described it better. What else could she say about a blue—no, royal blue dress, the lady in the store called it, “Royal blue for a princess,” her daddy said.

So soft, so poofy, so… twirlable.

The girl’s eyes turned very green, a sure sign of mischief. Daddy always joked he could hear the gears turning in that little head.

Could he really? Kylie didn’t know, but she knew one thing. She would twirl, walker, braces, or no.

Hands tight around her walker handles, Kylie moved in short, jerky bursts, soon realizing she had to relax her grip just a little. This time, she managed a smooth glide.

She was going to do it! She would do it!

Well, almost.

The wheels balked, sending walker and little girl to the ground with an ear-splitting crash. The child cried, more out of frustration than pain.

“Kylie Grace Mitchell, what in the world are you doing?”

Her daddy’s voice made Kylie jump.

“Sweetie, what happened, and why are you in that dress? You know that’s for school tomorrow.”

Her daddy tried to sound stern, but it just wasn’t in him. Picking up the still-crying child, he placed her in his lap as he sat at the foot of her bed.

“I tried to twirl in my new dress, Daddy, and my stupid walker got stuck and I fell,” Kylie said, all in one breath. “I just wanna twirl like Mary Beth.”

Her daddy sighed. Her mama would have known how to handle this better. But, the best he could do was the best he could do, he supposed.

“I know, darlin’,” he began, giving her his best “I mean business!” look, “but promise me you won’t do that again, OK?”

“Kay,” Kylie said, still sniffling.

“Good girl,” her daddy said, ruffling her hair. “And your walker isn’t stupid. Know why?”

Kylie shook her head.

“It can take you anywhere.”

“To the moon?”

Her daddy chuckled. “No, silly girl. But you can march into kindergarten tomorrow, pretty as you please, saying ‘I’m Kylie Grace Mitchell. How do you do?’”

“But I still can’t twirl!”

“Well, maybe you just need a little help.”

Lifting the child, he swung her through the air, her dress billowing around her. Kylie squealed, all woes forgotten.

“Now, Miss Kylie, bedtime,” he said, removing dress, braces and shoes.

“’Night, Daddy,” she said, kissing his cheek.

Turning, he saw the brightly-colored sign on her door--KYLE’S ROOM—and silently placed a magnetic letter “I” before the “E”.

“’Night, darlin’,” he said, wishing everything were as easy as one simple letter.

Rachel currently has only one completed story online, the SRU tale "A Box Full Of Dreams" (published under the name, Rachel Newstead). This latest contribution, "Vowels," will be her first completed story in fifteen years, though an incomplete story, "The Christmas Ivy Bloomed," is currently on Big Closet.

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."

Anarakon, junior assistant to the assistant to the manager of Team Four of the Seventh Circle Infrastructure Sanitation Engineers found himself growing annoyed and frustrated with the situation. A young teenage boy had summoned him and was playing dumb.

"So you want me to do what in exchange for what?"

"Look kid, I'm not repeating myself again. You give me your soul. I fulfill a service."

Sparks flew from the circle boundary as Anarakon tested his prison.

"What if I don't want anything anymore?"

"Having second thoughts," Anarakon chuckled, "Too bad. You're stuck with me until we deal. The only way you can dismiss me is by making a pact."

"You can't keep me here."

Anarakon groaned in frustration. "I'm not keeping you here. You made the mistake of making your circle like mine. You didn't think this through kid."

"But, the Book of Alakash said I could dismiss you at any time."

"It lied kid. The book was written by third-rate hacks. I wouldn't wait too long. You didn't bring any food and water did you?"

The kid looked dejected when he realized the implications of Anarakon's words.

"I'll be honest. You don't have to pay with your entire soul. You might only need to give a portion of your soul in service to Satan."

"I guess I have to. Let me think about it."

The boy turned away and sat down. It was over an hour before he stood and faced the summoned deamon.

"I think I know what I want."

"Spit it out boy."

"I wish to have a long life with a beautiful girlfriend who loves me."

Figures, thought Anarakon. Nerdy kid, lonely, wants love.

"Let me make sure I understand you. You want to live a long time? Would you say you want to be immortal?"

"No, I don't want to live forever. I know what happened to Tithonus"

"Ok. And you want a girlfriend that loves you?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Hold a second while I calculate the cost." Anarakon checked his PDA. "It won't cost you much. Just eight hours of community service to Satan."

"Really?"

"Yes." Anarakon chuckled and gave the standard smile HR had drilled into him. The boy paled, thinking no doubt that he’d messed up. This would definitely work to his advantage. Anarakon programmed the magic, and released it to its job. The magic tingled as it washed over them.

Anara stepped out of the circle. She walked to the boy.

"What? You should be gone. Why are you a girl?"

"Silly boy, I'm your girlfriend." She smiled and took the boys hand in hers. She pulled him close, laying a kiss on his lips. Breaking the kiss, Anara said, "and I love you."

The boy didn't know it yet, but he would now live a long time till the second coming. Anara would be his loving girlfriend till then. There'd be hell to pay, but being a girl instead of a paper pusher in hell was worth the cost.

Stardraigh has an active imagination and is not afraid to use it. You've all been warned. Other works in progress by Stardraigh are: “Abtahka”, “Project Amaranth”, “Methods of the Uninitiated”, and “Salamander”. Stardraigh posts her stories at Big Closet but is open to posting elsewhere as soon as her executive function stops its shenanigans.

I hope that you enjoyed reading this collection as much as I and my fellow contributors enjoyed putting it together. Please take the time leave a comment. We authors really appreciate them. They encourage us to write more, and write better. Which is a real win-win type deal, I’m sure you’ll agree. So tell us, what was your favourite story and why?

I’d like to extend a big thanks to all the authors who contributed; the newbies and the veterans of previous Mixed Tapes. I’m looking forward to working with some of you again on future collections.

I’ll be putting another collection together next month. If you want to be part of September’s Tape e-mail me at hutch0@hotmail.com.au.

The guidelines are:

• Write a short piece no longer than 500 words.

• 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.

Write whatever type of story you want. However if you’d like a prompt:

• Realistic stories dealing with gender dysphoria and LGBT issues are always appreciated.

• Female to male, female to female or male to male transformation stories are rare to non-existent. I’d like to see more of them since there’s plenty of fresh ground for a writer to explore there. So grab your bullwhip, pith helmet and Quinine, set your pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and take us into the unknown.

• These collections get a lot of science fiction and fantasy stories. But did you know that the past is another country and that it can be just as fascinating and wonderful as anything imagined by Tolkien or Clarke, and often more so? Yes, I’m talking about Historical fiction. How about a story about Operation Spring of Youth, or a possible real life inspiration for the folk song Sweat Polly Oliver? There’s a theory that Queen Elizabeth the 1^st (and also Joan of Arc) may have been intersex. If you’d like to do anything with these ideas, let me know first and I’ll let you know if it’s been taken or if you have the go ahead to start writing. I also ask that you treat them seriously and do your research.

• If there are any types of stories you’d like to see in these collections, let us know with the review/comment function.

Submissions are due by Sunday the 14^th of September 2014. All contributors will be sent a copy of the collection before it's published. If you read it and decide that you don’t want your work to be represented in it then you may withdraw your contribution. Publication will (hopefully) occur on Sunday the 21^st.

Until then, or until I hear from you.

Cheers

PersnicketyBitch

The Doctor returns, a unique visit to the mall, and a kingdom gets a new monarch. Hit the "play" button and join Bobbie Cabot, TGSparadox, Trismegistus Shandy, Lenal, MrSimple, and Hikaro on their collective journeys.

"So what are these?" Ted asked his boss for the summer, the Assistant Curator for Archaic Media. He was an undergraduate doing an internship in archaeology at the Swift Museum of Technology, and this was his first day on the job.

"Mixtapes," said the curator. "Notice the handwritten labels? And a search of the music database reveals no song or album of these names, which probably means that the names of the compilations were made up by the compiler. This set of tapes was donated to the museum a few months ago by someone who found them in their grandmother's house after she died. They didn't donate a working tape deck along with them, but we have a couple, fortunately. Probably the grandmother hadn't listened to them since her last working tape deck died, decades ago more than likely, so you and I will be the first to hear them in who knows how long."

"Is it still going to sound like anything coherent after all this time?" Ted asked. "Magnetic media don't last all that well, do they?"

"We'll have to do a lot of restoration work," the curator said, "but with the new techniques, we can recover a close approximation of what these tapes sounded like. And who knows, we may find a song or comedy sketch or something that doesn't survive anywhere else. First, though, let's listen to the raw sound, unedited..."

He selected one of the tapes, labeled "Blew Melodiously the Zootibar," carefully inserted it into the ancient but well-maintained tape deck, and pressed PLAY.

Table of Contents

Succession
by Trismegistus Shandy

Swappr: The Break-Up
by Lenal

Fearleader
by MrSimple

Forgotten: Zero's Return
by TGSparadox

Is This the Real Life, Is This Just Fantasy
by Hikaro

There's a Cat in My TARDIS!
by Bobbie Cabot

Afterword

~~Succession~~

by Trismegistus Shandy

* * *

When I was conceived, my mother was the Royal Mistress. The king grew tired of her when her pregnancy started showing, so he pensioned her off as Retired Royal Mistress and named her Countess of Tersh. When I was two, she married my stepfather, Krinars. They had other children in the years following, and though my stepfather may have favored his children by my mother, he was a good father to me, too.

As I grew up, I knew I was different from other boys, and not just because I was the king's bastard. I was pierced with envy when I saw my little sisters wearing their new dresses, or learning to draw and play music. My mother tells me that even before my younger siblings were born, I once asked her if I could have a dress like the little girl I had seen at court. She laughed it off at the time, but she remembered it later.

Once a year, on my father's birthday, we went to court and paid our respects to him. I don't remember a time when I didn't know that I was the king's son, but not like his other sons -- not in line to inherit. As I got older, I realized that we got most of our financial support from my mother's pension as Retired Royal Mistress. My stepfather's income was spent mostly on his son and daughters, while my mother's pension paid for her personal expenses and mine, as well as some family expenses like our horses and carriages.

So when, just after I turned ten, I gathered courage to tell my mother I wanted to be a girl, she sighed and said, "Yes, I thought so. But we'll have to ask your father for permission."

She wrote to him asking for a private audience, and enclosed a simple, heartfelt letter from me as well. Our summons to court came a few weeks later. Mother and I set out alone, with just a couple of servants; my stepfather and half-siblings did not come with us.

We met the king in his private audience chamber the evening after our arrival in the capital. "So, Traimir, you want to be a girl. Why is that?"

"It feels strange when people treat me like a boy, Sire. I want to be a mother and artist when I grow up."

"Not a general, or an adviser to whichever of your brothers inherits the throne?"

"No, Sire." I was afraid he was disappointed in me, but the prospect of growing up to be a man, of fighting or commanding others to fight, was even more terrifying than his displeasure.

"What name would you like to be called by if you were a girl?"

I'd thought about that a lot. "Sirisha, like Mother."

He seemed vastly amused by that. "Well... Sirisha... you being a girl suits me very well. I will issue a royal decree that everyone is to call you Sirisha the Younger and treat you as a girl. And I will tell the mages of the Royal Academy to see what they can do about making you a real girl. How does that sound?"

"It sounds wonderful, Sire!"

And it was. For the next eight years.

* * *

As I grew older and learned more history, I realized why my father had been so eager to comply with my wish to be a girl. It simplified the succession. Bastard sons were normally not supposed to inherit, but they had done so twice in the kingdom's history, and both times had involved a civil war. There had also been two other rebellions and civil wars when bastard sons tried to claim the throne over their unpopular legitimate brother. By declaring myself a girl, I had eliminated the slight chance that, as a boy older than some of the king's legitimate sons and closer to the direct line of succession than his nephews and cousins, I might someday dispute the succession. Women simply did not inherit noble titles in Preshar, much less the throne.

Three years later, a plague swept through the kingdom from east to west, and left two of my legitimate brothers dead, along with several of my cousins. By this time, the king's mages had discovered a way to slowly change me into a real girl, and had cast the first of seven spells that would gradually and completely change me. For three years, I had been wearing elegant dresses and learning to draw and paint and sing with my sisters, not learning military strategy and swordsmanship with my little brother, and by this time my younger siblings were used to me being a girl. Little Nashra could not remember when I was a boy.

Each year on my birthday, a mage from the Royal Academy came to our home and cast the next spell in the series that would make me a woman. By the time I turned eighteen and the sixth spell was cast, there was very little left of the boy I once was.

Mother and Krinars had begun to consider my marriage, tentatively planned to take place sometime after my nineteenth birthday and the fruition of my complete womanhood. They hosted parties to which all the eligible young men of the district were invited, along with a decent number of young women for them to dance with when they weren't dancing with me. And we attended all the parties hosted by other noble families.

We were at one of these parties when the news reached us from the capital: anarchists had blown up the palace, killing my father, my legitimate brothers, my uncles, and most of my surviving cousins, along with hundreds of other people. It was that very night, just after we returned from the party (which broke up immediately on reception of the terrible news), that several nobles, including the king's surviving councilors, visited our house. They had gotten mages to teleport them, it was such an emergency.

"Sire," they said, "we need you to take the throne."

"Don't call me that," I said, blushing. "I'm a woman. I can't inherit the throne."

"Consider your surviving male cousins," said the eldest of them. "Peishar is an imbecile, being cared for at his father's estate by his mother and aunt. Shrusai is a heretic, living in exile. Your bastard brothers are much too young, and would need a regency for years to come. If we pass over them, we get into the descendants of your grandfather or great-grandfather's bastards, or even more distant legitimate kin among whom the order of succession is not clear, because of the destruction of records during the war with Kasrekar. But the mages who teleported us here tell us that the change is not complete or permanent yet -- that you are, in fact, still a man where it counts --"

"Hush!" I said, turning red with anger and shame. "I tell you, I am a woman, and I will be treated as such. If you will break the laws of the kingdom to make a bastard king, you can break them a little more and make me queen."

They looked at one another. "Sire," said one of them, and I interrupted again:

"Say 'Madam', if you wish me to attend to what you say."

"Madam, then. The people will not stand for a queen. The mages tell us that if the seventh spell is not cast at the appointed time, the changes made so far will reverse themselves."

I was terrified. I'd known that, and we had always been careful to arrange for the casting of the next spell promptly on my birthday, hosting the mages the night before my birthday to be sure they were on time. But I'd never felt a serious threat to my transformation before. I kept a lid on my terror and didn't show it, however.

"If you force me to become a man, I will abdicate. If the people -- by which you really mean the nobles -- will not have a queen, they can have an imbecile or a heretic for a king. Other kingdoms have queens from time to time, and you cannot claim that their queens are any worse rulers than their kings."

"That is not how we do things in Preshar," said the eldest councilor.

"No," said one of the others, "but... perhaps we could? Lady Sirisha was born a boy, and even if we allow her to become a woman permanently, we could argue that her birth sex is what matters for the succession."

The others considered that.

"Well, we won't have an undisputed succession no matter what we do," said another. "Simply the fact that her father decreed her a girl, and that she lived as a girl and woman for so many years, would seem to impair his legitimacy in some people's eyes even if he became a man again. They might argue that the late king's decree disqualifies her, even if the transformation is undone."

"So we have to argue based on her birth sex in any case. Why not ignore her current sex entirely, then?"

So we compromised. I completed the series of spells on my birthday a few weeks later, after Shrusai's army was defeated at the border, and was crowned as the first female King of Preshar the following day.

* * *

Trismegistus Shandy is the author of about fifty transgender stories, available on Smashwords, Amazon, BigCloset, Shifti, TGStorytime, Fictionmania, and DeviantArt. They’re currently working on a novella to be included in their next short fiction collection.

* * *

~~Swappr: The Break-Up~~
by Lenal

* * *

I stood outside the gym with my gym bag in hand and sighed. It had been a really long day at work, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend the next two hours moving from one piece of equipment to another while attractive people judged me with their eyes.

But someone brought cheesecake to the office, and like I said, it had been a really long day. Three slices long, to be exact. And I was pretty sure there'd be some leftover cheesecake in the lounge tomorrow.

My spirit is weak, and my flesh is all too willing.

Unfortunately no part of me was willing to hit the treadmill, and I'd already listened to the latest episode of my favorite true crime podcast on the subway to work this morning. So, as was becoming a bit of a bad habit lately, I pulled out my phone and opened up Swappr.

Swappr is a kind of bartering app. You post the work you need done, and other people respond. You can pay in money or by doing a task for them in exchange. Agree on basic ground rules and a time limit, and then the app swaps your bodies for the duration. It was scary the first few times—there's plenty of ways that lending your body to a stranger could go wrong—but the system's pretty good about weeding out bad seeds, and it was fun to experience other people's lives for a little bit at a time.

As I've learned from three out of every five times I've gone to the gym since I downloaded the app, it's usually pretty easy to find someone willing to exercise for me—fitness nuts, athletes with injuries, a couple of pregnant women, not to mention the guys who will run on an elliptical for hours if it means getting to spend five minutes in the women's locker room.

I got a hit right away—someone in category four. I'm always a little wary about swapping with dudes, but he was offering to pay me for the experience, and not just a couple of bucks, either. Like, a sizable chunk of next month's rent. And he only wanted one task done in return: break up with his girlfriend for him.

Okay, so he was a jerk, but then, anyone who's eager to hit the gym on a perfectly good Thursday night has to be a jerk, right? And after I broke the bad news to his girl, I'd have the next couple of hours to lounge around while the jerk worked off all my cheesecake calories. Plus, I'd be saving this poor woman from dating the kind of jerk who would outsource a breakup. It was win-win-win.

I set the timer for three hours, figuring that would give the guy enough time to get a nice warm-up, workout, cool-down, shower, and maybe a little quality time with my lady bits. The way I figure it, sex burns about 70 calories, and an hour on the elliptical burns like 500, so he’s doing more for me than most of the guys who get to feel me up. Sounds like a bargain to me.

Besides, it’s not like I wasn’t going to do the same to him.

I tapped my passcode, hit accept, and felt the weird tingling, falling sensation, until I hit bottom. I opened my eyes and looked around to see the inside walls of a bathroom stall. Nice, fairly clean, but the lack of that little tampon trash box marked it as a men's room. The tingling left my limbs quickly, and I looked down at my loaned body. His dark arms were all muscle, as were his legs. The polo shirt and cargo shorts left something to be desired in the fashion department, but a guy with this much muscle tone was bound to do wonders for my workout.

I stood up and unbuttoned the shorts, then pulled them down, followed by the black briefs—never swapped with a guy who wears briefs before. His dick was uncut, another first for me, and his balls were…I mean, they were balls, what can you say? He kept his pubes pretty closely trimmed; guys say it makes things look bigger, but one thing I’ve noticed about being in a few dudes’ bodies is that everyone’s junk looks smaller when you’re not seeing it at eye level. Still, I wouldn’t be disappointed to have this package in my face sometime.

Frankly, I was more impressed by his abs. He even had that v-shaped crease pointing down toward his fun zone. This jerk was hot as fuck.

I pulled up my shorts and checked the task notes on the hot jerk’s phone. His name was Trevor, and his unsuspecting girlfriend was Chloe Saha. From the pic he included, she was pretty, mid-twenties, with big brown eyes, black hair, and a complexion to die for. She reminded me of my college roommate Riya. I closed the app and left the stall, sliding my phone into one of my many pockets so I could wash my hands and get a better look at my (temporary) self.

I'm convinced that cargo shorts were invented just to taunt women. "Hey, you know all those cute pants and dresses in your closet that have no pockets or tiny pockets or—worst of all—fake pockets? Take a look at these man-shorts: they're nothing but pockets!" And they don't even have the decency to look good.

Trevor, on the other hand...damn. I looked him over in the mirror, and if I'd had my usual equipment, I might've felt that warm little flutter down below, even despite the doofy golf outfit. I dried off and ran a hand through his coarse, curly black hair, then rubbed at his closely-trimmed beard. I'd been in a couple of guys with beards before, but I don't know that I'll ever get used to the way it feels to have hair on my face. Part of me is fascinated, and part just wants to break out my tweezers and make a waxing appointment.

I figured I'd kept Chloe waiting long enough, so I left the men's room. The door slammed loudly against the wall, drawing the attention of a few nearby diners. I could tell from looking at the door that it was pretty heavy-duty, but it was nothing to Trevor’s muscles. Being in his body already felt like I’d been transformed into some kind of stone giant. I was huge, strong, and firm. Nothing about this body jiggled or swayed or bounced when I moved. I had the sinking feeling that getting back into my skin after this would be kind of like wrapping myself in pillows and Jell-O.

The restaurant was fairly nice; not "you need a foreign language minor to read the menu" nice, but definitely a fancy date destination, which made Trevor's fashion choices even more egregious. I found Chloe pretty quickly; she was swirling her wine and staring into it with an expression of severe boredom on her face. She did her best attempt to fake perking up once she saw me heading back.

"Hey," I said, settling into the chair across from her.

"They brought the check," she said, gesturing to the black leather folder.

"Oh, I'll get it," I said, reaching for it. Chloe eyed me with a degree of suspicion. Trevor would have to approve the purchase, thanks to Swappr's common-sense safety precautions, but given how much he was paying me to take this date, I didn’t expect him to fight the charge. It seemed like I should probably just pull the Band-Aid off quickly. "So, there's a reason I took you out tonight," I said.

"Other than it being our anniversary?" Chloe asked.

Seriously, dude? Abs aside, my opinion of Trevor just kept plummeting. If I had any doubts about doing this before, they were gone now. I cleared my throat. "Yeah, I don't think we should see each other anymore. It's not you, it's me. All me. One million percent me. I'm a complete and utter jackass, and you deserve way better."

Chloe looked shocked for a moment, but then her eyes narrowed. "Oh, my god," she said. "You're not him, are you?"

I hesitated, but Trevor hadn't really done anything to earn my protection. "No?" I said, shrugging his broad shoulders.

"This is just so typical!" Chloe tossed her napkin in frustration. "That man is allergic to even slightly uncomfortable conversations.”

"Sorry," I said. "I just wanted someone to hit the gym for me. I shouldn't have enabled him."

"It's not your fault," Chloe said, slumping a little. “It’s definitely not the first time he’s decided to work out rather than spending time with me. Oh, I’ve offered to go to the gym with him, but it’s all ‘nah, babe, when I’m at the gym, I’m in the zone, no distractions, just the man versus the machines.’”

“Ugh. Look, I hate to say it, but it sure sounds like you’re better off without him.”

Chloe sighed. "Yeah, I guess I am. He’s not all bad, but I kept hoping I could fix the bad parts, and they just kept getting worse,” She downed her wine glass. “You know, this isn’t the first time he’s done this? He swapped out of my birthday party to watch a college football game.”

“Seriously? And you didn’t just dump him right then?”

“I know, I know,” she grabbed the wine bottle and tried to pour, but not much came out. “But when he swapped back I was a little drunk and a lot horny, and, well…look at him.” She blushed. “God, I’m sorry, I’m not usually that open with strangers. What’s your name?”

“Andrea Collins,” I said, offering my hand across the table. She shook it. “And there’s no need to apologize. I’d probably still be with my last shitty boyfriend if he had arms like these.” I flexed for emphasis.

“Yeah, they’re real nice,” Chloe said wistfully. “Andrea, huh? Well, Trevor should count himself lucky he got into your pants tonight, because he’s certainly not getting into mine.”

“With the way I’ve been eating lately, I feel lucky if I can get into my pants,” I said. We both laughed at that, and Chloe flagged down a waiter for more wine. We talked for an hour, sharing horror stories about exes. Eventually the conversation wound down, and we decided to call it a night.

“Let me get you a cab,” I offered.

“No, no, my apartment is just a couple of blocks away, and I’m nowhere near falling-down-drunk yet,” Chloe replied.

“Then let me walk you home,” I said. “Come on, it’ll be nice to walk through a city without having to keep one hand on my pepper spray. I’ve got two more hours of male privilege and I plan to use it.”

“Well, if you insist,” Chloe said, offering her arm. I took it in the most gentlemanly manner I could manage and led her out onto the sidewalk. We walked past restaurants and bars and crowds of people milling about, and it was nice not having to look over my shoulder or hold my keys between my fingers. A cool breeze swept over us, and Chloe shivered. I put an arm around her, marveling at how big and strong I felt next to her.

We came to her building all too quickly. “Hey, thanks again. This was easily the best break-up date I’ve ever had.”

“I’m glad I could make it enjoyable,” I said with a smile.

She started toward the door, then stopped. “You know, I just realized that you probably don’t have anywhere to go for awhile. Unless Trevor told you where his place is.”

I hadn’t really thought of that. “No, he didn’t. I could probably look it up.”

“Why don’t you come up to my place? I’m about to dig into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, and ice cream loves company.”

“You’re sure it won’t be weird?” I asked, rubbing the back of my neck.

“No,” Chloe said. “But you’ll get some free calories and I’ll get to add a little revenge fat to that perfect body, so I’m willing to deal with the weirdness.”

I followed her upstairs. We sat on the sofa with two spoons and a tub of Chocolate Therapy between us and talked and ate and giggled together. At one point, she casually rested a hand on my thigh, and I quickly learned that not every part of Trevor was quite so eager to break up. I tried to ignore the strange stirring sensation in my shorts and reached for another spoonful of the good stuff. I dug in a little too hard and launched a glob of swirly chocolate right into Chloe’s face.

“Oh my god,” I said, clumsily rubbing at the sticky mess with my hand. “I’m just not used to—“

That’s when she kissed me. I froze for a second, but then I kissed back. Chloe broke away.

“Shit! Sorry! I kind of forgot,” she said, blushing. “We were having a good time and I went and made it super awk—“

This time, I kissed her, and then we were off.

Look, I’m as straight as the next straight girl, but, well, Trevor’s pretty clearly straight too, and what can I say? The spirit was weak, and the flesh was not so much willing as insistent.

Aw, who am I kidding? The spirit was pretty willing too. I mean, I’ve been in a few guys’ bodies at this point, I’ve jerked off a couple of times just to see what it felt like, but being alone in a bathroom with a bottle of hand lotion is a lot different from being pulled toward a bedroom by a hot woman and a whole lot of free-roaming testosterone.

Even so, no matter whose body I might be borrowing, I’m still a lady, and my mama always said that a lady doesn’t fuck and tell.

And fuck we sure did. I felt like some kind of sex prodigy. Years of focused practice had made me an expert on all things vaginal and clitoral, and the masculine hormones flooding my brain gave me a new appreciation for all those parts. As for the bits I was borrowing, well, I’d had my fair share of experience working one of those from the other end, and it’s not exactly rocket science.

Though there are some superficial similarities.

Afterward, we stretched out in her bed, and I enjoyed feeling her lying against my chest, tracing her finger between my fabulous pecs and around my flawless abs.

“So, is it always like that?” Chloe asked idly.

“Like what?”

“You know…actually good? Like you have some fucking clue what you’re doing down there?”

I laughed. “Beats me. It’s my first time. As a man, anyway.”

“Huh, I don’t think I’ve ever taken anyone’s V-card before,” she laughed. “God, imagine what you’d be like with practice.”

“I mean, I have tons of practice,” I said. “I have a nightstand drawer full of practice equipment. I’ve been practicing since I discovered the shower head in sixth grade.”

Chloe snorted. “Maybe I should just date girls. Or girls swapped into guys’ bodies.”

“I’m sure there’s a guy-in-a-guy’s-body out there who can work your pussy just fine,” I said. “You just have to respect yourself enough not to stick with an asshole once you know he’s an asshole. Even if he’s a hot asshole.”

“A really hot asshole,” Chloe sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

“Happens to the best of us,” I reassured. That’s when Swappr chirped from Trevor’s cargo shorts, on the floor halfway across the room. “Shit, that’s the ten-minute alert.” I got out of bed and scrambled for Trevor’s awful clothes.

“Just like a man, bust a nut then run,” Chloe leaned forward in bed, watching me with a wistful expression. “God, I’m going to miss that ass.”

“Maybe I can get Trevor to be my personal trainer, do some Swappr booty calls,” I said with a smirk, pulling up the cargo shorts. I took out Trevor’s phone and marked the “Break-Up” task as completed. “But I think you’re better off getting out there and finding a decent guy, not a girlfriend-with-benefits.”

“You’re right,” Chloe said. “But it was really fun hanging out with you, even before the orgasms. We should stay in touch.”

“I’d like that,” I said through the polo shirt. Chloe slipped off the bed and walked out the door, glancing behind to make sure I was checking out the way her naked ass swayed as she walked. I definitely was, and I could feel little Trevor stir against the briefs. Jesus, was this how men felt all the time?

She came back with her phone and tossed it to me, and I nearly didn’t catch it because I was staring at her breasts. Get it together, Andrea.

“Give me your number, and I’ll let you get out of here before you turn into a pumpkin,” she said. I entered my contact info and started toward the door. She stopped me and pulled me into a tight hug. I couldn’t resist kissing her again, and she slipped a hand up the leg of my shorts. “My boy’s gonna swap back into the worst case of blue balls he’s ever had.”

“You’re devious,” I laughed. “Text me soon, and stop by if you’re ever in my neighborhood.”

“Oh, I will,” Chloe said, walking me to the hallway. “And next time, I think I’ll return the favor.” She blew me a kiss and shut her door, and I booked it down the stairs to the street below.

Trevor’s phone chirped again, and I tapped the “Return” button. As the tingling spread across my body, I smiled. I guess I got my workout in after all.

* * *

Lenal is an avid reader of TG stories and has finally sat down to finish a few, available at TG Storytime and Fictionmania. Lenal subsists almost entirely on validation, so feel free to feed the starving writer.

* * *

~~Fearleader~~

By MrSimple

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Chem-teach Russel yelled out, "Get'yer asses ready! Ten minutes or lose the credit!"

"Fuckfuckfuck, why didn't he say we had to participate?" I was more than frustrated, beyond panicking, and further from ready than anyone else here. Still in my school uniform, I’d wanted only to make sure that the props and lights were set for tonight. Instead, I learned at the last minute that we had to be here for the class Haunted School event.

"Dude, chill. Just put something on real quick and your creds are in the bag." Wayne, ever relaxed, leaned back on one of the lamps. It was not screwed down or anything, so it fell, and him with it. "Ouch! Damn, uh...mind giving me a hand, Shane?"

"Yeahyeah." Reaching down, I grabbed the hand he threw up at me. Immediately, I let him go when I saw the strobe lamp’s broken neck.

"Hey!"

"You broke—Never mind. If the bulb’s still good, we can set it up on a shelf. It's powerful enough for the whole room." Turning towards the door, I saw that the hall was clear. "Go set that on the closet shelf. Don't close the door! I'll be back after I find something to put on."

"Really? You gonna go to the store with what, nine minutes left?"

"Maybe eight, but no. I'm sure I'll find something in the closed-off section."

"The construction site?"

"De-construction site, but yeah. There may be nothing but garbage in there, but it might be garbage I could throw on."

"Go for it."

A class project with only two participants. That was how well Mr. Russel, our homeroom-slash-chemistry teacher, communicated with us. I wasn’t too sure how he’d react to everyone bitching at him tomorrow, but I wasn’t going to take the chance that he’d fail us all.

Getting my mind off of that, I ran down the halls, down the spiraling steps, hitting the ground floor and racing for the other end of the school. It took three minutes. I had maybe a minute to find something and change.

I burst through the unhinged doors, clipping my head on one of the bars holding the door shut and bruising my shoulder. I didn't care. My grades were more important than minor injuries.

"Okay, thirty seconds. Wherewherewhere?" Inside the wreckage, I could see the old rooms, nothing more than cubical husks. There were a few desks, twisted and snapped in different directions from the wrecking crew. Other rooms had stationary desks for the teachers, but all that was left of them were the bolted-down legs.

Nearly every closet was absolutely destroyed. I crossed my fingers, praying that there would be a hoodie or something left behind. I could use this dust and debris to look like a zombie, or at least someone in really bad shape. I could finish it off with some of the red paint back in the classroom.

But I didn’t intend to ruin my own clothes for that shit.

After a minute, I still hadn’t found a thing. I was about to call it quits and head back, maybe ask Wayne to switch clothes with me, like he'd care. Besides, I felt he owed me something using my family’s cozy indoor pool almost every day.

Something flashy caught my eye in a pulverized closet. Kneeling down, I uncovered it.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me." Holding it up, I could make out what I’d found: a cheerleader outfit. It had our school’s name and mascot, but the colors were wrong: Brown and red instead of blue and yellow. There were a pair of pom-poms, too!

I didn't have time to complain. I got undressed in record time, then whipped the costume around to make sure there were no bugs or fiberglass on it, and put it on.

"Holy shit, this is tight! Come on..." I tried, but the damn jersey wouldn’t go around my ribs and waist. I finally managed to get it down when I sucked in my stomach. Wiggling my hips, I got the pleated skirt to fit around my bare thighs. I nearly broke the zipper yanking the zipper up, but the whole thing fit. Barely. "Time to rock 'n' roll!" I threw my shoes on and high-tailed it back.

I was late. I could already hear the doors opening and the muffled voices of the guests coming in. If anyone saw me leaving the closed-off section, I could get into serious trouble for messing with stuff back there or, like, secret drug deals, I dunno! That was what went through my mind.

I had to think quickly. "Well, they came for a scare." Sucking in, puffing out my chest, and clapping my pom-poms, I ran out. Screaming!

Everyone was startled to see me charging at them. They actually backed off and clustered in the front doors, preventing anyone else from coming in. I ran around the corner and raced up the spiral staircase. I raced to my room and collapsed in a huff.

"Whow! Uh, hi?" Wayne looked just as startled as the neighbors. I grinned and waved a pom-pom at him.

"Hey. Found something." Okay, this could give me some time to catch my breath. Then what? Do I start screaming again? No, they already got that from the front door, and I didn't like repeating the same trick twice.

"Wait, Shane? That you?" I nodded. He looked me over, then shook his head. "Dude, that is some wicked costume. Where the Hell did you get all of that and the time to put it on?"

I waved him off, gesturing that I still needed to recover my breath.

"Okay, I get'cha. That was quick work." He was laughing as he pointed to the light on the closet shelf. "That good?" I nodded, gulping, finally relaxing a little.

"Yeah." I looked around to make sure that there wasn't going to be anything obstructing the flashes. If something caught, its shadow would ruin the effect.

Another minute had gone by, and we could hear the sound of voices echoing up the staircase. Beneath us, we heard other classes initiating their own chorus of scares. It would be our turn soon enough. I wondered what the rest of our hall had in store.

Lifting my ass off the floor, I peeked out the classroom door. Some people came into our hall; doors popped open and students burst forth for a jump-scare.

"Okay, that's ruled out." Had to think of something. I scanned the room for something that would work. Paint! Nearly forgot about that. "Wayne, grab me the paint!"

"...Dude, your voice sounds funny."

"We don't have time for this. They're outside! Come on, just throw it—FUCK!" Wayne threw it alright. All over me and onto the door and floor. It was pooling, a red mess on my hair and face, running down my front to puddle beneath me. I had to use the door handle to get up in fear of slipping.

When I did get up, my eyes widened and my shoulders sagged at the sight of my regular clothes, splattered with the red paint. I reached down to pick them up, but decided against it. Instead, I glared at Wayne, shaking my head. He gave me this sheepish smile and shrugged. That just pissed me off more.

"Turn the fucking lights on." I had something in mind now. If I was going to be a painted-red cheerleader, I might as well add a little flair. Besides, I could work out the anger by dancing it off. Maybe I could do something with Thriller.

The strobe light’s first flash blinded me for a second. I turned to face the door, then stepped towards it without recollecting the little slip-hazard on the floor. My foot slid forward and kicked the bottom of the door, just as I reached for the handle to open it. The door creaked open with my weight pulling on the hinges.

Keeping still, I worried that I might have ruined our first scare. There were hemispherical mirrors in the hall; I glanced to see what the grown-ups were up to. My accident had caused some people to look for the source of the creepy noise, and they apparently noticed the red pool seeping out from the classroom.

"Lucky," I whispered.

Watching the mirror, I waited for those people to get closer. The strobes of light found their rhythm behind me, flashing faster and stronger. They threw strange shadows onto the wall. That gave me the best idea yet.

Maneuvering in front of the light, I stood still for only a second before stretching out my arms. The pom-poms in my hands looked almost like severed heads, held by their hairy scalps. I started dancing like a cheerleader at a football game. Taking a pose, I whirled one pom-pom over my head. I kinda regretted that as some of the paint began to shake and shower down on me.

I threw my arms out, flicking paint off the pom-poms. Unfortunately, the guests were a little too eager to see what was going on. Flecks of red hit them, causing them to back off and look at one another.

"Oh shit!" Now I was in trouble. I knew they would complain about the paint getting on them. All I could do was keep up the act and hope I got a good grade to balance out whatever punishment I had coming.

I twirled around, keeping my back to them, hiding my face. I heard the folks walk in...

The first person slipped on the floor, and I heard someone curse as they shuffled around. It sounded chaotic behind me. I knew the strobe-lights were flashing them blind, which could help me, but it was probably just pissing them off. I didn't like jump scares, but I needed to improvise something, and fast.

When they reached me, I felt a hand touch my shoulder for a moment. They pulled away, saying: "Eww, wha–blood?" Oh, that was really good! In that moment of confusion, I jumped and faced them with a big beaming smile. That was when the disgusting paint ran down my lips into my mouth. I almost cringed, but seeing their wide-eyed, speechless response, I started laughing instead.

They actually ran, slipped, and scrambled out of the door. I couldn't believe it! "We did it!" Then I spit out the paint.

"Oh, fuck!” Wayne said. “Okay, Shane, we have our number. Keep this up and we'll score big time!"

I ran to the sink and rinsed out my mouth. "Do you think they’ll let the paint slide?"

"Who the fuck cares ma—ma'am." Glaring at him over my shoulder, I flipped him the bird before going back to shut the door. We turned the light off and readied for the next wave.

* * *

After a few hours, we finally heard the bell signal the end of the night. I collapsed on the floor, tired as fuck, my head pounding. Wayne flipped on the light switch. Despite my eyes adjusting to the strobe-lights, the overhead ones still made me flinch. I blinked to adapt, then looked around at the splattered paint.

"We need to clean this up." I gestured for Wayne to grab a rag from the sink. I restrained myself from rubbing my irritated eyes, in fear of getting paint in them. It took me a moment to realize Wayne hadn't moved.

Looking up, I saw the odd expression on his face.

"What?"

"Shane?"

"Yeah?"

"Okay, just checking." He turned on the faucet to dampen the rag. I got up to wash this sticky paint from my hands. True, they’d probably get stained again when I washed the floor, door, and walls, but I just needed to feel clean, if only for now.

Scooting next to Wayne, I put my hands under the faucet to rinse off the paint. I managed to clear them up well enough before applying the first couple squirts of soap. Again, I noted that Wayne was watching me, up close this time. In fact, he was inspecting my hands.

"Hey, what's up?" His eyes met mine. He looked over my face for another second, then he just kept on looking at me. Like, really looking at me from head to toe. He gave me a nod, as if he’d come to some conclusion, but I hadn't a clue. "Wayne? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Hey, just hang back and get cleaned up. I'll take care of the mess. Okay?" That surprised me. He was usually more laid back.

"You sure?"

"Of course. You were the one prancing around for hours. I just flipped the light switch." That was very fucking true. I nodded and accepted the offer by soaping up my arms.

"Hey, use the shower," Wayne said.

"What?" I nearly laughed. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the safety shower. It was designed to be pulled, so a student or teacher covered in chemicals could quickly strip and wash them off. I really didn't feel like taking a cold shower, but noticing how these clean arms felt compared to my sticky red body, I could probably tolerate it.

"Don't worry, I'll lock the door so nobody comes barging in. Besides, I don't want someone slamming the door in my face while I clean up that puddle you made."

Glaring back at him, I said: "You’re the one who threw it at me."

"You told me to!"

"I didn't mean for you to literally throw it!"

"What, you wanted me to toss the can at you?"

"No, I meant for you to bring it over!"

"Why didn't you just say that?" He threw his hands in the air and turned around to clean that puddle with a soaked rag. His shoulders drooped; he looked back at me and said, "Sorry."

I shrugged. "It's cool. It added a special effect to the whole event." I headed for the shower and yanked on the trigger. Brown and rusty, the water spurted out a few times before coming out more clear. I waited until it was pure before getting under it.

I pulled the zippers down, expecting to feel relief from the constriction. Not really. I guess the outfit had stretched out to fit better. With a shrug, I took hold of the band around the skirt and pulled it off. I easily removed the jersey, too.

Breathing out a little laugh, I threw the outfit into the shower drain so it could rinse off while I did. First, I leaned over and poked my head under the stream to get the paint out of my hair. I shivered when the cold water flushed down my bare back. I gritted my teeth; there was no way to get accustomed to it, so I’d have to bear it all at once.

Stepping forward and straightening up to stand tall under the shower, I muttered a curse and allowed my whole body to get the freezing treatment. I scrubbed at my hair and the back of my neck before I opened my eyes again.

Wayne was staring wide-eyed at me.

"What?" I asked, spitting water off of my lips.

"...Nothing," he said, shaking his head. He looked me up and down, then turned his bright red face away to work on the equally red floor.

Now I felt a little self-conscious about being in my underwear to shower. This felt very different from showering after a dip in the pool. It was like he...was he checking me out? As if tonight didn’t give me enough of a migraine.

Keeping my eyes on him, I ran my hands over one shoulder, then the other, getting the last traces of the paint off. As I did that, my hands brushed down each arm, but I also felt my chest get in the way. That caused me to glance down and stare at myself.

No amount of cold water could compare to the chill I felt at seeing a pair of breasts.

I began to inspect myself and saw my figure had slimmed in an odd way. Well, it would be an odd way for a guy, but perfect for a girl. It became obvious why the cheerleader outfit slipped off more easily than when I put it on.

I ran a palm over the subtle firmness of my flat stomach before reaching down around my hips. They were more flared than before. Maybe it was because my waist had tapered to my pelvis? Running my hand around, I felt a more pert tush than I recalled.

Now, I wasn't a thick-set guy before, but I wasn't anywhere near this trim. I now definitely had an athletic build. Specifically, a cheerleader's attractive figure for the fans to appreciate. It took a moment before something in my head clicked.

At that thought, my hand shot down into my underwear to feel around. I stood up on my toes and fell back against the slick wall, not caring about the cold water any longer. What should have been in my drawers wasn't. It wasn't there! I felt around the coarse hair, but something else was there, and I didn't have any appreciation for it.

My chest seized up like I was choking. My breathing became tougher, shorter, almost down to a gasp. I removed my trembling hand and stood still. I hugged myself, trying to calm down and stop shaking. I don't know how, but a very big something had gone wrong tonight. And my greatest worry had been getting a bad grade or splashing paint on somebody.

"Wa-Wayne?" He looked back up at me. For a moment, he didn't do anything. I kept shaking, not sure what to do or how I should respond to anything. Then his expression changed and he scrambled to stand and run towards me, nearly face-planting in the process. If I’d been okay, I'd probably laugh at him. I was not okay!

He didn't say anything. Taking one more look at me, he hesitated for only a second before holding his palms out, as if to show he didn't mean any harm. After shutting off the water, he carefully pulled me away from the wall, then drew me into his arms and held me. He hugged me, keeping me steady, even though I felt my whole body shake like a leaf in the wind.

I don't think he knew what was going on either, but his earlier interactions with me made a little more sense now. Keeping his cool, like he always did. That thought made me smile. In fact, I felt a little better, soothed, as he stroked my back. Swallowing a gulp of air and closing my eyes, I relaxed in his arms.

"Sorry," I heard him say.

"For what?"

"I didn't know you'd freak out like that. I figured Shane...uh, you, I guess, were playing a prank."

Thinking it over, I guess it would look that way. Running out on him and coming back looking like this would be highly suspicious.

Gently, I returned his hug. "I...I'm—"

"Shane, yeah, I know. With the light on, I can tell. You look like you could be your sister, but I know you don't have any. Unless you’re his cousin?" I smacked the back of his head to clear that thought out. "Ouch! Okay, definitely Shane."

"Awrrrright! Who's dah asswipes that threw paint on the guests!?" We both went rigid in each other's arms when we heard Mr. Russel yelling down the hall. Wayne yanked me off to the side and down onto the floor. Reaching up over our heads, he flipped the light off and shushed me.

We sat still, waiting in the dark, as Mr. Russel went around asking questions. I peeked through the door window to spy on him via the mirrors in the hall. He wasn’t stopping at every classroom door. It was like he was only selecting classes with a chick participating.

He completely skipped our classroom.

I didn't realize I’d been holding my breath until after I gasped. Apparently Wayne had too. We both tried to keep quiet while nervously laughing.

We celebrated a little too soon. The door to our classroom rattled as Russel jiggled the locked handle. He knocked a few times and tried the door again, and I watched through the mirror as he turned to probably ask the class across the hall about us. Again, we held our breath.

After a minute of talking, Russel left the door alone to head off somewhere else. Our gasp was much louder this time, and my forehead sunk onto Wayne's shoulder. This was all a bit too much for me. I was exhausted from tonight's event, stressed by the trouble I was in, wet and cold, and feeling trapped and out of breath. I’d probably had a panic attack. I needed a break. And Tylenol.

I felt Wayne's hand come up behind my drenched hair and smoothly rub the back of my head; my headache melted away. Closing my eyes again, I simply let him continue massaging my head. I appreciated it. His touch drove away the pain and stress besieging me.

"Shane? Let me give you my shirt." I opened my eyes and nodded before pulling off of him enough to allow the space he needed.

In the dark, I watched him unbutton the front of his shirt. It had never occurred to me how in shape he was, especially for someone who took it so damn easy during gym. It amazed me. Like he didn't feel like putting any effort into anything physical. It kinda made me jealous. I guess it wasn't that he lacked motivation, but rather that he didn't have to apply himself to meet the requirements. Maybe visiting my family’s pool almost every day had something to do with that?

Still, I watched the faint shine of the hall light glistening on his smooth chest. He’d probably gotten wet from hugging me. Looking down, I saw how prominent his abs were. They didn't have that body-builder appearance, but I could see them tighten when he curled back against the wall, then vanish when he straightened up to loosen the shirt from his invitingly-warm torso.

When he finished unbuttoning, I reached a hand out to the sleeve of his shirt—just to hold it. I didn't intend to grab his arm. Nor did I mean to pull him closer to me. In that moment, I should have said something, apologized and let him finish getting his shirt off, but I froze. My thoughts were still stuck trying to sort out what trouble I was in, what I’d become, and how much colder and more uncomfortable I felt when he stopped holding me.

In the next moment, he wrapped his arms back around me and embraced me more actively. I felt better. I’d intended to lay my forehead down on his shoulder to rest. I felt his arms lift me, and I moved with his effort to straddle his lap.

I asked myself what I thought we were doing. Each time I tried to answer, I felt less comfortable. When he held me, without my thoughts getting in the way, the soothing warmth and grace of his half-bared body brought the comfort back. After this troublesome night, I really wanted what he was offering me. I relaxed in his arms and leaned on him.

I wasn’t really sure how long we held each other like this, but I knew something changed when I shifted over his lap. I felt him below me. It was one thing to feel comforted by him, another to have any kind of attraction... I didn't! It was obvious he found me attractive now. As for me? I wasn't feeling any kind of attraction to him. I mean, he's a guy and I certainly had been a guy. I’d had no choice in what had happened to me. Why would I choose to further this girly problem by feeling something for him?

I lifted my head from his shoulder, but paused as I brushed along his jaw and cheek. His hand went over the back of my head again, and that soothing touch took away the stress of my thoughts. Instead, without trying to concentrate on it, I breathed him in and sat still. Then I inhaled more deeply when his raised hips pressed a hard length along me.

All I could manage was to pull a little further back from his face. What stopped me this time was his lips pressing against mine. If I had felt warm in his arms before, now I felt hot. There was a fuzzy feeling at first, but it melted away with my yielding lips. He pressed, an assault of his tongue against my mouth, and for some strange reason I opened the gate for his entry. By reflex, I held onto him much more tightly than I ever had done to anyone before. I crushed myself against him.

I’d known Wayne for so long, I didn’t even remember how we’d first met! It was like we had always been together. Now we were more attached than we had ever been. We’d never thought of something like this. Then again, I couldn’t think of anything other than what he had managed to give me: A resolve against this overwhelming night. With him, I felt free from any burdens.

We went with the flow of the darkness. Whatever we had done in that classroom stayed in that room, and it wasn't until morning that we made our escape. Of course, I did wear his shirt, and we sneaked back to his home. It would take until later in the day for us to figure out what to do about my current condition, but for the moment, I enjoyed dreaming and snuggling under the covers with him.

* * *

Quoted: “MrSimple writes while other people are sleeping and writes when other people are writing.” More stories by MrSimple can be found on TGStorytime. Thanks for reading! :D
Special thanks to Trismegistus Shandy and Lenal for the amount of time and effort teaching me to become a better writer. :)

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* * *

~~Forgotten: Zero’s Return~~
by TGSparadox

* * *

Today was supposed to be my day off, but instead of enjoying a nice day relaxing, alway from the office and everybody I hated, I was called in to speak with a recently admitted patient at Walter Reed. Upon walking into the hospital, I was swarmed by two high ranking Federal agents, three high ranking Agency officers, five military doctors and three high ranking military officers, “Dr. Robert Sykes, Head Medical Officer of the Agency’s Superhuman Medical Division?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Born August 24th, 1930. Command code 5578960,” I said as I put my doctor’s coat on. I was quick to roll those numbers off, as I didn’t want to get stuck in the identity confirmation mess. It often bored me to death. Also, because I noticed that there was no one other than these thirteen people on this floor, it meant that they had quarantined the floor. This allowed me to say whatever I wanted without the worry of a security breach.

“Confirmed. Welcome, Doctor. Sorry about calling you in on your day off,” one of the military officers, who appeared to be Navy, apologized to me.

“First day off in three years. So, given that I have the honor of being approached by thirteen individuals at once, and seeing how the floor has been emptied, I assume we have a world-ending superhuman medical crisis on our hands.”

One of the doctors, Dr. Silas, a good friend of mine, gave me a folder. “We have a patient that was flown in from Kuwait last night. Now, as of last night, all of us were briefed on the situation that the patient was in before the event occured. Once me and my team analyzed everything, my team, the people present here, and the President agreed to contact you.

Oh, this isn’t good. I glanced down at the folder. On the cover was a military code name: Operation Wolf Howl. Below it was the classification: Top Secret. I actually chuckled, “Okay, I see where this going. You screwed up again on a top secret mission to whatever with a superhuman from Genesis and you need me to fix it again.”

All thirteen present gave me quite the look. However, it was Dr. Silas who spoke for all of them, “We wish that it was that simple.” She then motioned for me to look through the paperwork.

Alright, well, might as well, “So, who am I dealing with today?” I scanned the file. The patient’s name was Eric Houston, born in April of 1947. He was a lieutenant with Navy SEAL Team Four, and he was married with three kids. I took a glance that the picture. He was a rather large built guy. He completely fit the stereotypical look of a Navy SEAL. However, the most important piece of information here was the Level classification. Level 0. He wasn’t a superhuman, “Okay, so, interesting guy. Well deserving, highly decorated. Now, seeing I’ve been summoned here, and given the area of my work, I assume that I’m not here because this guy caught the flu. Mind telling me what’s going on?”

One of the military officers, whose name tag read Jarvis, and whose insignia indicated that he was a Rear Admiral, spoke up. “I’ve received permission from the President to inform you of some details involving Operation Wolf Howl. Long story short, we thought that the American arms dealer Josie Kung was shipping American-made weapons into Iran via Iraq. Not sure why, but since it wasn’t a superhuman matter, the CIA took to handling it. Unfortunately, four operatives went missing, so in the spring of 1982 we opted to send Lieutenant Houston and two other SEALs into Iraq undercover to both figure out what happened and find the missing operatives, and to shut down the weapons sales. All was going well for two years, until yesterday. What happened we don’t know for sure. Houston and his team entered a structure near the front lines. After two hours, Genesis responded to a distress signal, and went in and extracted Houston. His two teammates were both missing, but we were able to get Houston back to Kuwait, then on a plane to here.”

I listened, but nothing so far other than Genesis coming to the rescue yet again sounded like something that would involve me and my division within the Agency. Operatives going missing was rare, but not unheard of. “Okay, so I take it he was attacked by a Disease Manipulator?” I took a stab at what possibly could be plaguing this patient.

Dr. Silas shook her head. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Then what?”

“See for yourself.” I was immediately lead by Dr. Silas, who I guessed by this point to be the head of the medical mystery solving operation, at least until I showed up on the day that I should be taking off. Anyway, I followed her, and everybody else followed me. The hospital had an holding area on this specific floor that had a one way mirror connected to an observation room to allow doctors to observe certain patients away from the prying eyes of a police station. However, when I reached the room with the mirror, what I saw on side of the mirror room was not what I was expecting. What I was expecting was a clean cut, six foot eight Navy SEAL. Not this. “As you can tell, Lieutenant Eric Houston had a nasty run in with a…” Dr. Silas started to fill me in on the situation truly at hand, but I had already figured it out. It was quite obvious.

“A Genetic Manipulator.” I finished as I stared at the girl that seemed to be Eric Houston. From his file, Eric Houston was thirty-seven years old. This girl barely looked twenty. Heck, most people would confuse her for a teenager. The mighty six foot eight SEAL barely stood over five feet. The person that sat, curled in the corner, was small. Small enough that a weak gust of wind could knock her over. “Son of a bitch. I thought they were all dead. I thought Hitler managed to wipe them all out.”

“Yeah, but it seems that a few managed to survive the genocide,” Dr. Silas replied.

Genetic Manipulators were the more powerful form of Disease Manipulators. While Disease Manipulators could change the structure of diseases due to their ability to bond with it and control it, there was virtually no limit to what a Genetic Manipulator could do. All species on the planet could be affected by a such a superhuman.

However, even if this was caused by a Genetic Manipulator, the fact that this girl was now Eric Houston meant that something was very wrong. “Are you sure that this is Lieutenant Eric Houston? Are you 100% sure?”

Dr. Silas turned her eyes away from me, and towards the girl that was huddled in the corner of the room. “I wish it wasn’t, but I’ve had four medical superhumans check. It’s Eric Houston.”

“This is impossible. Even for the most powerful level 4 manipulator, it took nearly six months to effect the human genome to such a degree as to produce a sex change,” Manipulating diseases, curing small genetic problems was one thing, but to completely hack into the very structure of mankind was something completely else. “Something on this scale, the reduction of size, mass, and biological material, it’s practically science fiction. A transformation like this, in that amount of time, is impossible both biologically and physically. The victim would be killed by organ failure alone, and even if they survived, the traumatic brain injury from the loss of mass would’ve killed them or at best…” I quickly looked over to Dr. Silas, but she quickly caught on to what I was going to ask her because she shook her head. “So, Eric Houston survived a such a transformation with no lasting physical injuries that could result in death.”

“We understand, Doctor Sykes. This is unprecedented,” Jarvis added.

“I know.” Unfortunately, I knew all too well. This world was filled with superhumans that possessed a wide variety of powers. This meant that nothing ever really came as a surprise, until now. “This type of power, is it possible that it’s them?” I asked everybody.

They all looked at each other. Clearly, it had crossed their minds. “We’re not sure. We can’t rule out anything yet. But Eric hasn’t said much since she got here, and until she tells us what happened, well, we aren’t ruling anything out yet. That is why we called you here, both for your experience, and for your ability,” Dr. Silas revealed. I noted that Dr. Silas used female pronouns, and by this point, it seemed appropriate.

“Alright then. I’ll see what I can do.” I grabbed my clipboard so I could take notes, and mentally began to charge my ability. It was a weak level 2, but I could emit a field that calmed the areas of the brain responsible for panic and fear. It should allow for an easy conversation. From what I understood, despite such a radical transformation in such a short period of time, Eric’s brain was free of any damage.

However, upon entering the room, Eric looked up at me, and I realized that despite my ability, it might be much more difficult to get her to open up about what happened. Such a transformation might have proved too traumatic for her to recount what happened. “Who… who are you?” she asked, her voice revealing just how scared she was.

“Lieutenant Eric Houston, my name is Doctor Robert Sykes, Head Medical Officer of the Agency’s Superhuman Medical Division. I’m here to talk to you about the events that recently transpired.” For some reason, Congress dictated that my rank within the Agency deserved salutes by most military enlisted and most commissioned officers. Personally, I hated it, as did most everybody else who held a high rank within the Agency, but everytime I brought up, no matter who my patient was, or who was around me, they saluted. Eric did no such thing. She just remained in her corner, teary-eyed, staring right back at me. Personally, I was relieved, but at the same time, a bit concerned.

“Why?” she finally asked.

“Why not? Let's start by having you sit this chair. I’m very certain it is far more comfortable then that corner.” I needed to get this rolling. So far, the mystery was deeping, and I needed to know more, and really, everybody involved in this needed to know more and fast. Fortunately, Eric looked at me a bit more, then stood up, wiping alway any tears remaining, and took a seat across from me. “Alright. Good start. Now, Lieutenant…”

“I’m not a lieutenant,” Eric muttered.

“Hmm?”

“I’m not a lieutenant anymore. I’m not a SEAL, I’m a father to my kids, I’m nothing anymore.” She started sobbing again. Clearly, this was traumatic for her, and why wouldn’t it be. She looked eighteen, not the man that was a father and part of a family that she loved. There was very little chance that she could go back to them. And women weren’t allowed in the Navy SEALs, not even transsexuals. Horrible policy in my opinion, and while the Agency didn’t care which gender you were, Congress and, unfortunately, the rest of the armed forces, did. Unless we could figure out a way to change her back, granting Eric access back into the SEALs would draw too much unwanted attention. The life Eric had had was over.

“Okay, calm down… er... Eric. Let’s not get overworked here. The best thing we can do is figure out what happened and then maybe we can work on fixing this.” Eric seemed to calm down a bit after that. While I was unsure that she would be ready to talk, I had to talk about the change. “Now, from the little I read from your file, and the report on Operation Wolf Howl, you were tracking missing operatives, as well as a weapons dealer, Josie Kung. Do you know if she was responsible for the missing operatives due to her involvement in the weapons sales?” I knew that I needed to start somewhere to work my way into the questions revolving around her transformation. Talking about the mission that sent her and her team into Iraq in the first place was a good place to start.

“No.”

“Hmm?”

Eric seemed to struggle with getting her words out. “It wasn’t Josie Kung. She wasn’t behind any of it.”

Okay, wow. My ability was working better than imagine. Moments into this conversation and Eric was already revealing that for two years, everybody had been chasing the wrong person. While it was possible that Eric could be lying, I knew that within her heart, she still considered herself a Navy SEAL. “Then who was it then?”

Eric started to freeze up. Clearly this was a case of PTSD, and depending on how traumatic the transformation was, it might prove severe. However, Eric seemed to gather herself minutes later. “The same person who took my life away and captured my team. He called himself Zero.”

Now, it was my turn to freak out. “Zero?” How could it be Zero? In a few moments, anger, rage, whatever, had risen up. The fact that there was any kind of genetic manipulation was clear evidence that Zero was still alive and I was blind and an idiot for not seeing that. But as quickly as it emerged, I realized that I was only a few moments away from completely scaring Eric into a shell from which she would never emerge. She had already cowered away in fear. “I’m sorry.” I collected myself; there were two questions that I needed answered. First, “Now, I know who Zero is, and I also noted that you said that Zero had captured your fellow SEALs. Is that correct?”

Eric seemed to settle, but the fear never fully seemed to leave her face. “Yes.”

“And did the same thing that happened to you happen to them?”

Eric lowered her head, a tear slipping through. “Yes,” she quietly muttered.

Well, that answered that question. But the next question was how. I knew that Zero was level 4 Genetic Manipulator, but even he couldn’t produce this result in a two-hour time frame. While I knew that he had done experiments involving gender manipulation, he had limits as well. “Eric, how did he transform you?” I asked. I kinda cringed at that. But knowing that it was Zero who had done it, I need to know how he managed to pull off such a transformation. Out of the team that had been sent to destroy Zero, I was the only survivor. No one in the world knew Zero like I did.

“He used something he wore around his neck,” Eric replied. Okay, so maybe Eric was ready to talk about it. That, or she realized by my reaction that Zero was very bad news, and he was. The worst kind of news.

“Do you know what it was?” I inquired.

Eric shook her head. “Maybe a medallion?”

Hmm… a medallion, not what I was expecting. I was certain that it must have been a serum, a group, or even a machine. A medallion was not among the list of things in this world that could amplify someone power to such degree. “So what happened?”

“It all happened so quick. We entered the building undetected, or so we thought. Immediately after entered, we were captured in a moment. It was nothing for them, all of our training, useless. We were stripped of our gear, and brought before Zero. He looked so mad, so insane, as he stared down at us. Then he said, ‘Gentlemen, I am in need of volunteers, so I’m glad you accepted my invite for dinner.’ After that, he placed his hand on me, and grabbed the medallion… with… the… oth--” Eric just broke down after that, collapsing on the floor. This was too much for her, and my ability couldn’t overcome the PTSD, but I could paint a clear picture of happened. Zero must’ve used the medallion to amplify his own power to such a degree that he could transform Eric into what was lying on the ground sobbing now. But how could a medallion have such an effect on someone?

One of the doctors that had accompanied Dr. Silas came into the room to give Eric a shot to calm her down. Clearly I was getting nothing more from her. A bit disheartened, I joined everybody back in the other room. They all looked at me strangely. It was understandable that what Eric said was not what they were expecting. Rather, they looked like they had just got done seeing the cheesiest science fiction movie ever. Problem was, it seemed to have really happened. “What do you all make of this?” one of the military officers finally asked. But no one seemed to have an answer.

Sigh “That medallion. It is possible,” Now that I had all eyes on me, I debated on whether to continue. But, if all options to deal with this and the return of Zero were to be explored, everything needed to be said. “It is possible that the medallion is one of their artifacts. Missing
for thousands of years, only to turn up now. However, it’s barely even a guess.”

“Well, it sounds like a powerful artifact, and it needs to found, but what about this Zero guy? It’s obvious that he’s a powerful superhuman, and firmly aligned against us and Genesis, but I know for certain that no one has ever heard of this guy,” Jarvis said.

Dr. Silas nodded in agreement. “Yeah, your reaction does indicate you know who Zero is.”

I did. I knew exactly who he was and what he did, but these people didn’t need to know. The world didn’t need to know. Not yet. “A memory.” I got myself together to leave before any of these people could ask me any more questions relating to who Zero was. “It seems that you still have two missing SEALs who have suffered the same fate as Eric. I would highly recommend you find them. Only then can this mystery be solved. As for Eric herself, have her transferred to the facility down in Alexandria. There, I will oversee her recovery, as well as making sure there are no side effects to her experience.” After that was said, I left to sort out some major questions. Why was Zero back, how was he still alive, what was that medallion he was using, why did he turn Eric into a girl, and where were the others? There were a lot of questions surrounding Zero’s return, and I knew I wouldn’t like the answers.

* * *
TGSparadox is the author of a few other stories, all available on TGStorytime under the pen name of Paradox and BigCloset under the pen name of TGSparadox.

* * *

~~Is This the Real Life, Is This Just Fantasy…~~

by Hikaro

* * *

You wander into what looks to be a large, decaying greenhouse. Broken glass lies at your feet, and the plants have all long since died.

I carefully avoid the glass, stepping close to it but not quite close enough to risk being hurt. The dead plants around me all look like they might have been pretty if I'd seen them alive. Instead, they're wilted things, and I really have no concept of what they might have looked like so long ago.

I sigh. "This place looks fan-tucking-fastic." I look at the other side of the greenhouse. "Is there something over there?" I ask.

You see something that looks like a dead human being on the other side of the room, hanging from something that actually looks like a living plant.

"What the hell?" I exclaim. I make my way through the greenhouse, still avoiding that broken glass. I'm not wearing shoes, and the smallest piece could be a bigger problem than I want to deal with. "What is that?" I ask as I get closer to the plant.

You see the dead human and realize it's the one you saw a week ago.

"That guy... Wait, no, that's, hold on a second."

What?

* * *

I looked across the table at Trevor. "You said the guy I met a week ago got on a ship and left the surface. How would he have gotten back here and murdered by a plant?"

Trevor glared at me over his DM border. "If you'd let me continue, I'd explain it."

I shook my head. "No, no, remember, he couldn't breathe in this area, because of all the spores."

Kayla giggled. "He's right."

"Do you see his helmet on, Chris? He's pretty obviously dead!"

"Yeah, but why would he be here anyway?" I asked.

"I just said I'm gonna explain it!"

Kayla whistled. "Boys, please, calm down."

I slumped in my chair. She was right, of course. "Fine, explain it."

He cleared his throat.

* * *

You see the guy you met a week ago; he's so very clearly dead and he looks like he died in pure pain. The plant is clearly absorbing him.

I gulp, then reach toward the plant. My fur is standing on end, which probably makes me look like some sort of weird puffball.

The plant reacts to you, tries to lash out.

I pull my hand away, yelping in response. I have no idea what this thing was, but the idea that it wants to eat me doesn't exactly sit well with me. Of course, I don't know that it wants to eat me, but that seems the likely prospect.

I reach into my bag and pull out my laser knife. I slowly put the blade to the plant and hear it sizzling and crackling. I need to pull the guy out of there, see what killed him. I assume it was the plant, but I couldn't actually be sure until I investigate it.

Your knife overheats.

The knife grows hotter in my hands. It doesn't take me long to drop it on the floor of the greenhouse, breaking some of the larger pieces of fallen glass. A few tiny slivers of glass hit my bare feet, and I wince in pain. "Sonuva..." I sigh. "Okay, what absurdly stupid thing could I do now?" I ask myself.

"You could always talk to it."

I spin around and see... And see... And. See?!

Oh, yeah, sorry. You see Kayla's character.

I see a man about my age, but not human. He's clearly some kind of cat-like creature, though standing only on hind legs. He's almost obnoxiously tall, at least a good head and a half taller than I am, and his clothes suggest he's a hunter of some kind. He's wearing boots, unlike stupid-ass me.

* * *

"What the hell is your guy, again?" I asked her.

She sighed. "He's a Felung, one of the cat races that populate the southern hemisphere."

I nodded. "Right, right."

Trevor asked, "Can we stop metagaming?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine."

***

The man moves close to me and sniffs me. "Um, what are you doing?" I ask.

"You're not from around here," he says; "your scent is so very different."

I blush, almost subconsciously. "Uh, yeah, I'm from the northern hemisphere."

He takes my hand. "But you're not a Felung?"

I shake my head, then pull my hand away from his. "No, I'm a..."

You're an Ocelore.

"An Ocelore; our species is native to the north."

"And are all of you this..." He kneels down, his toothy grin right in my face. "...Pretty?"

I gulp again. "I would say I'm more cute than pretty, but I guess somebody else could be the judge of that..."

I don't feel secure around this guy at all. I kneel down and pick up my laser knife, but find it broken too badly. I instead slip it back into my bag. I stand back up to find him still right in my face. "So, girl, what are you here for?"

I gulp again. "I'm looking for someone. Someone who hurt my family."

"And where are they?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't be looking."

He pats me on the shoulder. "You're a funny one." He walks past me and pushes the human's body into the plant further. "You'll want to leave soon. This mantrap plant doesn't like beings that try to hurt it, and doesn't much like to listen to me when I ask it to stop."

* * *

"Hold on a second," I said, "why is the plant yours?"

Kayla shrugged. "I dunno. It was on my character sheet. 'Owns a mantrap plant'. Ask Doug, he wrote these up."

I should have remembered that. Doug had planned on GM'ing this session, and refused to let us write up our own character sheets. Also, why he'd settled on me playing the girl was a question I would have loved getting an answer for, but Doug was fucking weird. Trevor was supposed to be playing Kayla's character, but when Doug didn't show up, Trevor had to GM.

"Where the hell is he?"

Trevor shrugged. "I dunno, he said he was gonna be here." He yawned. I was suddenly just as tired as he looked, and that was weird to say the least. "Say, you guys wanna pick this up tomorrow?"

Kayla yawned as well. "Yeah, that's fine. My folks are outta town for the weekend, so we can do this at my place tomorrow."

I asked, "Isn't your brother gonna be pissed at you asking two guys over to your house for D&D?"

She rolled her eyes. "I don't give a shit. He has girls over all the time, and he's usually porking them. You guys are my friends, and it's gonna stay that way, so he has no reason to bitch."

Finally, I yawned. "Good. If we're all decided, I'm gonna head home and get some shut-eye."

"Me, too," Trevor said.

"Me, three," announced Kayla.

* * *

I awoke to the sounds of birds chirping frantically, wind racking the house and what sounded like my stomach on overdrive demanding food. From the sounds of things, that thunderstorm we were promised a few days ago was finally hitting us. Yay, I guess. Good thing I was only two blocks away from Kayla's house, otherwise heading over there might have been a pain in the ass.

I sat up and yawned, then proceeded to rub the sleep out of my eyes. I was still tired, almost obnoxiously so. It was like a night of rest had given me no rest at all. Whatever, I just needed to wake myself up somehow, that was all. After that, I'd head to Kayla's house and hang out with her until Trevor decided to wake up.

If possible, I'd work up the courage to ask her out. It might not work out, seeing as she seemed to view me more as a friend than a potential boyfriend, but the worst that could happen was we'd have a few awkward moments and then go back to being friends. Hopefully. Okay, maybe the worst that could happen would be us not talking to each other for years to come, but I felt our friendship was stronger than that.

I stood up and felt somewhat strange. My center of gravity felt a little off, and I swore I was carrying around a little extra weight, though altogether I felt lighter. I was confused, but I was also still tired and probably not completely in control of myself yet, so hopefully everything would make sense when I woke up.

I stumbled my way into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. I splashed the coldest water I could on my face and was quite relieved I didn't numb myself doing so. I immediately felt better, too, so I'd clearly had the right idea when I walked into the bathroom while half asleep and feeling weird about myself.

Then I looked at my reflection and screamed.

I was looking at an orange furred cat-like creature, with wide yellow eyes and a hint of an overbite. My face was rounder, softer looking, and definitely less human than it should have been. My ears were sticking out of the top of my head, poking through my hair. Not my fur, my hair. I still had a full head of hair. Wavy blonde stuff that looked nothing like my old hair, but hair nonetheless.

I noticed the shirt I'd gone to sleep in looked really baggy on me. At the same time, it was kind of tight in exactly one area. That area was pushed out in such a way that I knew exactly what I was looking at. My newfound boobs weren't exactly huge (I was maybe a cup size larger than Kayla, who was actually harrassed by the rich bitches at school for being flat-chested), but their weight was so new to me that they felt bigger than they really were.

I wasn't even going to think about what I knew was hidden away in my now ill-fitting underwear, nor did I want to remove said underwear, though I needed something that fit better.

I looked down at the rest of me and saw that the orange fur that covered my face was all over the rest of me, too, just as I expected it to be. I looked kinda stupid standing there in clothes that didn't fit right, covered in orange fur, with a tail hanging behind me.

It took me a few minutes of staring the in the mirror to realize I knew exactly who I was. I'd somehow become my D&D character. I didn't know how, I didn't know why, I really didn't actually care, I just wanted a way to change back before someone saw me.

I needed to call Trevor or Kayla, see if something like this had happened to them or if I was the only victim of whatever the hell this was. I ran back into my bedroom and nearly tripped on my shorts sliding down my legs. Thankfully, I managed to fall onto my bed, which was softer than the floor. I pulled off my shorts and then reached for my phone.

Hey, are you OK? read a text from Kayla. Clearly, she'd woken up first.

No, not really. I'm my RP character now, I texted her.

Oh, shit, I'm coming over right now.

I almost didn't want her to see me like this, but at the same time, I needed to know what had happened to her, too. I tapped my contacts and found Trevor, next. I tried sending him a text asking if everythng was okay, but it failed to send for some reason.

As I waited for Kayla, a million thoughts crossed my mind. Why had this happened? Who did it? How did they do it? The closest thing to an answer I could come across was Doug, as he’d been the one to write up the character sheets, but he couldn’t do something like this, could he?

Could he?

I didn’t know, and the whole idea sounded absurd, but no more so than being covered in orange fur and being the opposite gender. He probably wouldn’t even be my first suspicion if he had been at the session yesterday.

And he was supposed to GM.

Had Doug somehow gained magic powers and was using them to live out his crazy homebrew campaigns in real life? Or was I just going crazy and trying to force an answer where none existed?

I really didn’t know.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. I quickly pulled my shorts back on and held them up as best I could. I took the stairs carefully, as I felt off-balance the whole time, but I made it to the door before the sixth ring. I braced myself to see Kayla's D&D character in front of me when I opened the door--

--But I didn't. Kayla stood there, exactly as she always looked, her book bag slung over her shoulder. "Holy shit, you really are."

I pulled her into the house. "Okay, but why aren't you?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. I had this weird dream about this happening, though. You turned into your character, I was normal me, and then I woke up just before Trevor showed up."

My eyes widened. "You don't think... You don't think Trevor is your character, do you?"

The doorbell rang again, and the two of us turned to look at the door. I heard myself gulp. "I wonder if that's him..." I said, my voice tiny.

* * *

Hikaro is in the room with you right now. Just turn around.

* * *

~~Doctor Who?
#3 – There’s a Cat In My TARDIS!~~

by Bobbie Cabot

* * *

The Doctor has disappeared, but he left his newest apprentice in 21st century Earth to help the humans while he was away – this was Dr. Quinn Valentine.

This is the story of one of Quinn’s early adventures as the Doctor’s pinch-hitter. And she even comes with her own sonic screwdriver, her own companion (best friend Mary Elizabeth “Binky” Kristensen), and even her own TARDIS, except Quinn’s TARDIS looks like a red London phone booth instead of a blue 50’s police call box.

(This is a follow-on story to the previous Mixed Tape stories entitled “Doctor Who?” and “Doctor Who? #2 – Bigger On The Inside.”)

* * *

Quinn had heard of UNIT, of course, both from her own research and from stories of the doctor. She was of two minds regarding UNIT. Clearly, UNIT, or the Unified Intelligence Taskforce, had played a major part in the Earth’s survival against several alien invasions in the past, and as the doctor told her, it would do so again in the future, but it had also precipitated several near-apocalyptic disasters, and it was largely because of UNIT (and a clandestine organization called Torchwood) that the ill-prepared human race was now a potential target of several belligerent races in the galaxy.

So when she got the latest “mix tape” cassette from the doctor instructing her to contact UNIT, she didn’t know whether or not she should.

Currently, her TARDIS was drifting in space, floating somewhere between the orbits of Jupiter and Saturn, safely away from people as she tried to figure out how to fix it: at the moment, her TARDIS was unable to travel through time, except linearly and moment-to-moment, just like all regular things in the regular universe. If she didn’t get this licked, maybe she should just change the name of her TARDIS to DIS or something…

“Oi,” her companion, Elizabeth “Binky” Kristensen, said, trying to get her attention, “co, what will we do? Call UNIT?”

Quinn played the cassette tape over and over, trying to understand what the doctor wanted her to do. But, as usual, the doctor was being unclear. She was left none the wiser about what the right decision was.

“Oh, what the hell!” she said, and impulsively threw a lever forward. The TARDIS then started making that characteristic groaning that meant it was moving through space-time, or, in this case, just space.

A few moments later, the red TARDIS rematerialized in a big, airplane hangar-sized space in Cardiff, which was the British headquarters of the Unified Intelligence Taskforce, or “UNIT,” presently under the command of the so-called Osgood Twins, Petronella and Bonnie Osgood.

Quinn and Binky opened the TARDIS door and stepped out, and soldiers in US Marine-type uniforms immediately surrounded them.

“Doctor?” a bespectacled girl with a long knitted tartan scarf and white lab coat asked. “Is that you? Thank God! How did you know we needed your help?”

“Well,” Quinn answered, “I’m a doctor. But if you meant THE doctor, I’m sorry to disappoint.” She extended her hand. “Hi! I’m Quinn Valentine, astrophysicist, nuclear physicist, medical doctor, biochemist, history buff, amateur philologist and Spice Girls fan from the University of Cambridge, at your service.” She gestured to her companion. “This is Elizabeth Kristensen, doctoral candidate at the University of Cambridge. And you are?”

“I’m Dr. Osgood,” she said. “I run UNIT.” She shook Quinn’s hand.

“Ohmigod!” Quinn enthused. “You’re THE Osgood!” She moved closer. “Tell me, are you the human or the Zygon Osgood?” she whispered.

Osgood laughed. “What do you think?”

“I’m sorry, the doctor never told me. Anyway, how can we help you?”

“Well, I was actually hoping to talk with the doctor?”

“The doctor is currently unavailable,” Binky responded. “We’ve been assigned as his temporary substitute while he’s away.”

“While ‘she’s’ away,” Quinn corrected. “Anyway, what seems to be the trouble?”

“Wait! What do you mean ‘temporary substitute!’ What do you mean ‘assigned!’”

So Quinn and Binky went through how they, together, came to be the doctor’s “substitute.” (note to reader: for more information, please refer to the story “Doctor Who?” in “Through the Fire and the Flames - A TG Mixed Tape.”)

“So you’re telling me…” Osgood said, “that you’re…”

“Yes,” Quinn replied.

“And that is a new TARDIS?” She pointed at Quinn’s TARDIS, which looked just like a regular red telephone booth – the kind you see in London all the time.

“Yes,” Quinn replied again. “Well, it’s sort of new…”

“And you made it into another phone booth?”

“It wasn’t up to me. If it were up to me, I’d have preferred it to look like a nice Porsche or something. And the doctor’s TARDIS wasn’t a phone booth – it was a police call box.”

“Dammit!”

“Well… well… now that you know, how can Binky and I be of service to UNIT?”

“And why Binky?”

Quinn shrugged. “That’s just what I call Elizabeth. To irritate her.” She giggled. “And it’s working.”

Osgood shrugged, as if saying it wasn’t any of her business. “It’s just this, Dr. Valentine – for the past few months, people have been disappearing from the London metropolitan area. Police and local authorities have not been able to find out what’s been happening, and have not been able to track down the missing people.”

“So why are you in Cardiff?”

“And, from what we know of UNIT,” Binky continued, “that does not sound like something you folks would get involved with. It sounds more like a matter for Scotland Yard.”

“Normally, yes,” Osgood said, “but not when the missing people are several thousand already, and some of those missing people are Earth Zygons. This is just on this edge of a national disaster for Great Britain.”

Quinn and Binky looked at each other.

“Any clues?” Quinn asked.

“Well, we managed to retrieve these.” Osgood gestured, and a uniformed UNIT soldier came over pushing a cart. On top of the cart were several chrome devices that had the faint look of mechanical chrome rats.

“Quinn,” Binky asked, “are those, what do you call them, cybermats?”

“Yes, they are, Ms Kristensen,” Osgood replied for Quinn. “Don’t worry, these particular ones are deactivated. Or dead if you prefer.”

Quinn pointed her sonic screwdriver at them, and nodded. “Yep, they’re dead.”

Osgood explained that several of these cybermats were found near locations where several hundred people had disappeared. Other than that, they had found a kind of greenish-gray, viscous residue. Osgood held up a small vial containing a little of the residue.

Quinn whipped out her sonic screwdriver again and ran it over the vial. “Hmmm,” she went.

“We haven’t found out what it is,” Osgood said, “except that it’s a unique combination of amino acids, long protein chains and what curiously looks like a kind of long-chain liquid polymer.”

“Long chain liquid polymer?” Binky asked.

“She’s saying it’s a kind of liquid plastic,” Quinn explained. She looked at Osgood. “Like, maybe from the Autons?”

Osgood shook her head. “No, not the Autons.”

“May I?” Quinn gestured at the vial.

Osgood handed it over, and Quinn retreated back into the TARDIS. After a few minutes, she came back out with a computer printout that she handed over to Osgood. She had also taken the opportunity to change outfits. She now looked like some kind of marine commando, that is, if marine commandos wore tight miniskirts, high-heeled boots, fishnet stockings and bolero jackets in place of flack jackets. Prominent on her jacket was the nametag, JR DOCTOR, and she had UNIT’s official patches on her shoulders and on her beret, except hers were the defunct 70’s logo that said “United Nations Intelligence Taskforce.” She also had on insignia that showed her to be a brigadier-general in the British army.

Osgood looked at Quinn with a raised eyebrow but didn’t make a comment.

“Just ignore her,” Binky said. “It’s part of her regeneration.”

Osgood read through the printout. “It seems that residue we got is similar to the residue from the Lazarus Experiment back in 2007.”

“What’s that?” Binky asked.

“It was an experiment that the famous geneticist Dr. Richard Lazarus did in the early 2000’s, the objective of which was to extend human life by changing a person’s DNA. A high-tech equivalent to the fountain of youth.”

“Oh?” she said. “Did it work?”

“Sadly, no. It seems his process changes the human DNA so fundamentally that the person is turned into a literal monster. A murderous monster, at that.”

“Well, maybe we can ask him about it?”

Osgood shrugged. “He’s dead.”

“Oh. Bugger…”

“So what’s next?”

“Can you give us all the information you have, Doctor Osgood?”

She nodded and walked them to her office. As she showed them all that UNIT had on the matter, alarms started blaring.

“Oi!” Binky exclaimed. “What’s that?”

Osgood looked at her screen. “It’s a relay from nearby Torchwood. Seems whatever is behind the missing people, it’s followed us here to Cardiff. We’re under attack.” She lifted a phone receiver on her desk and pressed a button. “Alert Doctor Kate Lethbridge-Stewart over in Geneva HQ,” she said into the phone. “Tell her we’re under attack, and that it’s a red level emergency.”

“Show me,” Quinn said after Osgood hung up. Osgood punched a few keys and the big screen on her wall showed a video of several half-humans -- different kinds of half-humans -- outside the gates of UNIT.

At their lead were what appeared to be half-human, half-hippo hybrids. Their immense strength and bulk allowed them to knock down walls and barriers. UNIT soldiers fired several non-lethal rounds into them, but the half-hippos just shook them off.

Flanking them were what looked like half-tigers, but, later, it would be found out that they were actually half-cheetahs. These fast half-cheetahs flanked the soldiers and, using baseball bats, beat them senseless. And right behind the hippos were what appeared to be half-gorillas and other kinds of mutants.

Quinn knew enough that this was like a classic military deployment. Their “tanks” in the front to punch through the opposition’s defenses, fast flankers to pick off outlying units, and the main infantry to follow the tanks.

She knew they were in trouble.

“Dr. Osgood,” Quinn said, “is your facility supplied with standard tear gas grenades and military respirators?”

“Respirators?” Binky said.

“Gas masks.”

“Ahhh.”

“Yes, we are,” Osgood replied.

“Distribute the respirators to all your people, and show me where your cleaning supplies are.”

Osgood gave some instructions and brought Quinn and Binky to a large storage area.

Quinn grabbed several plastic containers of bleach and other bottles. “Grab some of those bottles, Binky,” she said, “and come with me.”

They went to a large storage room full of military supplies. The tear gas grenades were just in front of Dr. Osgood.

“Do you have medical supplies, too, Dr. Osgood?”

“What do you need?”

“Lots and lots of disposable hypodermics and lots of electrical tape, and as many off-duty people you can find.”

She called over a soldier and gave some orders.

“Binky,” Quinn said, “I’m gonna show you what I need you to do, and I want you to take charge of these soldiers and get them to do the same thing, okay?”

Quinn used a hypodermic and stabbed a bottle of bleach, sucked out some of it with the hypodermic, and did the same thing with several other bottles. She shook the hypodermic, injected the liquid mixture into a specific spot on one of the tear gas grenades and covered the hole with electrical tape.

“Got it?” Quinn asked. Binky nodded and, as soon as the soldiers showed up, she taught them the same thing.

As for Quinn, she went with Osgood and watched how the enemy spread through the compound. Clearly, the mutants didn’t know the layout of the compound, judging by how randomly they went through it.

“Good for us,” Quinn said. “And they haven’t broken into any of the buildings yet.”

Osgood pointed to a few really weird-looking enemy soldiers. “What kind of half-humans are those?” Osgood asked.

“Well, those aren’t half-humans,” Quinn said. “Those are half-Zygons.”

“Oh…”

Quinn’s cellphone rang and she flipped it open.

“Yeah, Binky?” Quinn answered, and Binky said all the grenades were ready.

“Okay, split the grenades into ten lots, and get your guys to bring them to the ten major entrances of the compound. People will meet them and get ready.” She hung up.

“A flip-phone?” Osgood said, laughing. “Really?”

“Hey, don’t knock my flip-phone! My flip-phone has unlimited signal. You can call anyone you want regardless of where in the universe you are. Can your fancy smartphone call people from the edge of the universe?”

Osgood looked at Quinn, mouth hanging open. She mouthed the words, “Oh my god.”

In the meantime, there were no more active UNIT personnel outside the buildings. All that were remaining were the people inside.

Osgood made sure everyone had gas masks, and she had everyone wear them, and, at her signal, the soldiers with grenade launchers started firing the modified tear gas grenades.

Each one exploded within the ranks of the mutants, and the mutants started falling down asleep, even the half-Zygons.

A few mutants weren’t gassed and they started to run. Several of the UNIT soldiers gave chase and, in less than half an hour, all the mutants were knocked out.

“Okay,” Quinn said, “in a few minutes, the gas will break down and it’ll be safe to take off the masks. Now, those mutants should be asleep for at least twelve hours. That’ll give you time to bring them all in. Make sure each one of them is in handcuffs, not just on their wrists but around their ankles as well.”

“What about the big ones?”

“Well, you’re gonna have to use rebar or something – weld them around their wrists or ankles. That’ll hold them until I can reverse their mutations. Shouldn’t be difficult actually, but I need time. Can you do that?”

“I believe so.”

“Okay, make it happen. Binky and I will go after the one who started all of this.”

Quinn brought out her flip-phone again. “Binky, meet me at the TARDIS. We’re going after Mr. Big?”

“Mr. Big? Who’s Mr. Big?”

“You know… the head honcho? The big enchilada? It’s just an expression, okay?! Oh, just get to the TARDIS!”

In a few minutes, the TARDIS materialized in the middle of an abandoned candy factory.

“A bloody abandoned factory,” Binky said. “Talk about cliché!”

Quinn giggled. “But it’s an abandoned candy factory,” she said. “That has to count for something.”

Binky snorted.

Suddenly, the factory reverberated with the sound of machine gun fire.

“Bloody hell!” Binky swore as they dove for cover. The bad guy was standing on a catwalk thirty feet up in the air, giving him a clear view of everything.

“Now what?” Binky asked.

“You know my new sonic screwdriver?” Quinn said. “It’s special.”

“How special?”

“Mine works long distance. Watch this!” She pointed it at an overhead crane fifty feet away. She pressed a button and one of the crane’s locks opened. One of the large hooks swung down and the blunt part hit whoever was firing in the face.

“Bollocks!” the bad guy cried, and they heard his machine gun clatter to the ground thirty feet below.

“Ha!” he said. “Do you think that’s all I have?” He held up what looked like a kind of rifle.

“You know what this is? This is version two-point-oh of my formula! This one is not reversible! So if I catch you with this, then you’re mine! Forever!”

He started firing his rifle, which turned out to be a kind of high-tech dart gun. The difference was, it fired gas cartridge darts like a machine gun, forcing Quinn and Binky to duck down as little darts started peppering the walls around them. The little cartridges went “pfffft!” as they injected their tiny chemical payloads into the cement.

“Ouch!” Binky cried. “Quinn! I’m hit!”

“Don’t let yourself get hit a second time,” Quinn said. She raised her sonic again. “Now, let’s see if I can be lucky a second time…”

This time, she targeted the bad guy. When she pressed the button, all of the gas cartridges in the gun were triggered at the same time causing the rifle to explode. Quinn pointed her sonic down a bit and the man’s entire supply of darts in his backpack was triggered.

“Aaahhh!” he screamed a big puff of air puffed out the pack and several darts injected their contents into his back and he collapsed. Quinn and Binky ran and climbed up to the catwalk, with Binky limping a little bit.

Then they saw the bad guy changing, but instead of changing into a half-human, half-animal hybrid, it was like he was changing over and over, like his body couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

“Good lord,” Binky said, “is that what’s going to happen to me?”

Several weeks later, after Quinn was able to synthesize a cure, all of the victims – over three thousand of them, including about three hundred Zygons, were cured.

After they were cured, however, none of them could remember what happened.

As for the bad guy, who turned out to be an old lab assistant of Dr. Lazarus, his body continued to morph endlessly, and whatever Quinn tried, she couldn’t stop it. Quinn explained that, because of the quantities injected into him, his morphing was put into overdrive. Unfortunately, however, if the continuous morphing didn’t end soon, the man would eventually die from something she called cellular fatigue. All they could do for the guy was pray that the thing would run its course soon, and that the guy would the ordeal.

As for Binky, because the chemical used was a newer and more powerful version, Quinn couldn’t completely cure her. But at least she was able to keep Binky’s mind intact, and was able to moderate the effects of the chemical. So, although Binky wasn’t completely normal, she looked really close. That is, if one could ignore the thick, luxurious fur-like hair, the cat ears and the tail. But, with the right haircut and the right clothes, Quinn was sure Binky could camouflage them.

“Well,” Quinn thought and smiled, “At least she’s still cute.”

Quinn threw the TARDIS’ main lever and they rematerialized in Cambridge University’s main quadrangle. After all, Quinn had classes to teach, and Binky had to finish her thesis.

As the two best friends walked back to campus, Quinn couldn’t help but think of what their next adventure would be. Also, she needed to know how the Cybermen were involved in this recent incident, but she had to leave that for later.

She threw her arm over Binky’s shoulder and Binky wrapped her tail around Quinn’s waist as they walked to the main hall.

“You know,” Binky said, “I really don’t appreciate you calling me ‘Binky’ all the time…”

Quinn laughed and laughed. “Finally!” she said. “I can’t believe you lasted this long!”

Watch out for the next instalment coming soon.

* * *

Roberta “Bobbie” Cabot is a transgender girl from DC. She transitioned in 2004, and has been living as a girl full time ever since. With a mom from Italy, a dad from Quebec, and a spouse from Kyoto, her writing (and her speech & accent) is less than perfect. However, she doesn't really speak Italian, French or Japanese, although she can puzzle them out a bit. She’s a fan of sci-fi, drama, love stories, romcoms and comedy/sitcoms. Her only “claim to fame” is her still-incomplete underground fan favorite, “Danny,” which was first posted in Crystal’s Storysite back in 2009 (“Danny” is also posted on Bigcloset Topshelf, Fictionmania and TG Storytime). She is, however, hard at work trying to complete it -- she has, in fact, already hit 300K words for this last instalment, and has high hopes to post this within the year. Her most recently posted stories are “Shepherd Moon,” “Autobots Revisited” and “Drew Nance, Girl Detective - Book 1: The Secret of the Old Clock.”

* * *

~~Afterword~~

Special thanks to MrSimple and Lenal for their first-time submissions, and as always to the regular contributors who are still with us.

The title of this mixtape comes from the short story “Bethmoora” by Lord Dunsany:

In the little gardens at the desert's edge men beat the tambang and the tittibuk, and blew melodiously the zootibar.

Stories for the next tape are due by October 15. You are encouraged but not required to submit Halloween-themed stories; the only strict requirement is that the story have some TG element, and a somewhat less strict guideline is that the stories be under 2,500 words (4,000 at most).

Send stories to Hikaro at bandage131@yahoo.com or Trismegistus Shandy at trismegistus_shandy@zoho.com. Please include an about-the-author blurb.

Joan felt the square of gauze on her wrist and imagined the bruise that would appear, and spread, along the artery over the next few days. The skin underneath was itchy. But that was nothing new, she was used to IV’s.

She bruised easily. It’d been a long time since she hadn’t looked battered. In January she’d bumped her arm on a cabinet, then, just as the angry red and purple blotch had faded to a rancid yellow, she’d tripped on the stairs leading out of her apartment, and then three weeks after that she’d been patting Raylan, when her neighbour’s Labrador had jumped, pawed gently and his claws had ripped her paper thin skin, their pressure raising a right mottling. And now, on top of that, this.

But this time there would, she knew, be no bruising. Still, even at this last moment, her imagination refused to grasp this reality.

“Are you ready?” Harper asked her.

Joan nodded.

When Harper had dropped by her house to recruit her he’d looked a bit like her daughter had looked, way back, dressed up as Agent Scully for Halloween (if only Natalie had known what her Mom did for a living). But he still had four sugars in his coffee – three straight away, one added when the cup was half empty – just like he used to, and they’d spent the good part of an afternoon reminiscing about their time in the agency’s Applied Theoretical Physics division. When he slid the dossier across the table to her she opened it, scanned the first page she saw, looked him dead in the eyes and raised her eyebrows. A cassette. Masking tape. Magic marker writing. This is the object of power?

“Will it hurt,” she’d asked.

“Not normally, but…”

She looked at her wrists. The gauze patches were stained red. The left side one –

“The transfusion makes the process a bit rough.”

– fell away. Blood began to pump. She clamped down with her right hand as much as she was able. The patch on her right wrist was still attached, but only by a corner. Blood sprayed from the small hole that’d been made for the cannula. She felt it sluice down her cheeks from her eyes and ears. Blood, scalding hot, filled her toothless mouth and she retched. Wet red streaks trailed from her nipples. Her thighs were slick.

It was Harper who helped her to her feet afterwards. He supported her as she stumbled, dry heaving all the way, to an open plan washroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her body was male. It had large ears, and the physique and understated genitals of a classical nude. It looked to be in its mid-twenties. Her donors had been twelve.

Joan ran a hand through her hair.

“What colour?” She said. She did not close her mouth when she finished speaking. Her voice was deeper and she had teeth again.

Harper led her to the shower. “Let’s wash it out and see.”

"Tell us what you wish," the aliens said in unison.

I took a deep breath, and tried to remember the speech I'd rehearsed. But I'd gone blank. Time to improvise.

"Okay. So, a few months ago, you granted a wish to a transgender person. She explained how some humans have bodies of the wrong sex -- they don't fit their minds. Our doctors had figured out how to sort of fix their bodies, with surgery and hormones; they weren't fully functional but at least they were better off than before. But then you granted a wish to that paraplegic veteran, and gave us these nanites. And they made people's lost legs and stuff grow back, which was great, but they also made MtFs' penises grow back, and FtMs' breasts grow back, and they really weren't happy about it."

"We have corrected our mistake."

"But your patch for the nanites didn't just fix the TGs. Whatever method you use to detect TGs and change their bodies to match their minds... it's not perfectly accurate. There were a bunch of mistakes, like me."

"You were not transgender, and yet our nanites changed your sex?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"Our scan of your brain indicates the usual markers of a female identity."

"Your scanner is wrong. I'm a guy, damnit!"

"We apologize. We thought we understood how to tell male from female humans. We must do further research."

"Listen, gender identity is really complicated. Maybe you can refine your criteria and have fewer mistakes the next time around, but I'm pretty sure there will always be a few if you're using some automated process. Why not just ask us?"

"Wishes must be for general solutions to problems affecting ten thousand or more humans. There are too few of us on your planet to grant individual wishes."

"Then give us devices we can use to reprogram our own nanites."

"Antisocial humans would find ways to use such technology as a weapon."

They'd refused to give us new energy sources for the same reason. "You can't fix it so nobody can use it except on themselves?"

"Your minds are not orderly enough to control technology with your thoughts."

The wishes I'd planned for had fallen through. If I just asked them to refine their criteria, there'd still be mistakes, and I might be one of them.

I happened to glance down at my hands -- my dark green hands. They'd been brown a few weeks ago, and teal before that, thanks to a wish somebody had made to try to fix racism. That's what gave me the idea.

"Just change everybody," I said. "Make us all randomly change sex every few weeks, just like we change color. Unless we're pregnant, that is. Everybody will get to be the sex they prefer half the time, and people with the wrong bodies won't be discriminated against. Win-win."

Maybe it wasn't my most brilliant idea. But it's turned out okay in the long run, right?

Trismegistus Shandy has written more than twenty transgender stories and novels, available at Smashwords, Amazon, Shifti, BigCloset, and Fictionmania.

DEDAD CASEFILE #SUC-0956432

Interview with Private First Class Andrews, J

Agent: (CLASSIFIED)

Location: (CLASSIFIED)

Visual Assessment: Andrews is roughly 5"9 with laceration across right cheek, Blonde hair, blue eyes. Weighs roughly 130 pounds and is a 36C cup, prior to interview, with a forming hour glass shape. [See Attachment #2 for full examination]

Agent (CLASSIFIED): Interview begins, 8th of June 2042, 13:23. How are you today Private?

PFC Andrews: Good, Ma'am the painkillers are doing,aagh [Andrews grabs chest, breast size grows roughly by two cup sizes] well at least my face has stopped hurting.

Agent: Now I need to go over the incident with you, just to make sure everything is as you remember, ok?

PFC: Sure, well like, we were investigating reports of sounds coming from this village a couple miles away from the border, and we like found them. thousands of them [Plays with hair]

Agent: Who?

PFC:The villagers, they were like [Andrews giggles] naked, dancing around those things, we got spotted and they started to attack us. They got Ramirez and they changed him [ Andrews turns away to regain composure]

Agent: If it makes you feel better, everyone that got changed by the succubi was already dead.

PFC: Really! Like I put all my load. [Andrews giggles] Shut up! into them, I saw all my friends get turned into libido driven zombies until it was just me and that sexy, hunk Jason. He is not a hunk! [Andrew's slams table screaming unintelligible curses]

Agent: Josh tell me about the Succubi!

PFC: [Andrews Giggles] Like Josh is a boy's name and I'm definetly not a yucky boy anymore [Andrews strips and begins to violently masturbate] I hungwy! I need a big bwoy to fill me up!

Agent: Josh! ( Agent pulls out their service weapon) Do not make me do this!

PFC: My name is sally, I am ready to serve my Mistress.

Agent: Ok...Where are the Succubi?

PFC: you are not my mistress, she is calling for me. (Andrews lunges toward agent)

(Three gunshots)

Agent: Succubi seems to be under command of a possible Tier eight demon, Interview terminated 8th of June 2042 13:34...Poor Bastard.

Once A Boy Now A Girl (Or Jynx) only recently started writing but has had a keen interest in TG media since their early teens. With their namesake and The Underwear Fairy being the most viewed of their solo stories. They are also one of the Co-Authors of Living Lights.

Once A Boy Now A Girl is currently working on their Peace Corp series which expands upon several characters and organisations such as DEDAD, The Seer and The Dimension Eater that were introduced in Living Lights and is halfway through writing the penultimate chapter of Once A Boy Now A Girl.

The fall of Clan Mac Bili

The battle between the Mac Tavish clan and the Mac Bili clan was finally over. Brude watched as he was forced to his knees, and saw that he had lost and all his efforts had come to naught. Tonight the last of his family and clan would be slaughtered, and the fields of Ghaelorn would run red with blood.

Colin Mac Tavish, his tartan covered in the blood of Brude’s kin, motioned to the men holding Brude down on his knees. One of them hit him with a set of iron manacles, and cuffed Brude’s hands behind him. The ache of his injuries jarred him painfully back to awareness.

“Brude Mac Bili, long have you been a thorn in my side, stopping me and mine from ruling the Clans as was our rightful due. Now, you are my prisoner - and I mean to have my revenge upon you for all the times you stopped my rise to power!”

“Prisoner! So what? So kill me! There are none of clan Mac Bili left alive! I know I’m a dead man - so have the honor to make it quick, bastard!” Brude shouted, spitting at Colin Mac Tavish. This man had slain all his kin, and would soon slay him as well - this Brude knew too well. Goddess, he prayed. Give me the power to survive and slay him for what he has done! Let Clan Mac Bili be reborn! His prayers echoed in his mind for only a short time, before MacTavish dragged his thoughts away from prayer, to his tormentor.

“I’ve a special surprise for you, Brude. I don’t mean to kill you - you deserve far worse. I mean to humiliate you, and to destroy everything you are.” Laird Mac Tavish produced a black leather collar, decorated with six shiny studs. “You’ll soon see, boy.”

A slave collar! No! Brude fought as hard as he could, but the men holding him were too powerful, and the collar was buckled into place Brude felt stunned. Something was wrong, he thought. What’s happening? His body felt strange, like it was melting, and changing. The spell affecting him ended - and he realized he was now a woman. He couldn’t move from shock, or the enchantment from the slave collar.

“At last you see my plan, Brude - or should I say Braid? There will be no living heirs of Clan Mac Bili now, nor ever again.” Mac Tavish grinned evilly. “Now take her to my tent, while we see to the end of his clan. You see, Braid - I mean for you to be punished for a very long time. Welcome to Clan Mac Tavish.”

I’ll kill you for this, she thought. I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I ever do! Goddess give me strength! She wanted to scream her threats; instead all that came out was “Yes, master.”

Laird Colin Mac Tavish grinned, and walked off to complete his bloody slaughter.

Interview with Kathryn Mayhew

Tell us a little bit about yourself.

Well, my name is Kathryn Churchill, but I was born Kevin Churchill. I'm 44 years old, and mostly I'm an upbeat positive person, who sometimes gets pretty damn moody. I first realized I was trans when I was 14 years old. I was in health class, learning about the difference between boys and girls, and I realized I wasn't a boy. It was pretty shocking and scary - but I didn't trust anyone enough to tell them. That was 1984... Not a great time to be Transgendered. I kept it bottled up for 29 more years, before I realized I had to take action - and the moment I did, I felt like I was walking on air. I've never looked back since - I wish I'd started to transition 25 years ago. It's the best decision I've ever made.

I grew up in southern Ontario, partly down near Lake Ontario, partly up in the Kawarthas, and love the wilds of the north - the trees, the lakes, the hills and so on... Eventually, about January of last year, I decided to try my hand at writing Fantasy and finishing a novel I'd had formed in my mind for a decade - but didn't have the mental focus to put down on paper. Since I've finished my first novel and started on the second, plus several other stories, I've been more and more excited about sharing my creations with others in the hopes they get as much enjoyment from them as I do. I love animals - especially cats and dogs. I'm a sucker for any neat critter, except spiders... I wouldn't be surprised if I had a phobia of those suckers.

Tell us a little bit about your stories.

Well, my stories so far have featured mostly normal people, getting swept up into events greater than they think they can handle, and somehow managing to deal with the situation and succeed. It’s like a lot of people's lives - and I think they can relate. Everyone likes to think they're normal - but one day a major trial or tragedy comes along and we go "I don't think I can survive this, damn." And sure enough, we do, and when we look back we slowly discover people are a lot tougher than they give themselves credit for. I like to think my characters are like that. I like to put my characters through the wringer, so that when or if they succeed, they feel (and the readers feel) they really accomplished something.

I also like allowing bad guys to be really, really bad. A lot of villains are rather cartoony if you look at them closely - and I'd like to think some TV Shows and Movies would be completely end-runned if the bad guys were truly bad and not just caricatures of villains. Real evil isn't funny, nor is it incompetent or stupid - it’s terrifying and remorseless, and it should seem so - I'd like to think I accomplished that with the Demon and Vargas in Call of the Void, but I suspect I might have fallen a teensy bit short, which is annoying, but something I hope I can correct in the sequel.

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

The best advice I've ever written is "A Writer writes" - I try to write something each day - even if it’s just a page or two of background preparation, a page of text or dialogue... Something to keep the juices flowing and the ideas coming. The next part of that advice is "Write what you love, what you know, and what's relevant to you." It doesn't help if you can write cookbooks, but you want to write spy novels - even if you succeed, you'll be unhappy with the result. It can be really, really hard to make a living as an author, so being happy and satisfied with the content and subject matter of what you're writing is really important.

The Last piece of advice I've received is "Watch people and listen to people." Try it - go to a mall, or a food court. Watch the people who pass by - what they wear, how they dress, how they talk to each other. See how the people differ when in a bar, or in a sports event. Watching people can be fascinating, and you can learn a lot about how to better characterize your characters, make more believable dialogue, and set a scene with more precision and surety.

What books have influenced you most as a writer?

I have to say Edgar Rice Burroughs Barsoom stories with John Carter of Mars, Marion Zimmer Bradley's "Sword and Sorceress" anthologies, Stephen R. Donaldson's "Mordant’s Need" series and Robert Jordan's "Wheel of Time" as well as his works on several Conan novels years prior. I really enjoy the "Planetary Romance" genre from the pulps as well, and also the movie Avatar.

A majority of your novel Call of the Void: Dreamers takes place in the magical realm of Mercia, can you tell us a bit about the setting and how the created it?

When I made Mercia, I started thinking about a lot of the fantasy novels that were out at the time - many were really, really good - but a lot were garbage... The difference seemed to be the time taken to develop them and make them feel real to the reader. It was possible, but hard to evoke the feeling of a new and alien world in a short story - but in a novel the author had a chance to explore her creation and I wanted to take that and run with it. I wanted humans to be present, and some near humans, but for some reason I didn't want to go near the "D&D" races - so I populated it with Humans, Harvon, Wolfen, Reechi, The Fallen and Dragon-men. There are other creatures as well, but those form the majority of the peoples. Some of which we see in the novel - others of which will become more evident as the story continues.

It was a slow process; part of the process was a bit of wish fulfillment. If I could have my fantasy dream world, what would I want to see in it? As I began to write down notes, I began to dream about Mercia frequently - and began writing down what I remembered when I woke. In my dreams, I felt like I walked some of the hills and streams, and really saw the place for the first time - which was exciting as it was weird for me. I had to pull back from it for a while, because with the schizophrenia I wasn't sure if I was losing my focus and edging closer to another psychotic break.

I realized that religion had to be an important part of Mercian life, good or bad - and I wanted it to be integrated into the daily life of the characters in the stories - not tacked on as an addition after the fact. Why? I guess in a way it was a response to hearing that 90% of people on the planet believe in god (in some form or another) or a higher power - and because I was seeing in our own world a certain level of moral bankruptcy and dearth of religion... which seems to be endemic among mostly western culture and not the rest of the world, and I wondered why? I started to realize that a modern day character encountering a 'fantasy world' where gods lived and breathed would begin asking some pretty interesting questions about why they haven't seen the gods here - and I really liked that angle. I like that it makes the readers ask themselves questions, to be introspective about serious issues. I think the unexamined life is not worth living.

I started with a map, and the main regions I knew HAD to be in the stories. I fleshed it out bit by bit, writing down what I knew, and what I felt was acceptable to change as needed. Some things were set in stone - but others changed once or twice as I began to realize the nature of the world I was creating. It’s been a heady journey, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. I would go to Mercia in a heartbeat if I had the opportunity, just to see what my creation could be. I think it would be magical.

Call of the Void is an exciting fantasy adventure but it's grounded by this really grim and emotional opening section that takes place in our world. Were you drawing on your own experiences when you were writing that part of the book?

Eric was in a really grim, sad situation - and although I've never been homeless or living on the street (which was more due to having people who really cared about me to help me through the years of rough times than anything I did - having a support in the form of friends and family made all the difference), I wanted to portray a character that didn't have those supports, those helpers, and show a person that fell through the cracks like many schizophrenics do. Eric's lifestyle isn't that uncommon for a lot of people, as grim as it is, and I felt I shouldn't shy away from the bad parts - because how else will Eric appreciate the good parts, when he's able to leave that dirty, gritty life behind. Of course, he can't do it for free - there is no power without price - and the impetus to stop hiding and take action is the death of his friends Norm and Dave. I've lost several people in my life, some to violence, some to drugs and suicide. It’s difficult, and painful - and something you never really get over - but I think I was able to help channel some of those feelings into the characters.

My parents originally were very different from Anders, Eric's hateful father - and there were no friends or siblings like Angie in my life, which sucks - but in the end, my dad stuck with me, and mom kicked me to the curb so I suppose there's a little bit of reversal with life and my story. In a way, Eric faced his demons and defeated them, then found his true self and discovered happiness - which kind of mirrors my journey of discovery with my transition and how the last few years have developed. I didn't even realize this until a few months ago...

Oh - there is one thing that was a close correlation between my story and my life: the voices of the demons and the images of people being eaten and consumed by spiders. For years, with the schizophrenia, I lived in terror of 'the voices' and what they would want me to do. It was a living nightmare and one I'm very glad is ended. The new medications I'm on ended that about 3-4 years ago - and for the first time in twenty years I was able to feel safe and normal. Schizophrenia is terrifying - and the visions I saw helped me write some of the horrific scenes in the Call of the Void - but as the story went on, as I got better, they got harder and harder to write, with the side effect of the story becoming more and more upbeat the further Eric distanced himself from Earth and his old life. It’s an interesting correlation, I think.

If you could say three things to yourself at that moment, what would you say?

If I had to say something to myself at the moment I realized I was Trans, it would have been: Don't be afraid - and don't wait for someone else to solve the problem for you! You're responsible for your own happiness - no one else - and if you don't take action to MAKE it happen, it won't. Life is meant to be lived, not endured - so seize the chance to be happy when you can, because the alternative is being unhappy, and that really, really sucks. It’s scary - so be brave. Fortune favors the bold, after all.

Anything else you'd like to add?

I think writing about Mercia has been for me, a very fulfilling and rewarding endeavor for me. I can't wait to set pen to paper and fingers to keyboard to see another section of the world come to life as I write. I have ideas for dozens of stories set in its magical land, and I think I may never fully leave. I feel like some of my characters, a person born of two worlds, and I'd like to think one day I'll find my way there, even if it’s only in my dreams or the afterlife. I can't wait to see how the world develops. One of my friends once said "You have world-builders disease," in the fashion that I was literally sick with ideas. I couldn't get rid of them - they just kept coming back like a chronic cough. I guess if I have to have yet another illness, this one I can actually live with. If I could lose the others, I'd do so in a heartbeat - but never World-builders Disease... that one I'd keep.

I've set up a Yahoo groups page called Kathryn's Corner for people who want to discuss Mercia and its peoples, customs and places, and for people who just want to chat about what I'm writing, or my other stories like "The Mandate of Heaven" - which is very much like a modern day story about Demigods, in the vein of Percy Jackson, but with a TG bent. For those who are interested in joining a discussion and asking me some questions about my writing, the URL is https://groups.yahoo.com/neo/groups/kathrynscorner/info

I'd love to hear from you!

Kathryn

You can purchase Kathryn’s book here

First Twenty-fifth Unbirthday

“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.

~

Hutcho is the creator of the Mixed Tape Anthologies. He is Australian, but don't hold that against him. If you do he will sic his pet Drop Bear on you.

Gend-O-Matic

“Calm down Stormy!” I patted my pet’s head. He hadn’t quite reached the end of puppy-hood, but given his size he was getting pretty difficult to handle especially since I hadn’t quite managed to break him of all his bad habits.

Stormageddon plopped down and looked back at me with a big old doggie grin on his face. The last time he’d pulled this crap I’d spent almost five minutes trying to get the wry little bastard to sit up again. “Come on man.”

I felt an unexpected weight in my jacket pocket and looked up just in time to see some pale-skinned spook in a leather jacket breeze past me. “Weird.” I reached inside and pulled free what he had deposited there, a chincy little toy raygun.

“The Gend-O-Matic.” I traced my hands along the logo on the handle. “WARNING! only intended for use on humans.”

“Aethermysts,” I whispered, remembering that weird ass catalog I’d found in the dumpster a few weeks ago. I’d sent for something from it and I could have sworn I’d ordered the Mach-O-Blaster, but then again I’d been a little drunker than I cared to admit. I could have checked the wrong box on the order form.

The weird delivery method notwithstanding, there was no way I was buying the whole magic gender bender ray thing. I almost tossed the stupid thing in the garbage, but then I shook my head pointed it at Stormy and pulled the trigger. I really didn’t expect anything to happen. So, you can imagine my surprise when the gun recoiled and after a brief flash of light Stormy was looking a little different.

Sitting there on her ass stark naked, with her tongue waggling out of her mouth, was a rather fuck-tastic vixen who happened to have a set of dog ears and a tail. I gasped and looked down at the weapon with wide eyes.

I felt like a geek in a electronics store who’d just been handed an all-you-can-buy gift card. I started shooting everything in sight, starting with a squirrel who transformed into a buff dude with those goofy ears and bushy tail, next I fired on a cat who turned out just as vivacious as stormy. There were people there too, men, women and a couple of kids, none of them were spared. Once they’d been hit by the gun no one was immune to it’s effects. I pulled the trigger one last time, but the gun clicked and did nothing.

It got real hot real fast and I dropped it before it could burn my hands. There was a brilliant luminescent explosion and when my vision cleared I was looking up at the clear blue sky. A pretty face leaned over and I felt a hand on my shoulder. “It got you too, whatever that was, didn’t it?”

I gasped and reached out to my chest and confirmed my worst fears. “Yup, definitely chincy.”

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

Magic Beans

A jellybean.

Just one out of the seeming hundreds that constituted my sister’s and my Easter haul that year. Sweet, sticky, and well…bean-shaped.

And did I say pink?

Neon pink?

“So come on already!” said my twin sister Kayla, in a pitch I’m sure could send dogs scurrying. “Eat it, don’t stare at it.”

“Kay, it’s stupid,” I pleaded. “That jellybean can’t turn a boy into a girl.”

“Try it, if you’re so sure,” my sister said, in the tone of someone on the verge of snaring their quarry. “Or are you chicken?”

She had me. The one word in the English language that could make me do just about anything, from almost jamming a penny in the wall outlet before Mom stopped me (hey, I was four) to lighting my farts on fire (how was I supposed to know the drapes would go up like that?) The “kid code” demanded I defend my honor.

Surely a silly little jellybean couldn’t hurt me.

Could it?

“Hey, I was thinkin’,” I said, holding it inches from my mouth. “What if I wanna change back?”

“Duh,” said Kayla, rolling her eyes. “You eat one of the blue ones, what else?”

“Makes sense,” I answered, shrugging. “Well, here goes.”

The jellybean tasted…like a jellybean. (What else would it taste like? A burrito?) I closed my eyes, waiting for something to happen.

“Gotcha!” Kayla squealed, laughing. “Admit it—you thought you were gonna turn into a girl. Boys are so dumb.”

“Who’s a boy?!” I cocked my head and made a face. “Boys are gross.” Looking down at my ratty bathrobe and Spiderman PJs, I said, “What am I wearing!? Where’s my dress?”

Kayla blinked for a moment. “What??”

“My Easter dress, hello!” I said, looking puzzled. “We’re wearing matching ones, remember?“ I put my hand on Kayla’s forehead as her face registered panic. “Are you all right, Kay?”

“Kelsey, you’re scaring me….” Kayla pulled away, trembling.

“Quit kidding, sis.” I jumped up, giggling. “I get it--Mom hid it in my room! Oooh, I hope it’s pink.”

I made a beeline up the stairs with a creeped-out Kayla close behind.

“Hey, it’s not here.” Tossing aside a closet full of shirts, pants, and jackets, I stamped my foot. “Ha ha. Real funny, sis. Just for that, I’m borrowing one of your dresses ‘til you put my real clothes back!”

Running into Kayla’s room, I searched through her closet, holding up a pastel pink number. “Ohmigawd,” I gasped. “If you don’t want this anymore, can I have it? It’s so cute.”

“STOP IT!” Kayla shrieked. “I made it up, OK? You’re not a girl!”

Kayla looked over to see me grinning. “Gotcha!”

Kayla gasped, swatting me on the shoulder. “You knew!”

“Yep. I mean, magic jellybeans? C’mon!”

“Just glad to have my brother back,” said Kayla, relieved. “Put back that dress and let’s pig out on candy.”

“Umm…can I try it on?” I said, blushing. “It’s kinda soft.”

“MOOOOOOOM!” Kayla yelled, panic rising

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."

Memory Retrieval

Welcome to Retrieval, Mr. O'hara, how can we help you?

"Yeah, a friend of mine told me that you can help with semi-repressed memories, and there's this one he always keeps telling me about that I can't remember."

Would you prefer natural retrieval or the mind probe?

"Which would you suggest?"

I'm just going to ask you some questions, and that will determine the method. The questions will be more personalized the more you tell me, is that fine?

"Sure."

Tell me about the memory you want me to retrieve. Where was it?

"It was... In a cabin, out in the woods. My parents let me use it whenever I asked to, and my buddy Isaac and I would go up there to do some hunting."

Was Isaac there?

"Yeah, yeah, he was."

Good. Natural retrieval is always easier than a mind probe. Tell me, what was Isaac wearing that day? Can you remember it?

"I can, actually. Blue jeans and a simple tee-shirt, that's all."

And what were you wearing?

"Um... I can't... I don't remember."

That's fine, I'm sure it'll come back later. Tell me about Isaac, what was he doing there?

"Like I said, we went up there to hunt a lot."

How did you hunt in high heels?

"What?"

How did you hunt in the winter? Was there really anything there?

"Deer, mostly. Maybe an elk, or two. What was that other question you asked?"

Pay it no mind. How close were you to Isaac?

"We did everything together."

School?

"Every class."

Home?

"We hung out every day."

The bedroom?

"What?"

Now, let's get back to the memory at hand. What is the most pleasurable part of the memory?

"I don't know. It's tough to recall."

Was it the moment you felt Isaac's manhood inside you for the first time?

"The moment... I... What? What's going on?"

Please, don't tell me you forgot that your trip to the cabin was the moment you lost your virginity to the man of your dreams?

"Man of my dreams? Isaac?"

Yes, I’ve discovered many memories of the two of you making love.

“I’ve never…”

What color was the dress you wore to the cabin that day?

“I… Indigo. It was indigo.”

And, my earlier question, how do you hunt in high heels?

“I don’t, that’s just silly. Daddy and Isaac do all the hunting, I’m just there to look pretty and wait for Isaac to finish.”

Has your memory been successfully retrieved, Ms. O’hara?

“Yes, thank you, so much. Isaac’s been after me for years to remember our first time, but I’ve just been so empty-headed, it’s outrageous.”

You’re welcome, Ms. O’hara. Have a pleasant day.

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.

Servitude

"Angelique!"

Terry hurried in and plastered a smile on his face, straightening his petticoats before performing a flouncy little curtsey to his ten-year-old niece. "Yes, Miss Madison?"

"Angelique, bring me a cookie, won't you?"

Terry grit his teeth and curtsied again before leaving. He soon returned and presented her with an oatmeal cookie.

"Oh," Madison said in mock distress. "No, that's no good. Maybe an assortment? You know, on a little plate with one of those frilly paper coaster thingies? What do you call those?"

"Doilies."

"Yeah, one of those," she decided. When Terry just glared at her, she clapped her hands together briskly. "Chop, chop, girl!"

Terry set his jaw and curtsied again, swishing back towards the kitchen.

"Don't forget the milk!"

Presently, Terry returned with a silver serving platter holding a plate that had a variety of cookies artfully arranged on a paper doily next to a short glass of milk and a tiny vase with a single flower. Madison grinned in satisfaction as he placed the tray in front of her.

"Oh, how pretty!" she declared, choosing a cookie and taking a bite. "Angelique, you make such a good maid!"

"I live to serve," Terry deadpanned, folding his hands primly and watching as she took a sip of milk.

Madison made a little face as she licked her lips and held up the glass. "Is this whole milk?" she asked.

Terry crossed his arms under his abundant bosom and watched her take another sip. "It's breast milk."

"PPPBBTHHH!!" she sputtered, spitting it out of her mouth. "Oh! Uh! Ew!" she protested, rubbing at her tongue. She stared at him in disbelief.

"It's half and half, you little extortionist," he told her. "Now, I am immeasurably grateful for your and Claire's continued silence about the gangster living next door who wants me dead--"

“And who wants to date you. The girl you.”

“Right.”

"Also, how you're a snitch for the FBI."

"My point being!--please don't mistake my gratitude for blind obedience. Understand, I'm not saying this as your loving uncle, I'm saying this as the person who will be serving and preparing your food. The person with free rein to go into any nook or cranny in your bedroom when you're not there under the pretext of 'cleaning.' We clear?"

"Yep," she gulped.

"Good."

Madison picked up a cookie and held it out to him. "Peace offering?"

"Ugh, thanks, no. My butt's big enough as it is. Whatever was in that junk those doctors gave me was obviously calibrated for 'Kardashian.'"

Just then from down the hall came the tinkling sound of a small bell, followed by Claire's sing-song voice. "Angeliiiique!"

Terry raised an eyebrow and looked at Madison. "Excuse me a moment, won't you? I believe I need to have a word with your big sister." He smirked and dropped into another curtsey before heading down the hall.

"Coming, Miss Claire!" he chirped obediently.

Jenny North has recently been posting stories on Fictionmania and is really enjoying talking about herself in the third person. If you enjoyed this, she recommends reading her TV sitcom story that it's based on, "My Uncle Fifi." Then if you enjoy that one, she recommends the story that IT was based on, "Mockumentary." And if you enjoy THAT story...um, read "Broken Echo." It's great.

Rebellion

It’s oddly satisfying, looking at the pile of hair in the sink and on the floor. Gonna be a pain cleaning it up, but that’s a small price to feel a bit like myself again. Running my hand against the stubble on top of my head reminds me childhood, when Dad insisted on me getting a crew cut each summer.

That girl is still staring back from the bathroom mirror, but at least her face isn’t framed by thick locks down to her shoulders. Long hair was the least of this ordeal, but I’m still glad it’s gone.

I scowl. The girl doesn’t look any manlier, unfortunately, but at least she’s less approachable. I think. I can’t shake the feeling that some guys would find it cute, somehow.

God, going to the bar last night was a mistake. Don’t know why I didn’t expect to get hit on; I’ve flirted with women far less attractive than the girl in the mirror. I should’ve just gotten good and drunk at home.

Lesson learned. I’m going to avoid going out as much as possible, and if that makes me a shut-in, well, it’s for the best. I mean, the way that guy was looking at my chest you’d think I was topless, not wearing the least flattering clothes I could dig up. I didn’t need the reminder of what was underneath my shirt, or what they mean.

The thought makes me second guess the pile of sweatpants and sweatshirts I just bought. They’re all two sizes too big, more than ample enough to conceal my body in the comforting folds of shapeless grey fleece. The clerk looked at me like I was insane when I bought seven sets. Lady, I wish I was crazy.

Thinking I’d gone mad made that first night bearable, in retrospect. Sure, I spent it half-delirious and panicked, but there was a chance this was all some sort of nightmare. Praying I’d wake up in the morning with my penis back. After spending a week seeing a girl in the mirror, that initial bit of hope is long gone.

Hope. It’s why I did this. Shaved head, baggy clothes, perpetual frown. Next I’ll work on turning my sway into a swagger. I guess I hope that if I act unfeminine enough I’ll feel like a guy again, maybe even be a guy again.

The goddamn girl in the mirror says otherwise. I know she’s me. She feels natural. She claims this is just a phase, fleeting as teenage rebellion. That if I were serious about being a man I’d be considering drastic measures, not hiding behind an ugly wardrobe. She mocks me with those sad, confused eyes, and accuses me of avoiding painful but necessary introspection. Her gaze says that this might be something I wanted, whether I admit it or not.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe not. All I know is right now I'm more comfortable with what I was, and so I cling to the memory.

What is Maredsous? A human? A machine? A typing dog? Whatever his true nature, he loves to write, his works are available at several fine fiction websites, and he constantly seeks to refine what he does.

Wishes

“For my next wish I want to know how to make my wife happy. Whenever I ask her she always says ‘if you truly knew me, you wouldn’t have to ask.’ Well, that’s what I want. I wish I truly knew her.”

“As you command, master,” the immense, smoky male figure intoned.

A colorful wave shot from his fingers and slammed into my chest. It coursed through my body, shrinking me in stature while enlarging my chest, hips and buttocks. The hair on my head flowed over my shoulders as the rest my hair retreated. I looked at my reflection in the lamp’s polished surface. I looked exactly like my wife.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” I protested just as the magic hit my brain and I then knew what my wife desired.

She wanted to be adored, to be cherished. She wanted to be wooed like in the days before her wedding. Was it too much to ask for the occasional, unsolicited “I love you”? Would it kill him if he complimented my looks once in a while? God, what I’d do just to have him give me half the attention he gave his precious sports teams. What did he see in them anyway?

“I know what I want for my next wish,” I said.

“I await your pleasure, mistress.”

“How many wishes do I get again?”

“There is no limit to the number of wishes as long as they are made before midnight,” the djinn said.

“In that case, I want to understand my husband. He’s always complaining about money, yet he wastes it all the time. He flips his lid if I spend money on a new dress or if I buy something pretty to decorate the house. But spending hundreds of dollars to see a bunch of millionaires throw a ball around is perfectly okay. I wish I could understand him.”

“As you wish, mistress,” the djinn said wearily as he cast his magic. He looked at the morning sun peeking over the horizon and sighed. It was going to be a long day.

This is Varian Milagro's second contribution to the Mixed Tape anthologies. You can read all of his posted stories, including non-TG stories, and his commissioned comics on his blog ( http://varianm.blogspot.com/) and the stories "Just Pretending" and "The Purse Came First" at fictionmania.

Recommended Resources

Last month reality TV star and former Olympian Bruce Jenner came out as a trans woman and was the subject of a lengthy interview on the American news and current affairs program 20/20. The interview was well received, but not overwhelmingly so, which isn’t surprising – Jenner is part of a media empire that many regard as the nadir of America’s cultural output, she’s a republican whereas the majority of the trans community skews left, her day to day life experiences are not those of the average trans person, and as with most programs of its type, the 20/20 special was pitched at a non LGBTQ audience as a representative exposé. In addition to watching the interview, I encourage you to peruse the #Transwreck hashtag on twitter, and to read Julia Serano’s excellent column about the dominant narrative of interviews with trans individuals for The Guardian.

http://writingwithcolor.tumblr.com/FAQ

Writing with Color is a fantastic resource for anyone who wants to tell or think critically about the stories of people who are different from themselves. (And if you don’t want to do these things, why not?)

Vlogger extraordinaire Ashley Mardell has curated two fantastic videos about words and what they mean. Enjoy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81-FEauK9II

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kJ9ly4cK9tg

https://youtu.be/MQ5ziNOtoMU

Afterword

April was a busy month for me, so I wasn’t as involved in putting this collection together as I usually am. I’d like to extend a big thank you to Trismegistus Shandy, who did the bulk of the work this time. And, as always, thank you to all the authors who contributed.

I hope that you (the reader) found something that tickled your fancy in this collection of stories. If you did, let us know what it was with a review.

Submissions for the next mixed Tape are due on the 24th of May. It will published during the 1st week of June.

The tapes showcase both fiction and non-fiction pieces.

Guidelines for fiction submissions are as follows:

• Stories are to be no longer than 500 words.

• Write what you want to write. However, I'd love to see some stories where trans characters interact. In many of the more realistic stories on sites like FM, BC and TGS the protagonist is the only trans character, or is the only trans character for majority of piece. While the Outsider narrative is one that resonates with trans individuals - and queer individuals in general, and individuals who look different, or believe different things, and almost all people, who for whatever reason, feel different - while it has value as a framework to address trans experiences in fiction, with a beginning, middle, and a frequently empowering conclusion, I think it's overused. I'd love to see stories which start with acceptance and support as a given (and not in surprise twist sort of way) and where the many and varied LGBTQ communities exist and play a role.

  I’d also like to see some sci-fi and fantasy pieces about trans characters that do not feature magical or super-science sex changes. We don’t see enough of this type of story. I want to see trans heroes, antiheroes and villains who have transitioned, are transitioning, or are considering transitioning in ways that approximate the experiences of real world trans individuals.

• Stories are to be accompanied by a short About the Author or Also by This Author blurb. Write one of those too.

Guidelines for nonfiction submissions:

• Shoot for 1000 words. It doesn’t matter if you go a little over.

• Possible topics include trans issues, sex and sexuality, cross-dressing tips and tricks, writing, and books, movies, TV shows and comics about or featuring Transgender characters. If you can make a case for anything else, you can write about that.

• Regarding style: informal is fine, and preferred. These pieces shouldn’t be a chore to read. Write your chosen topic the same way you’d talk to a friend about it, or write about it in a blog, or in an effort-comment or forum post.

As a contributor you will be able to read and feedback other contributions as they come in. If at any point prior to publication you wish to withdraw your work, that’s OK.

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.

Email submissions to hutch0@hotmail.com.au

Cheers

Hutcho

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

A princess. A tower. A dragon. Siblings trying to stay safe within a despotic regime. Two trans women swap bodies. For all these stories and more, hit play on the first TG Mixed Tape for 2016. Featuring contributions from Jenny North, Kara Ryker, Hikaro, PersnicketyBitch, Melange, Miss_Void and Trismegistus Shandy.

I imagine that right now, you're feeling a bit like Alice. Hmm? Tumbling down the rabbit hole?

You could say that.

I see it in your eyes. You have the look of someone who accepts what he sees because he is expecting to wake up. Ironically, that's not far from the truth. Do you believe in fate?

No.

Why not?

Because I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of my life.

I know exactly what you mean. Let me tell you why you're here. You're here because you know something. What you know you can't explain, but you feel it. You've felt it your entire life, that there's something wrong with the world. You don't know what it is, but it's there, like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. Do you know what I'm talking about?

The Gender Binary.

Do you want to know what it is?

Yes.

The Gender Binary is everywhere. It is all around us. Even now, in this very room. You can see it when you look out your window or when you turn on your television. You can feel it when you go to work... when you go to church... when you pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.

What truth?

That you are a slave. Like everyone else you were born into bondage. Into a prison that you cannot taste or see or touch. A prison for your mind.

A device is produced.

This is your last chance. After this there is no turning back.

A pair of headphones is handed over.

You set these down the story ends, you wake up in your bed and you believe whatever you want to. You hit play you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.

Remember what I'm offering is the truth, nothing more.

James laid on Laura’s couch, staring vacantly at the ceiling as… she tried to process what Laura had helped her realize. Something she had known on some level, but fervently ignored for years. James felt a strange thrill run down her spine when she thought about people calling her miss, ma’am, she and her. Something inside her soul was singing joyously in response to every affirmation.

Laura sat on the floor, head resting against an arm of the couch, still thinking heavily. “Hey,” she said tentatively, “I know we just had a big heart to heart and a lot of life revelations, but do you wanna try something fun? Maybe fun. I don’t really know.”

James turned onto her side to face Laura. “What did you have in mind,” she asked quietly.

“Well-l-l-l…,” Laura said, with a long breath drawing her words out, “Do you still want to be called James?”

James could only shrug, or the best she could while lying down. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Do you like it? You don’t have to change it, you know.”

James sighed and closed her eyes in thought. She flinched when people used that name, but… was that just bullying? Or was it something else? “…I don’t know? No, I think,” she managed eventually.

Laura hummed thoughtfully, her lips twitching in a small smile. “Want me to toss some names out?”

She did the half-shrug again. “Sure, it can’t hurt.”

Laura’s smile grew as she started humming again. “Hmm… Jessica? Becka?”

James shook her head against the couch, her eyes still closed tightly. “No those sound too… different and just… not right? It’s hard to explain.”

Laura reached out to pat James’ arm to comfort her. “I get you, don’t worry! How about Amber or Amethyst?”

“I don’t think an ‘A’ name…” James opened her eyes and sat up, looking at Laura with a confused expression. “It’s just… not? It just doesn’t fit. I guess I’d compare it to clothes or shoes? Those names seem fine but they’re not the right size or whatever for me. Does that even make sense?”

“It does, don’t worry,” Laura reassured her. “Picking a new name isn’t something people do a lot. Catherine?”

James’ face relaxed and she tentatively smiled. “Maybe… not sure.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Laura giggled. James found herself giggling as well. It was infectious. ”Jacqueline?”

“Definitely not,” James said with an enthusiastic shake of her head.

Laura’s grin turned devious as she offered, “Ashley?”

“That’s another ‘A’ name!”

“I’m joking, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Laura teased.

James’ face went bright red in response, “Oh… oh gosh,” she mumbled. She was mortified but ecstatic because she could wear panties now because she was a girl.

Laura’s face immediately dropped with concern and she backpedaled frantically. “Oh god, I’m sorry! Was that embarrassing?”

James nodded, still scarlet, and squeaked, “A little bit.” She took several deep breaths to calm her racing heart, then added, “But let’s keep going.”

“Okay,” Laura replied, her voice as comforting as she could make it. “Taylor, Sasha, Sarah, Rachel, Penelope?”

“Maybe to Sasha, no to the rest,” James answered, her embarrassment already fading.

Laura stared for a moment, then snapped her fingers with a sudden idea. “Oh, oh, how about Victoria?”

“Oh come on! No way,” James snorted. “That’s just… No way.”

“Hmm… well, do you have any ideas?”

She fell silent as she pondered the question. “Well… maybe Gwyn?” She let the name echo in her ears as something responded deep inside her. “…Hmm.”

Laura leaned forward excitedly and grinned at her friend’s distant expression. “Hmmmmm?”

She came to an answer, and met Laura’s eyes with equal excitement. “Hmmm!!” she replied eagerly.

“Hmmm!?” Laura could barely keep her voice level as she fought back an enormous grin.

“Hmmm-- haha okay yeah,” she answered, her words dissolving into rippling laughter. “That’s… it feels good. Gwyn’s… it’s right. It fits. It’s me and I don’t think I’d want it to be anything else.”

Laura leaped forward and swept Gwyn into her arms and hugged her tightly. “I think it suits you perfectly.”

Miss_Void (yes that is how you should type it) is a trans woman in her mid-20s who is trying to address a chronic gap in fiction by writing more stories with characters from marginalized communities, while also making a story engaging and uplifting. Her current projects include “The Gift of Iron”, a story that focuses on the personal lives and challenges of people with superpowers, and “Ash Music”, a fantasy story focusing on self-worth and success. You can read them at TG Storytime. She struggles with chronic depression, anxiety, and borderline personality disorder, but tries to write to the best of her abilities. This April will mark 1 year since she began HRT.

Preview: CyberRealm ~ Into the Underworld

About the Story: The CyberRealm is a fictional high fantasy world that I have been creating through literature, RPG, and my thoughts and dreams for over 20 years now. It started as a rich, original world unlike any other, stuck in a medieval era. Then I started to wonder what the future of such a world would look like after the cyber age conquered it. What if robots and mutants clashed with wizards and demons?

Of course I had to throw in a TG story to spice things up even more. “Into the Underworld” features a gender transformation story of discovery and romance at its heart, but there is so much more to the world around the main characters. This is what happens when I let my imagination run wild.

They wandered down the halls, trying not to draw attention to themselves. More than once, Daemin heard a voice down a hallway or from the next room and altered their course. Finally, they came to a corner where it seemed they were trapped. Daemin looked one way and then the next. She grabbed Keira’s hand and dragged her into the wall. They raced through the stone. At one point, Keira felt them brush against a place that was somehow both warm and cold at the same time, and altogether wretched. It reminded her of her journey through space on Gharral’s rift magic. It must have been one of the warded places Daemin talked about. At last they emerged from the wall along a narrow hallway with several doors that were made of wood, not stone or metal.

“I have an idea!” Daemin exclaimed suddenly. “Besides, there’s someone I want to see. We can trust her.”

She pulled Keira along by the hand and through one of the doorways. Inside, a female elf was lying on a bed. Keira also noticed the large cybernetic limb that had replaced her left arm, and that told her the elf girl’s identity. Corin Orion, one half of the notorious Orion twins. The elf bolted up when she saw the two unfamiliar humans rush into her room, her expression turning to surprise.

“Who in the seven hells are you?” she demanded. “Get out! This is my room.”

“I know, Corin. It’s me, Daemin,” the former man tried to explain, but the elf merely looked at her like she had twelve heads. “It’s true! Look!”

Daemin’s skin suddenly rippled and took on the appearance of the wood floors in the room for a few moments, and then she resumed her normal form. The elf’s expression softened somewhat, though she did not appear entirely convinced.

“There was an accident. I bonded with another person!” Daemin exclaimed excitedly and gestured to the woman standing next to him who looked almost like her exact twin. “My power had unexpected side effects from bonding with her. See?”

“Yeah, right,” Orion said, a bit sarcastically, though Keira could tell she was interested. She looked closer at the two of them and began to grin. After another second, she chuckled to herself. “Are you serious? Daemin? Is that really you?” she said, laughing at her. “Are you stuck like that?”

“Yes! And it’s not funny!” Daemin protested.

“It kind of is,” the elf said, struggling vainly to stifle her mirth.

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.

Measure of a Man

I looked at the leather-bound, wallet-sized book that Trey had given me. Use it, he’d said, and make that dream of yours come true. I hadn’t known what he’d meant until I opened it up and found the spells inside. Spells. Real, working spells - working magic. Where had he found it? How did he know it worked? I had tried it the minute I got home, managed to make a candy bar appear on my desk with little effort, though it looked like it already had a bite taken out of it.

How had he even known about my dream?

Then again, it wasn’t exactly a secret that I didn’t feel right the way I was. Some men looked at women and saw something that excited them, that got their dicks hard and their breath shallow. I looked at women and saw exactly what I hated about myself. I hated my female body, and yearned for the one that I thought should have been mine.

But, still, I had never told Trey my dream, and here he was providing me with a means of allowing it to come to pass. He’d even dogeared the page with the correct spell.

I picked up the book and ran my hands over the cover. Would I use this? Should I use this? It would solve every problem I had, and let me live the life I wanted to live. If I used the spell that Trey left me, I’d be exactly who I wanted to be, as opposed to who I was stuck as.

I set the book back down on my desk and walked over to my mirror. The reflection was beautiful, she was perfect in every physical way imaginable, but I hated her. I hated the soft green eyes that resembled my mother’s, and the full lips that the cruder men around me talk about how they should be wrapped around their shafts. The breasts, which immediately drew eyes my direction because they were so large. Even though I barely shaved my legs, they were still frequently mentioned as one of my best features by my older sister.

The reflection was beautiful, and I hated looking at her, I hated knowing that it was a reflection I was looking at rather than simply a woman I’d met.

I turned away from the mirror and left my bedroom. The living room of the apartment was just another reminder of what I didn’t like. Stacy, my roommate, was a fashion designer, and she peppered the apartment with drawings, and magazine articles about her work. She’d asked when we moved in if I minded it all, but back then I’d just been closer to indifferent about what I was.

I picked up one of the magazines that Stacy had left on the coffee table and read the only article that had interested me. Adam Coulson, a trans man who grew up in the fashion world and lived out his dream of becoming a male model. I didn’t want to be a model, but Adam was still an inspiration to me.

Would he have gone through with using a magic spell to change himself into a man? The article made it seem as though he wouldn’t. But at the same time, I can’t understand why he wouldn’t. Were the surgeries and treatments really worth it to become a feminine looking man that no one would take seriously?

I hugged the magazine to my chest and felt tears begin to well up in my eyes. Why was this so complicated? I wanted to be a man, and I had the means to do so, but I just felt as though I couldn’t go through with it. It didn’t matter how I became a man, so I should just do it!

I threw the magazine at the wall. It was upsetting me, confusing me. I knew what I wanted, what I needed, so why wasn’t I doing it? I wasn’t right as a woman and I needed to be a man, there was only one clear option, beyond all shadow of doubt.

Except, that going the magic route would just shift me from one form to the other, painless. To everyone else, it’d be like I was a completely different person, they’d see no evidence of how much I hated being the woman I was born as. My parents saw none, no matter how much I told them. It’s just a phase, dear, my mother would say, but I knew that wasn’t the truth. She had to know it wasn’t the truth.

And so I returned to my bedroom and looked at that leather-bound, wallet-sized book yet again. Magic would grant my wish - in every sense of the word - and give me what I wanted, but the other way would as well. Magic would make me a man, but transitioning would explain why I was a man.

I picked up my phone and dialled Trey. “I don’t know what to do,” were the only words I spoke.

Hikaro is the author you’re likely never to have heard of. You can’t find him all over TG Storytime with stories like “Brave New World” or on BigCloset with “The Curse of Womanhood”. In fact, you’re probably better off never reading anything he writes.

Welcome to Dreamland

The beautiful princess sighed contentedly as her attendant fairies dressed her in a shimmering iridescent gown of amethyst and starlight, practically purring as she ran her hands across her soft milky-white skin that still tingled from the mud bath she'd taken earlier that day. A gentle breeze carried the scent of flowers into her chambers as it wafted between the curtains and she leisurely cast an eye over the books in the bookcase to find a tale to curl up with as she enjoyed her tea. But then, quite suddenly, the tranquil silence was shattered by the ringing sounds of fighting and swordplay from down in the courtyard.

"Shit, is it Thursday already?" she muttered.

She glided over to the window to look down on the courtyard of the ruined castle--the view from the tall tower really was quite spectacular--and watched as the heroic young knight sprang from his horse and charged at the dragon without a moment's hesitation.

"Surrender, fell serpent! Thy reign of terror ends today!" he cried as his flashing blade struck the beast. The dragon roared and unleashed a blast of fire at the knight, who barely managed to protect himself behind his shield.

The princess sat primly on the window sill and watched the combat with some detached interest as three little songbirds twisted her hair into an elegant braid. Meanwhile, one of the fairies busied herself with the young maiden's manicure.

"Oh, yes, that's nice," the princess said, admiring the color. She then smiled and waved to the young knight who chanced to look up at her, nearly getting himself incinerated because of the distraction. "Still rooting for you!" she called down to him.

She wandered back into her suite as her magical helpers fussed at the little details of her outfit and the birds sang a lilting three-part melody to drown out the sounds of the life-and-death combat below. But as she paused to primp in the mirror suddenly there came from downstairs a colossal roar followed by a series of thunderous crashes as some distant part of the castle collapsed. She cocked an ear to the door and after several moments of quiet she moved over to the elaborate bed where she carefully lay down and closed her eyes. "Shoo! Shoo!" she said, fluttering her fingers at the little fairies who were artfully arranging the folds of her gown.

The princess gracefully folded her hands and adopted a beatific little smile as she waited, and a few moments later heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs before the heavy door to her chambers creaked open. She peeked one eye open and saw the knight--young, handsome and with tousled hair, though perhaps a bit shorter than she expected--as he took a knee before her bed, leaned on his sword, and gazed at her supine form.

"O fairest of maidens, the tales of thy beauty are as a lie when compared to thy radiance."

The princess closed her eyes and licked her lips in anticipation of what was coming.

"Truly, no man hath seen a greater--wait, is that what you were planning on wearing?"

She opened her eyes and sat up. "Yeah, why not?"

The knight stood up and gestured at her helplessly. "You can't wear that! We have to escape through the Blighted Swamp!"

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and brushed at her sparkling gown. "Well, sure, but I thought we'd have a little time for..." She gave him a lascivious little leer and shook her shoulders.

"That doesn't happen until later! The Dreadknight will be here any minute, we have to go!"

"Well, this is bullshit. I'm not leaving," the princess insisted. "You wouldn't believe the spa they have here."

"David, we had a deal!" the knight said, stamping his foot petulantly. He put his hand on his hip in an effeminate gesture and pointed at her as she got up to look at herself in the mirror. "You get to be pampered for three days, and then I rescue you, and we finish the story together!"

The princess grumbled and folded her arms, wriggling in discomfiture like a recalcitrant little girl. "Yeah, all right," she finally agreed. Then she clapped her hands briskly. "Okay! Fairies, birds, let's pack it up!"

"You're not taking them with us."

"What I'm not doing is ruining a perfectly good pedicure traipsing through a swamp. We're taking the long way."

"Are you mad? Right past Lord Baleford's castle?"

"I'm supposed to get kidnapped by him anyway, right?"

"Yes, but--"

"And that's when he dresses me in that strappy black leather getup?"

The knight rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"And after you rescue me, you and I get to..." She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

"Indeed, milady. Vigorously."

"Cool," she said as she draped her arms around his neck and jumped into his arms. "Okay, I'm ready to go."

The knight smiled and shook his head. "God, you are so high-maintenance."

"Hey, it's my vacation, too, y'know," she said, giving him a little kiss.

Back in the control room one of the lead technicians was eating from a bag of pretzels and paused to look over another tech’s shoulder at a display. "How are Mr. and Mrs. Holden doing?"

The other man nodded. "Good. They're going a little off-script, but we can adjust. It looks like Mr. Holden was hoping for a more amorous encounter."

"After three days alone in a pleasure model, I'm not surprised. Arrange for them to get waylaid by Lady Ambrosia's troupe. A couple days in her dungeons should scratch the itch." He munched on another pretzel. "Man, they're not going to want to come home."

If you’re curious, the mock advertisement graphic that inspired this story is here. It’s one of Jenny’s, so she’s engaging in that fine Hollywood tradition of stealing her own ideas...meaning you can doubtless expect three more “re-imaginings,” a reboot, an extended cut, and a director’s cut. But if you don’t want to wait for all that, her layered “Broken Echo” story on Fictionmania plays with similar themes and, shockingly, has not yet been bought by Disney for four billion dollars.

Preview: My Uncle Fifi ~ My Beautiful Laundrette

About the Story: “My Uncle Fifi: My Beautiful Laundrette” is a comedy that continues the story of a gambler who's been turned into a woman and is hiding out from the mob in a French maid's outfit. (I’d say it makes more sense in context, but who am I kidding?) However, now the stakes have been raised even further as he tries to prevent his family from getting sucked into a money laundering scheme even as his parents unexpectedly arrive on the scene, surprised to meet their new “daughter.”

I don't often write sequels, and on its face this is just a silly sitcom-style comedy about a guy forced to masquerade as a French maid, but I was drawn to it for a few reasons. First, maintaining the comedy in a story of this length isn't easy, which was a fun challenge and allowed me to explore having multiple comedic plot threads that played off each other, culminating in the most awkward dinner party since The Birdcage.

The story also has many layers, which made it more interesting to write. It's a spinoff of my "Mockumentary" story, and "My Uncle Fifi" is the sitcom that the actor of that earlier tale ends up starring in, so in many ways it parallels how the actor (Tristan) has adapted to being a woman even as his character (Terry) does the same. So while a lot of the humor comes from his embarrassment and frustration, it also shows how he rises above it while surrounded by a loving and comedically dysfunctional family rather than just constantly poking fun at his expense.

It was also fun to play with different styles of comedy, layering in the snarky one-liners that peppered the first “Fifi” story with more elements of farce, physical comedy, and observational humor. For instance, this excerpt below--right in the middle of a sexy little scene where Terry is being propositioned by a woman who works for the mob--gives a little glimpse into Terry's mind and stylistically was inspired by Douglas Adams' writing. (And while I’m the first to admit that I'm not fit to carry Mr. Adams' towel, I swear I can't read this interlude without hearing Stephen Fry narrating it!)

"Mmmm," she purred in agreement as her hands moved forward to gently outline the soft curve of his breasts. "Oh! Well, I see my proposal... intrigues you," she smiled as she teased his big protruding nipples. "Tell me what you're thinking," she whispered.

*** INTERLUDE: THE INNER MIND OF TERRY RILEY ***

At that exact moment, although he didn't fully realize it, Terry was thinking about evolution, and how over the span of countless eons it has enabled us to progress from a single-celled organism into the dominant species on the planet. He knew this because he remembered it from a voice-over by Sir Patrick Stewart in one of the X-Men movies. And the pinnacle of that evolutionary process, the crown jewel as it were, was the masterpiece that is the human brain. This was the tool that allowed us to become self-aware and to question our place in the universe, to develop language, art, philosophy, and some fairly watchable X-Men movies. If Evolution was a three-piece rock band, it was as though Charles Darwin, Albert Einstein, and the monkey from that Scopes trial had picked up their instruments, rocked an 18-minute power ballad called "The Human Brain," and then dropped the microphone and walked off the stage.

Admittedly, Terry wasn't entirely clear on all the details.

For that, he blamed Becky Caldwell. She used to sit across from him in high school biology, and the pinnacles of her evolutionary development looked very good in the tight sweaters she liked to wear. But there in those humble and horny beginnings, Terry had discovered his gift. For while his fellow Homo Sapiens brethren had become distracted by their cognitive abilities, choosing to focus on things like literature, the betterment of mankind, or figuring out how to make aerosol cheese, Terry had retained a singularity of purpose. Indeed, although he had never stopped to appreciate it, he had managed to focus his mental faculties on the one question that had been the driving force behind all those billions of years of evolution. Namely, "How do I get this very attractive member of my species to fuck me?"

Terry's mind was the perfectly-tuned instrument for divining the answer to this question. He had cultivated his gift, practiced it at every opportunity, and honed his skills to a razor sharp edge.

Balanced against those considerable skills was of course the fact that his burgeoning manhood notwithstanding, he currently appeared to be a sexy French maid with a big round butt and an impressive set of cans. Still, Terry remained undeterred. If you'd explained to him what the word indefatigable meant, he would have agreed that was exactly what he was when it came to getting laid by a smoking hot woman.

He considered his options and after a moment the finely-tuned and perfectly evolved instrument between his ears came back with its determination: DO NOT HAVE SEX WITH THIS WOMAN.

Trackless

There are some words that resound very deep within the human heart: love, life and death. War.

It was too late to argue which side had started everything. It wasn’t important who had shot first anymore. Love and life was hard to find in times of war and death, but it brought people together. Two brothers may fight, but they stand together against an outsider. It brought soldiers together to fight the enemy, and it brought the rest of the country together in support. Everyone had a role.

The train station was loud with the noise of machinery and people shouting. The high, arched ceiling created echoes, and the air was thick with the smell of smoke and oil. There were both police and military in place to help maintain order and keep the lines moving. Bodies pressed together as the next train wagon opened to admit more passengers.

An officer walked along one of the lines, stopping every so often to check his clipboard and to verify each person’s papers. His stiff coat brushed the dark, pressed trousers with every step. Further down the line of young people waiting to board the train were two holding hands. The older of the two, a teenager, spoke softly to the younger, squeezing the hand to provide what comfort there was in a place like this. Their clothes were handed down, worn and patched, but warm. It made them look the part.

Don’t go first. Don’t go last. Blend in with the middle, when the officer's’ attention is the most lax. That was the advice given to them by a man they trusted deeply, before they were handed the papers that would help them get to safety. Then they had been sent away.

“I miss mom,” said the younger one, pulling the oversized scarf up against the cold.

“I know you do, Kris. I know,” said the older. It wasn’t the first time Kris had mentioned this. They both missed the ones they had to leave behind.

They heard the people ahead of them answer the officer’s questions. It made the teenager shudder slightly, but masked it as a shiver by hugging the coat closer. On a nearby wall were many pictures of young men and women, each asking the same question. Have you seen me?

“I heard that sometimes kids go missing, too,” Kris said after seeing the pictures.

“It… happens. Mostly girls.” The teenager kept listening, in case the officers asked anything unexpected. So far, they should be alright.

“Is that why-?”

“Yeah. So be careful of what you say, okay? We have to be very careful, Kris.”

The officer was finally by their side. The man pushed the round wire-glasses up his nose, and inspected his clipboard. Then he turned his grey eyes toward the two children and raised an eyebrow.

“Who might you be, then?” The officer had asked the same thing countless times today. The lines would continue as long as the war did.

“I’m Peter. This is my younger brother Kristof,” the teenager spoke confidently, but didn’t quite meet the officer’s eyes.

“How old are you?” The man inquired.

“I’m fifteen. Kris is ten.”

The officer looked at the papers the older boy had presented. The lad didn't look all that much like his picture. The hair and eyes were close, but he was too thin. The boy must have seen him glancing back and forth between the picture and the real thing.

"Is something wrong, officer?" Peter asked, cautiously.

"You look different in your picture." The officer held the papers in his gloved hand, not letting them go.

"It is the war, sir. There wasn't much food, even for us kids."

"I know. It's a tragedy.” The officer looked again at the papers before handing them back with a small sigh. He made two marks on his list. Child: male. Adolescent: male, noncombatant. “Hopefully it will be better for you in the cities."

"Thank you, sir." Peter said and pocketed the papers again. Their papers, no matter where they had come from.

"Go on now,” the officer motioned them on to where the soldiers allowed the verified to wait.

Kris pulled down the scarf a little and reached over to touch the officer’s sleeve. Peter felt a chill inside. They had passed! They just needed to avoid attention for a little while longer. The officer paused and looked down on the child, his breath steaming in the chill air.

"Why do older children disappear?" Kris was barely heard over a clanking noise of a heavy door sliding shut somewhere beyond the crowd.

"Who have you been talking to, child? People don't disappear. Those old enough get chosen to defend our country, of course. We need strong boys to fight the enemy.” The officer looked at his list, nodding to himself. “Sadly, both of you are too young for that, but we're counting on you in the years ahead."

"What about the girls?" Kris asked, even as Peter firmly grabbed the child’s arm and pulled both of them back.

"They... help out as well. They do important work to keep the men's fighting spirit up! Now on with you, children." The officer waved them on once more, but reached up to adjust his high collar. He didn’t like those questions.

The two were allowed past the soldiers watching the lines of people. Just a little more and they’d get on the train.

"What did he mean by that?" Kris wondered.

"Please, Kris. Not so loud." Peter looked around to make sure they hadn’t been overheard.

"But-" Kris wouldn’t let it drop.

"Like he said, they help out." It wasn’t a lie. Not really.

"Like mom does?" The child frowned a little.

"... yeah, just like that." Peter couldn’t meet Kris’ eyes. It was the reason why they had to pretend and hide. Why they couldn’t stay. Everyone who was eighteen or older had to serve, one way or another. Sometimes the children were taken before eighteen, but only the girls. War created all the excuses that were needed.

"I like cooking and cleaning better than fighting,” the child mumbled through the scarf.

"Don't think about that right now. It’s our turn." Peter helped Kris with the first high step on to the wagon.

They huddled together on the hard benches in the overcrowded train, looking out of windows touched by frost.

"I miss my brother, too," Kris said, as they felt the train begin to move down tracks toward the city.

The teenager held onto the papers in the coat pocket. “Yeah. He was brave. Now you have to be brave too.”

Melange is possibly a collective of like-minded raccoons who occasionally write stories both long and short, or delve into poetry. Her most ambitious undertaking so far is her “Horizons of the Heart” series, spanning two books, and coming to terms with how building her own fantasy world setting is actually a lot of work. She has a lot of dreams, and a lot of ideas for stories, but sometimes it takes more time than anticipated to turn them into proper words.

A Review of Two New Plays

The production of Selasru's new comedy, "Youthful Games for Old Codgers", which opened last night at the Nelavriman Theater, is a delight. It is the first play I know of to treat of the new rejuvenating fruit, and it does so with insight as well as great comedic effect. It is in marked contrast in every way to the new tragedy based on the Legend of Kasemrian, performed by the priests of the Temple of Telemrasu.

"Youthful Games for Old Codgers" begins with an elderly commoner, Velasruvan (played by Tavrasan of Silien), who has made a respectable amount of money in trade but makes no pretenses of quasi-nobility as some such little rich men do. He and his wife, Namisrala (Kienemala of Tasren), decide to purchase and eat rejuvenation fruit. They find that just two of the fruit will cost all of their ready cash, and all they can get from a money-lender by mortgaging their house. After some hesitation, they go through with their plan, Velasruvan becoming a pretty young woman (played for the remainder of the piece by Tunemala of Komresi) and Namisrala a dashing young man (now Kemrivan of Telrem). The following scene is a slapstick farce (not the last) as Namisrala attempts to besiege her now-womanly husband, and Velasruvan at first refuses, then reluctantly consents and (judging from the noises off) rejoices to be besieged.

The next scene introduces their middle-aged children, Pemrala, a married woman with two grown children and several younger, and Levranan, a tutor at the University. The humor flags a bit in this scene, as we are treated for the tenth time this year alone to the stereotype of the "distracted scholar"; Levranan has been so engrossed in his esoteric studies that he does not know of the sex-altering properties of the rejuvenating fruit, and is only vaguely aware of the King's rejuvenation. Pemrala, on the other hand, is concerned to ensure that her parents die a decent death of old age and do not deprive her and her children of their inheritance. They are both astounded to find that their parents have already been rejuvenated and exchanged their sexes.

The tone turns a little more serious than is appropriate for a comedy as Pemrala tries scheme after scheme to murder her parents, each more contrived than the last, and Levranan (thankfully dropping the "distracted scholar" stage-business) tries desperately to foil each scheme without alerting their parents, or the City Watch, to her malicious intent. The rejuvenated couple, meanwhile, oblivious to their danger, instruct each other in their new duties, Velasruvan teaching her wife to run the import business, and Namisrala teaching his husband how to keep the house in order and discipline the servants. These scenes must be taking place in a hundred households of nobles and rich commoners throughout the kingdom as I write, and if Lord Mesravan's predictions are correct, they will only become more common. Selasru portrays them with sharp wit and gentle insight.

I will say no more of the plot, except that it is traditional for a comedy involving financial troubles to end with those troubles resolved abruptly by an unexpected inheritance or discovery of buried treasure, and for a play involving reversals of identity to end with the reversal reversed; Selasru does nothing so obvious, and I commend him for it. I will write at greater length about the unconventional ending in my essay at the end of the season, when everyone has had a chance to see this excellent play.

What is there to say about the Legend of Kasemrian, or this new tragedy based upon it? We have all heard the legend; most of us have seen one of the classical theatrical versions. From the way this one is written, its anonymous author clearly thinks he is making insightful comments on the likely consequences of the use of rejuvenation fruit; but he has done nothing of the kind. Kasemrian snatched immortality by stealing the nectar of the gods from their holy mountain; the late Lord Mesravan and Dr. Vamrunu devised the rejuvenation fruit by philanthropic use of wealth and dedication to natural philosophy. Kasemrian was punished for his blasphemy by watching all his friends and lovers die of old age, and remaining to wander the earth alone forever after the gods assumed the good into the Fair Fields and banished the evil to the Pit; but those who eat this rejuvenation fruit will see most of their friends and relatives eat it as well, and will probably enjoy centuries of life together, grieving over no more deaths of friends than is usual in an ordinary lifetime. On the other hand, where is the parallel, in this legend, to the confusion of social roles engendered by the rejuvenation fruit? The supposedly light-hearted comedy has more important things to say to us than the supposedly meditative tragedy.

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”. “A Review of Two New Plays” is an excerpt from another unfinished novel, which they might get back to after finishing the current work in progress; how soon may depend on the feedback for this story.

Preview: A Raid and a Rescue

About the Story: "A Raid and a Rescue" started, I think, with me contemplating the various RPG portal fantasies -- stories where people playing a role-playing game travel into a secondary world and become the characters they were playing. I wanted to write one -- preferably with a less cliched secondary world than some such stories, which almost all seem to be set in D&D-style pseudo-medieval settings -- but I wanted a good twist to make it unique and worth writing. Then it occurred to me: what if it happened to everyone, not just to one particular group of gamers? And not just to people playing formal dice-based RPGs, but to anyone pretending to be someone else? -- actors, for instance, and small children playing Pretend.

The rest of the story required me to come up with an interesting secondary world and a plot for the characters' adventures after going into the other world; there's less to say about that. I wanted it to be different from the usual D&D-style worlds, and I wanted any fantasy races to be different from the usual elves, dwarves, etc.

The title comes from a line in G.K. Chesterton's Orthodoxy; I give the context here, although it isn't entirely relevant to the content of my story:

If we desire European civilization to be a raid and a rescue, we shall insist rather that souls are in real peril than that their peril is ultimately unreal.

I think "A Raid and a Rescue" is probably the best story I've written in the last couple of years; I hope you enjoy it.

The reporter on TV was apparently in the lobby of a fancy hotel or -- no, it was a theater. Some Broadway theater in New York, from the caption at the bottom of the screen.

"-- and they all just disappeared," a young lady was saying into the microphone, "right in the middle of the song. You could see their empty clothes hanging there for just a moment and then they fell down, and people were screaming, but you could barely hear it until the music stopped... Then somebody dropped the curtain and a minute later the band started playing something else, and the manager came out and said 'keep calm', but I've seen _Wicked_ three times and I know that's not supposed to happen."

The scene changed to a news studio, with a couple of anchors at a desk and the reporter from the theater lobby on the screen beside them. They were talking about how most of the actors had vanished from theater stages at 7:34 pm all over, wherever there were plays being performed.

"And movie and TV actors, too; a few minutes ago they were interviewing a cameraman from the set of Days of Our Lives," Karen said, muting the TV.

"Bill and Kim and Sandor aren't the only roleplayers this happened to either," Gerald said. "I just got confirmation. I posted about it to a couple of gaming forums, and just before you got here, I saw some replies -- other GMs talking about the same thing happening to their players."

"Damn," I said quietly. "That could have been me."

"There but for the hardassness of your boss," Gerald said.

"And the children," Karen said, her voice breaking off in a sob.

"What?"

"Some kids have disappeared too," Gerald said. "The news didn't say, but I'll bet a first-edition Monster Manual that they were playing 'pretend.' Same as we were, only without dice."

"Or those method actors," I said, light dawning. "All pretending to be somebody else, somewhere else..."

I was interrupted by a scream from the dining room. We all jumped up and ran, hearing a crash and clatter before we got there.

Bill looked up at us, a terrified look on his face and no clothes on his body. He was lying on the floor next to his toppled chair, half atop his own clothes.

A Moment We Shared

I shimmy out of my underpants (by which I mean your underpants), and then we’re kissing. My hands cup your chin, my fingers splay out, and then I’m all over, all about your heartface, my once mirrorface, chimpmunked cheeks, will softened, pill softened, electrically smoothedface, steadying us. We need it, I feel you probing between my legs. The soft pad of a finger, and briefly the hard curve of a nail, on my taint, my balls, my girlcock. I’m humping your hand, which was my hand, and it’s nothing like the scrunching I used to do, those acts of masturbatory self-loathing. And now, you’re kissing harder than I am. Your hand is pressing harder than I am. And then your teeth are at my neck. The first scent of sexsweat is in the air, and you’re fucking me, and I’m being fucked. It’s usually me who is the aggressive one in these moments. In the past I’ve felt that if I didn’t dictate the shape of an encounter, if I wasn’t always asserting the image of the self I want others to see, then I would be in their eyes a pretender. Teeth pinch on my earlobe. Teeth snap-snap-snap in my face. Liongrowlpurr in the inches between us. As I happycower, I think of you matter-of-factly fingering lubricant into a groin that for me was sometimes ladyparts and sometimes just a gash, a falseness that could be found out by cock or tongue. Fuck me with it. On your chest, my pillowy breasts, nipples pale like their skin, hard to see; and on mine, your sensitive flatness. I see myself reflected in the dresser mirror, in your dykish fanfuckingtabulous body. To be in this body is, as you say of being in mine, to experience the wonder of an emerging mindrightness again. To feel with intensity, immediacy and with the whole of one’s body, with teary-eyes, and smiles that ripple out and set the hands shaking. To be filled with a sense that a future is out there, that life need no longer be moment to moment to moment. Sometime after, time enough for showers, a sandwich breakfast, and three episodes of Kimmy Schmidt, the phone will ring. It’s triggering having to use a name that isn’t mine for the peace of mind of a woman who professes to love me very much but who doesn’t truly know me at all. After I hang up you’ll snuggle away the badfeels. We’ll talk some, we’ll sleep some. The alarm wakes us up at four thirty in the afternoon. After you head off to my work, I’ll try again, out of habit, to fit the puzzle cube back together, but the pieces are still refusing to click into place. Eventually I’ll give up and put them back in the shoebox. The next time we open it it’ll be empty. I’ll read and reread every message you’ve ever sent and try as I might I’ll find that I just cannot write in your voice. Your eyes will be dry at my granddads funeral. Concerned friends will stage interventions (you seem different lately; no, really, I’m fine). They will never know, but eventually they will accept. People change. You move on, or maybe I do. The now and not now of remembrance: I shimmy from your underpants, and we kiss, and I grind my genitals into your hand, and you grind back harder; sounds, silences, proximities asking, answering, fuck me, yes, fuck me, yes, fuck me, and now I’m on my back and you’re straddling me, and I’m hard and we’re joined. You reached down to trace the place where you accommodated me. I watched a breast bouncerub against the upper part of your arm. Your fingers came away and seemed to float to my lips and I tasted something that was all your own, like strawberries and also not.

PersnicketyBitch is the curator of the TG Mixed Tape anthologies.

The Mixed Tape Recommends: Her Story

“I had always thought myself firmly on the progressive side of every issue,” journalist Allie narrates in the cold open of fourth episode of Jen Richards and Laura Zak’s Her Story, “but like too many in our community I thought my tacit acceptance of the reality of trans people was sufficient. I never questioned their total absence from my world. I now see that our great disservice is not just to those who we’ve excluded, but to ourselves, for our world is less rich without their stories, their laughter, their voices. It’s less that the world has changed for trans people and simply that we are seeing them as people, as our brothers and sisters, our parents and children, our colleagues, even our friends.”

Accompanying this speech are images of Allie (played by Zak) spending time with Violet (Richards), a trans woman who she is profiling; glimpses of animated conversations as they explore LA by car and by foot, of goofing with public art installations and sprints along a beach and splashes in the shallows. We can immediately see that their relationship is not that that of interviewer and subject. It is a friendship, one that is perhaps developing into something more. It’s more than a scene, it’s a mission statement.

All that Her Story is aspiring to be, and does well, is on display here. The series gives us several overwhelmingly positive portrayals of characters we don’t often see in mainstream productions, and shows them navigating what for most viewers will seem ordinary, if not day to day, then at least familiar situations. This simplicity of premise and executionis never going to make for the most compelling pitch, but it’s the key to the show’s success. Every episode of Her Story clocks in under 10 minutes, and there’s only a handful of them, and within those constraints Richards and Zak have chosen to prioritize character and rich depictions of small moments. There is one really dramatic reveal during the final stretch, and even though the resulting complication is resolved satisfactorily, I can’t help but feel that it would have been better served by the more involved treatment it would no doubt receive on a longer show.

And I hope a longer show is coming, whether it be in form of more short seasons, or a follow up with longer episodes (as with RocketJump’s Video Game High School), or a “Real Show” on a “Real Network” (as with Broad City). I love the characters that Her Story has introduced me to. I love Violet and her infectious grin and chemistry she has with Allie. I love Angelica Ross’ Paige, Her Story’s other major trans heroine, a fierce and principled lawyer who I absolutely want on my side if I ever end up in a courtroom. And it would be a real shame if we do not get to see their wonderful empowering lives unfold for many years to come.

~ PersnicketyBitch

Authenticity is a term you often hear when it comes to trans people, in particular the desire to live our lives in an authentic manner free of the preconceived notions that are placed on us by society, free to be ourselves and to discover what that even means, free to live how we will and love who we wish. Unfortunately, Hollywood's recent fascination with the trans experience is still in the novelty phase, where the transgender aspect is often relegated to being the titillating zinger to the story. So instead of trans drama we get trans melodrama. Trans characters become trans caricatures.

Into this space Her Story provides a different experience, more low-key and intensely personal. Here, trans women are played by trans actresses, and their stories have an air of authenticity about them. The six episodes of season one add up to just less than an hour, but they manage to portray a side of the transgender experience with a nuance we seldom see. The challenges, frustrations, and joys of its characters ring true as they grapple with things that are often unique to the trans experience. One character bemoans how she was read as trans, while another grapples with when to disclose that she’s trans to the unsuspecting new man in her life. A lesbian falls for a trans woman, and both of them fumble through what that means to their self-images as women. And everyone has a history.

My only frustration with the series is that the portrayals of the anti-trans points of view are a little heavy-handed, which I suspect is a side-effect of the short-form episodes trying to introduce drama. The abusive boyfriend or the anti-trans lesbian are not unbelievable characters, but their crude portrayals seem out of place in a production that otherwise takes care to give us more nuanced and complex characters. The interactions manage to remain more personal than preachy, but they do often feel like straw man positions for the protagonists to rail against rather than fully-realized characters. However, these are growing pains that the series will hopefully outgrow... a series so dedicated to striving for authenticity (for both its characters and their portrayal) seems unlikely to do any less.

~ Jenny North

CHECK OUT SEASON ONE OF HER STORY HERE.

Afterword

I hope that you enjoyed this month’s TG Mixed Tape. If you did, or even if you didn’t and have some constructive criticism to share, please leave a review.

The next collection will come out at the end of March. Submissions are due in by the 27^th of that month.

You can submit up to 1000 words of fiction. These 1000 words can encompass multiple stories. For example, you could submit one long story OR you could submit two 500 word pieces or three 300 word pieces.

In addition to your original fiction, you can also submit a 500 word excerpt from a story that you have published or updated in the previous 12 months. This must be accompanied by a description of the story as a whole, and one or two paragraphs outlining what you were trying to achieve with it or with the excerpt in particular.

I’d also like to include ONE longer piece (say 3000 - 4000 words in length) to be serialised throughout the collection in 500-1000 word chunks, separated by standalone pieces and previews. If you are interested in writing something along these lines, e-mail me your pitch. Here are some guidelines:

• Your story must contain at least two trans characters, one of whom is the protagonist.
• It should touch on one or more issues that affect trans people, however these need not be the main focus.
• Ideally it should be of an escapist bent, after all, what is a serial without cliff-hangers?

Your pitch should be no longer than 500 words. It should include a link to at least one resource (i.e. an article, a youtube video, a blog post) from a reputable source pertaining to the issue/s that you intend to address. This will be included as a footnote to your story for readers who would like to know more.

Send your pitches to me by Thursday the 25^th of February. Depending on how many come in, either I’ll choose which one gets written, or it’ll be put to a vote. Hopefully you’ll find out whether or not you are to actually write the story by the 1^st of March.

If your story idea is not selected, by all means, go ahead, write it anyway and publish it as its own thing. Your ideas belong to you and you will not forfeit the right to write them by pitching.

My email address is persnicketyb@outlook.com. Send any and all submissions here.

Until next time, or until you get in touch.

PersnicketyBitch

W/R/T the framing piece, I wish I could claim to be the first person to think of replacing The Matrix with The Gender Binary, but it's an idea I borrowed from someone else. Needless to say, most of the words are Lana and Andy Wachowkis's. The changes that have been made only make explicit the queer, and more specifically trans, subtext of the original scene.

Ghouls, Ghosts, Vampires, and everything in-between. Halloween is host to these and many more creatures lurking about everywhere you may look, even here, among your friends and family. Press play and find yourself immersed in seven worlds of wonder and fright with several of your favorite authors.

Special thanks to Roberta J Cabot for the images.

Groovy Tones always had a great Halloween. Every year there was a costume party, and people came from all around to see what costumes people would be wearing. Otto, the owner, spotted werewolves, vampires, Frankenstein's Monsters, zombies, mummies and ghosts mingling with princesses, faeries, ogres, gangsters, former Presidents and video game characters. The gamut was run from one side to the other, and the sales were strong.

(Otto somewhat regretted actually selling things on Halloween, but there were always sales that day. Christmas was even worse. No one would take his charity that day.)

The sheer amount of people all around the store made Otto wonder if he should consider making it larger again. He'd already increased the interior size three times as more and more people came in, and while there was still plenty of room, he could see some people getting annoyed with the others around them. If another group of people came in, he would make certain the store was larger. He wouldn't want people getting into a fight over something silly.

A devious thought crossed his mind. These people were unaware of the magic expanding the room around them, perhaps they would be unaware of more magic. The prospects were hilarious, the entertainment would be wonderful.

Otto turned his attention to the nearest person, a man in a werewolf costume. He didn't notice when his mask became his face and his tail began smacking his date in the ass. On the subject of the date, a man who clearly had a thing for wands and wizardry, he became a real life Harry Potter, though whether or not he realized his snitch was actually floating around him, Otto couldn't tell.

On the other side of the room, a girl in a Pikachu costume found herself jumping out of people’s way before she was stepped on, and accidentally electrocuted one of her parents. Her father, on the other hand, found himself trying to nibble on his wife's arm as he discovered a hunger for flesh. His wife (and the Pikachu's mother) wasn't paying attention to either her husband or her daughter as she came to a new understanding of what it meant to be the Bride of Frankenstein.

Now Otto came to a very special pair. He was dressed like a princess, she like a valiant knight in shining armor. Otto could just swap their costumes and be done with it, but where would the fun be in that? No, it took very few seconds for the young man to fill out his extravagant dress very nicely and the young woman to fit her armor a little better.

All over the store, people became that which they pretended to be. It would only last the night, of course, and once they left the store, they'd return to their normal, average, boring selves. What few were allowed to play with magic for the time being would find they couldn't do anything life-changing. Otto wondered how fun the rest of the night would be.

Then he noticed the knight and the princess again. Something about them, something... different.

Then he realized it: They knew.

Otto's grin spread from ear to ear. Those two were very special indeed.

* * *

~o~O~o~

Early one morning, a seal swam to shore on a beach that seals did not normally frequent, for it was too heavily populated by humans. Not at this hour of the morning, however; no one was on the beach to see her. She waddled up the beach a ways, to high tide line and a little beyond, and then contorted herself in a way that seals rarely do, shucking off her skin and revealing herself as a tall woman with tan skin and black hair. She picked up the sealskin, folded it, and tucked it under her arm, then with a cautious glance around, walked up the wooden steps that crossed the dunes and connected the beach to one of the beach houses. Here, on the back porch, there were several towels and swimsuits hung out to dry. The woman stole, or perhaps borrowed, a one-piece woman's swimsuit, teal with yellow trim, and covered her nakedness. Then, with another glance around, she returned the way she had come, and, looking around again, hid her sealskin under the wooden stairs.

In human form and dressed decently enough for the casual atmosphere of various seaside establishments, she walked further along the beach to a set of public access stairs and set out to explore the island for the day.

* * *

Seventeen hours later, well after sunset, the woman returned to the house she'd borrowed her swimsuit from, walking down the beach from the pier. She had enjoyed her day, but she was looking forward to returning to the sea, and to her sisters. She'd be repaying the borrowed swimsuit with interest, since she couldn't take her shorts or sandals into the sea with her. Of course, she might have to hang around the beach for hours until everyone staying in the houses along this stretch of beach went to bed, but she might as well scout the area now, in case it was already possible to go.

Oh, no.

There was a teen boy sitting on the wooden steps where she'd hidden her sealskin. And it was lying across his lap. The fate her sisters had warned her against, which she had avoided by good luck and cleverness so far, had come upon her; she would have to do whatever he wanted to get her skin back, and she might not get it back for years. The good news was that a boy that age wasn't likely to force her into a thirty-year marriage, like too many men had done to her sisters. He'd probably just ask her to let him see her breasts, maybe to fondle them... or at worst, one sex act and she'd be free to go. And who knows, maybe he'd be fool enough to accept fairy gold for it, such as had paid for her sandals and shorts and her meals. Or... she could try to just bluff her way through.

"That doesn't belong to you, young man."

He looked at her appraisingly. "Yeah, and that swimsuit you're wearing doesn't belong to you, either. My sister's been mad at me all day, she thinks I stole and hid it for a prank. Come on, I can think up ten better pranks than that before breakfast. A hundred if I had a selkie skin to use."

By the Sea Witch, he knew what he had. This was much worse than she thought. He'd know better than to be bought off with fairy gold, then.

"What do you want for it? Your sister can have these shorts and sandals in exchange for the loan of the swimsuit. And you can apologize to her on my behalf."

"Not like she'd believe me, anyway. She can keep guessing about where her swimsuit went all day. No, on second thought, I think I'll just borrow your skin for a while. An hour or two, that's all." He looked up and down the beach; they weren't completely alone, but nobody was nearby or paying them much attention.

"What do you want to do with it?" she asked. "If it gets damaged --"

"I just want to go for a swim," he said, and started to wrap himself in it.

"No!" she shouted, and he paused. "That's -- it's a very bad idea. I don't know what would happen if you put it on while you're naked; it probably won't be good for either of us... but I *do* know that you'd kill yourself and destroy the skin if you put it on over that swimsuit."

"Easy enough," he said. "You can turn your back if you like," and he stripped out of his swimming shorts. She didn't turn her back; she hadn't seen a mortal man naked, even a young scrawny one like this, in a decade or more, the last time she came on shore in human form. Her flirtations today hadn't worked out. The boy wrapped the skin around himself and it first stretched to cover him, then he shrank to fit it... and moments later a seal sat there. She looked at herself, nuzzling her flippers and hindquarters, and then waddled off toward the water.

"Come back soon," the selkie called out desperately. "Don't stay out too long." She sat down on the wooden steps and looked out to sea, her fate hanging in the balance.

Half an hour later, a middle-aged woman came out of the beach house and called: "Jason, where are you? Come on in, we're going to play Parcheesi." Getting no answer, she came down the walkway and steps across the dunes and paused in surprise to see the selkie sitting there.

"Excuse me," she said, "these are private steps."

"No problem, I'll just move," the selkie said, and got up, sitting down a moment later a few yards down the beach.

The older woman walked out onto the beach, looked around, and frowned. "Jason!" she called even louder. "Where are you?" She turned to the selkie and asked, "Have you seen my son? He's fourteen, about five foot seven with brown hair... he needs a haircut."

"Yeah, I think I passed him coming south, a few minutes ago. He was walking up toward the pier with a couple of other guys his age." She hoped Jason appreciated the alibi she was giving him.

The older woman grumbled and went back inside. The selkie continued to sit and wait for the boy with her skin to return.

Finally, after everyone in sight had gone into their houses or hotels and it had been ten minutes since the last time someone walking along the beach passed her, a seal came swimming up to shore and onto the beach. She barked a couple of times and waddled over toward the selkie, who sprang up and walked toward her.

"You don't know how to get out of the skin, do you?" she asked, and the seal shook its head. "Then let me help you. Stretch your flippers to follow the motions of my hands," and she put her hands on the seal's forelimbs and guided them through a complex series of motions. After three attempts, the skin split down the front and a human spilled out.

But not the fourteen-year-old boy who had stolen her skin. A girl of about the same age lay sprawled on the beach. She rolled over and squawked.

"I'm a girl! Why am I a girl?"

"How should I know?" the selkie asked. "I told you I didn't know what would happen if you wore my skin. But it’s probably because you wore a female seal's skin." She took the sealskin back, then stripped off her sandals, shorts and swimsuit and tossed them at the girl. "Goodbye." She got back into her skin and headed into the sea.

"Wait!" the girl cried. "I don't know how to -- I can't -- You can't leave me like this!"

But the seal swam off to the south, making no answer.

* * *

Trismegistus Shandy is the author of more than forty transgender stories, available on Smashwords, Amazon, BigCloset, TGStorytime, Shifti, and Fictionmania. They’re currently working on an expansion of their story “Free” from the previous mixtape.

~o~O~o~

It's been two weeks since I came out as transgender to my family, to my friends, and to my classmates. Overall, it went fairly well. My family, after getting over the shock of it all, was accepting of my need to express who I truly was, a girl. And they were even more accepting of my new name, Emma. My friends? Well, I lost a few, but sometimes, that can’t be helped. My best friend, Johnny, freaked out at first, but called me up a few hours later to apologize. The day after I told my family I wanted to be Emma, I went to school dressed as a girl. It was a huge step, one that my family disapproved of. But I knew that if I wanted to fully transition to a girl, I would have to face the world at some point. Might as well get it over with. When I showed up to class that first cold dark morning, I was met by mixed reactions. Some were positive, some were negative, and some were neutral. I did have to deal with bullies, three to be exact. They were older than me and massive jerks. So I did my best to ignore them, which is what the adults ask us to do when faced against bullies.

Now, two weeks after that day, I stood in front of mirror wearing a classic princess costume. A classic, pink, princess costume, purchased by my mother, of course. It was something I had dreamed of wearing as long as I could remember, but was too scared to wear one in the past. Now I was free to wear it, and even better, on Halloween. I may be slightly too old to do trick-or-treating, but my first halloween as a girl was too much of a grand opportunity to pass up. It honestly felt like some sort of formal event. The pictures, the posing, it was all a dream come true.

Trick-or-treating was slightly more difficult, not because of my costume, but because I looked a bit older than the average trick-or-treater. Most the attention was diverted to my younger siblings, but I didn’t mind. Everybody I talked to saw me as I wanted to be, a girl wanting to be a princess. But Halloween was special in my family. We would often tell stories about things that could come out when night fell. All the supernatural creatures; werewolves, vampires, ghosts, demon creatures. These things were fun to think and tell stories about all of it. This was family tradition and I was proud to be a part of it, especially as a pretty pink princess.

“Hurry up, Emma,” my little sister urged.

“We still have a ton of trick-or-treating to do,” my other little sister followed.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming… I’m coming,” I said. The only problem with my dress was that the skirt was a bit poofy, making it slightly difficult to run. I made up for this by raising the skirt off the ground, allowing me to run faster on the boots I was wearing. Running to catch up to my two baby sisters, I came around the corner to find my sisters hiding behind a bush. Why were they hiding? Because the three bullies that I have had since I came out as transgender two weeks ago were on the other side taunting a little girl dressed in a Rainbow Dash costume. They were pushing her around as she tried to jump for the candy bucket the three had obviously stolen from her. She was crying while begging them to give it back. In response, the three laughed harder.

“HEY, YOU FUCKS! Give that back!” I yelled at them as emotions of bravery washed over me. The little girl they were taunting looked about the same age as my baby sisters and even if I was their sister now, I was still going to protect them and those like them. Quickly, the three bullies turned to see who had called them out. Their eyes came to rest on me. At first, there was a look of shock on their faces, but it changed when they realized who I was, at which the look became a sick smirk.

“Look who coming to the rescue, the fag. And look guys, he’s a pretty, pretty, princess!” All three started laughing.

“Hey, that’s not very nice!” one of my sisters called out, joining me in standing up to the bullies.

“Yeah, go away, you big meanies,” my other sister called out. My bravery had given them bravery.

Smiling, “You hear them, get going,” I told them.

The three looked at each other, then mockingly said, “As the princess commands.” With that, they ran off, laughing. The little girl that they had been bullying fell to her knees and started crying. I ran up and knelt down beside to comfort her.

"Why were they" (sniffle) "so mean" (sob) "to me?" she cried. I looked around for her candy bucket, only to be dismayed when I realized that those bullies took this girl’s candy bucket when they ran off. I knew from what I saw that the bucket she’d had was full of candy, so losing the bucket to those jackasses must have been devastating to her. My two sisters were trying to comfort her, but they couldn’t get her to stop crying. But I knew what to do.

“Here you go.” I offered her my candy bucket. There wasn’t much in it, but still. The little girl looked up at me timidly, tears still in her eyes, unsure whether I was actually offering it or I was planning to trick her. “It's alright,” I reassured her. The little girl tenderly reached up and took the bucket. Without hesitation and without me asking, my two baby sisters took half of what was in their buckets and dumped it into the little girl’s newly acquired bucket, completely filling it. The girl perked up; her stolen hard work had been returned. She quickly jumped up and wrapped her hands around me in a big hug.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said over and over again with a tone of pure joy. She pulled back, looked me straight in the eye and said, “You truly are a princess.” And she ran off, I hoped to find her mother. I had lost my candy, but to make that little girl happy was worth it. I did realize that I had completely forgotten to ask what her name was, but her comment about me being a princess, well, words couldn’t describe what I felt. With lightness in my heart, we started back home. I got three blocks from my house when my mother appeared to relieved me of my duty of watching over my sisters and told me that one of my friends, Johnny, had come over to invite to a Halloween party he and a bunch of my classmates were having over at Johnny’s house. She told me to go have fun, so I did. It was Halloween night, and I wanted to have fun. As a girl no less.

I actually ran into Johnny on the way to his house and after him commentating on how cute I looked, we continued the rest of the way together. We made small talk about the past couple of weeks and how eventful it had been. A few more comments about my princess dress topped off our arrival at the Halloween party. From the sound of it, it was wild. Johnny stated he had something to do around back, so he left me alone to walk through the front door. And when I did, I shut down the party. Everybody turned to look at me. The music stopped. A cup dropped. And no one was wearing a costume, except for me.

“Wow, Ethan, going all out, aren’t you?” one partygoer said, calling me by my old and discarded name. Their stares were making me feel deeply uncomfortable and I somewhat wanted to leave. But, then again, I needed to face this to prove that I would face whatever came my way. So I moved about with the party resuming some of its wildness. My poofy skirt made walking around party goers difficult, with some tripping over it.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I kept saying to those who tripped. I was trying to find Johnny, but the amount of effort to move from one room of the house to another made it pointless and made me realize that the princess dress I was wearing wasn’t made for parties. Then, to my utter shock, I saw them. My three bullies who stole the candy from that little girl. To add insult to injury, they were actually in the middle of eating the candy they had stolen. They didn’t notice me, but if they did, I had half a mind to walk up and kick them right in the groin.

“Emma!” Johnny called over the noise of the party, from the opposite end of the house. “Over here,” he yelled, waving his hand. Great, I’d have to walk back through the party with my poofy dress. But before I did, I quickly glanced over to the three bullies and saw that they were focused solely on me. Their glares felt weird, almost inhuman.

Going back through the party goers was easier said than done, but when I reached where Johnny was waiting, he guided me into an empty side room. He walked toward the other side of the room to pick up something, with me looking on with mild curiosity.

“Emma,” he started to say.

“Yes?” I asked.

“You are truly a princess,” he said. I blushed at his comment. I truly felt like a girl, both mentally and physically, at that moment. Then he picked up a bat. “But you are still a fag that must be dealt with.” What?! Johnny was my friend. My best friend, my most supportive friend. But this ‘friend’ turned around and his face became twisted, sick. He slowly began to walk toward me, holding up the bat.

I backed up, terrified of the situation I was now in. Then I backed into something; turning around, I faced the three bullies who had the same twisted sick face that Johnny did. One shut the door and locked it. This… this was a trap. Johnny’s support of me being transgender, the party, it was a trap. “It’s time for you to take part in your own, personal, Halloween nightmare.” I heard Johnny cackle, then the force of the bat being whacked against my head, then nothing.

I woke up sometime later, but felt extremely sick and disoriented. I had a massive headache, and I couldn’t see or hear anything. I was laying on something soft, but felt a pressure on top of me. I couldn’t even tell if I was still wearing my princess dress. My sides ached and piercing pain began to make itself known in my leg and arm. Then I slipped back into the darkness. When I emerged again, the pain was worse, and I felt even worse in every part of my body.. At that moment, I thought I was going to die, all because of some sick fucks. As I slipped back into the darkness, I hoped it would be the last time.

But I didn’t die. I woke up again and even though my condition had deteriorated, I still couldn’t see anything, but I could barely hear people moving about the room, as well as music from the party and the sounds of pictures being taken by some old, loud camera. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I could make out the tones. The tones of these bastards sounded excited. Maybe I was imagining it, but it seemed the tones turned from excitement to confusion as the house began to shake. Then it stopped, but at the same time, the wild sounds of the party died out. I sensed the ones in the room moving about, trying to figure out what was happening. Then the door was blown open, the force sending it crashing into the wall beside me. It was impossible not to know this, it was so loud and made my head feel worse. The tones turned from confusion to anger as they confronted whatever had knocked down the door. I could hear Johnny amidst everything. I was beginning to slip back into the darkness when, suddenly, the tones of Johnny and most likely those three bullies suddenly turned from anger to pure terror. They started screaming so loud that I could actually make out them attempting to beg something to stay away from them. Something was here, something bad, something out of a Halloween horror story.

The four sounded so petrified. Then, the room was filled with a bright light, so bright that even in my condition, even in my blindness, I could see it. In the light, the screams rose to their highest levels. The room shook violently, then suddenly, the screams faded to nothing. Everything went quiet, and my blindness returned. A figure made its way over to me, I could hear the quiet footsteps approach me. Whatever had attacked the four was now going to claim me. I felt so close to death at this point, I didn’t really care. I closed my eyes and waited for the quiet embrace of death on this Halloween night. But instead, I heard a muffled voice that I thought I recognized and the snap of fingers. My body was overcome by a warm, piercing, comforting feeling.

My mind cleared, my body’s aches went away, but another strange feeling came over me. A feeling of something changing within me. Then the feeling disappeared and whatever injuries I had suffered were gone. The ringing in my ears ceased which means I could once again hear perfectly. I opened my eyes, relieved that I could once again see. I felt a presence beside me and I turned to find that my savior was a little girl with pure blue eyes and a goofy smile, wearing a Rainbow Dash costume. It was the little girl that my sisters and I had comforted and given candy to after the three attackers had stolen her candy bucket.

“Those were some sick fuckers. Well, are you feeling better?” she asked me in concern. I looked around the room, which was, to my surprise, Johnny’s room. But there was no Johnny or the three attackers. All that was in the room was me and this ‘thing’.

“Who… who are you?” I asked nervously, noting that my voice sounded more high pitched than before.

“My name is Sammie,” she answered.

I looked around the room again, then back to where the door had hit the wall. The pure terror in my attacker’s voices before they disappeared, as well as the damage made it obvious clear that Sammie was no little girl. “What… what are you?” I asked, my voice keeping the same nervous spark. I again noticed the difference in pitch in my voice.

Sammie simply shrugged. “It’s not important. What is important is that you are okay.”

“What did you do to me?” I questioned.

“I healed you. From the injuries of your head, body, and that gender problem you were having.” Sammie listed off.

Gender problem? Wait, does that mean? I brought one hand up to my chest, and the other down to my groin. From what I could feel through my ruined costume, the change to my voice suddenly made sense. Sammie cured me by changing me into a girl. A true, biological girl. Suddenly, I forgot about the ‘Halloween nightmare’. My greatest wish was granted by my apparent rescuer. I rolled off the bed and grabbed Sammie and pulled her into a hug. Sammie returned the hug. “Thank you,” I cried. “Thank you for everything.”

“You're very welcome,” she said. Then a thought came over me.

“But why?” I asked her.

Sammie’s smile never faded. “A princess once said that when you carry out an act of kindness, with no expectation of reward, that you would have a feeling that someday, someone might do the same for you. You and your sisters helped me and when I finally sensed that you were in danger, I came to your rescue. Because it took some time for me to realize this, I knew I had to give you what you wanted most.” Sammie reached up and wiped the tears off my face, “Now, time to send you home. Your family is worried sick about you. Don’t worry about the partygoers and the four that attacked you. I have taken care of them. Now, close you eyes, I will send you home.” I did as Sammie asked and I felt her bop my noise. Within seconds, I found myself standing in my driveway. Multiple cop cars were parked in front my house.

Turning around, I saw the first light take hold across the skies, signifying that a new day was beginning. I heard the front door opening and my name being called out by my mother and sisters. I heard the sound of their footsteps running towards me. I didn’t turn to face them, rather, I looked down at myself. My dress was ruined, but I knew that I was really and truly Emma. Looking back up at the sunrise, I pondered about my rescuer. I knew Sammie wasn’t a traditional Halloween creature. She created such terror in my attackers, but at the same, displayed kindness towards me. She came to my rescue. And just before my family embraced me into a hug, I pondered over one last question. Sammie wasn’t a Halloween creature, but was it possible that my rescuer and the deliverer of my greatest wish, the little girl that called herself Sammie, was actually and truly… an angel?

* * *

Paradox is the author of two other stories, both available on TG Storytime.

~o~O~o~

I watched my daughters heading out the door, One dressed as Sailor Moon, the other as Lucy Heartfilia, both with cloth grocery bags to collect their candy loot with. I stared for a while longer, longing for those happier/easier going days... Ya, that's what I was longing for...

I heard my wife's voice behind me. "Well?"

"Well what?" I asked pulling myself out of my stupor.

"Aren't you going to go join them?" I heard her ask.

Now I was really confused. "You know I can't do that," I said dejectedly.

“You could go as Tuxedo Mask or Natsu (you have the hair for it)... or maybe..."

I turned around to ask her what she was talking about.

My wife was right there, alright, but she seemed frozen in place, a look of sympathy on her face. Floating above her right shoulder, however, was a little green hairless humanoid. It was featureless and doughy aside from the essentials of a humanoid form.

"Perhaps you want to be something different," it stated with a great deal of intensity, but still using my wife's voice.

"Wha-What are you talking about?" I asked, confused and little scared (for all the wrong reasons).

It just smirked at me knowingly. I gathered up my courage and tried to take the offensive.

"Who the Heck are you?!? " I demanded. "What are you? What did you do to my wife? Why are you talking in her voice?" I stepped forward menacingly.

Its smirk just got bigger. "Ah, classic fight or flight response... So primitive." It grinned. "To answer your questions in reverse order, I thought her voice would help keep you calm during our first encounter. Your wife is extraneous to this conversation. I don't need to tell you. And as for the last... you can call me... lets see... 'The Great Gazoo.' Yes, I think that sounds fitting."

"Let’s get a couple things straight, I'm no Fred Flintstone and there is no way in hell I am calling you 'The Great Gazoo'," I said as I reached to snatch it out of the air. My hand stopped halfway there; it wasn't stuck, it just wouldn't go forward any further.

"You can't touch me unless I want you to, dumb-dumb," it said with a huge smirk.

I had had enough, whatever it was; I wasn't about to keep playing its game. I stepped forward, bringing my hand into range, and grabbed it.

It looked startled for a moment, then suddenly there was a poof and my hand was empty. It was floating over my shoulder now, a little less smug looking.

"You're right, you are no Fred Flintstone, but why do I get the feeling that Wilma Flintstone might be acceptable to you. Oh, and can you please stop calling me 'it' in your inner monologue?"

He snapped his fingers and I and my perspective changed. I felt like I had something heavy hanging around my throat.

"'He' is fine, and if you don't like 'The Great Gazoo,' how about 'Gonzo'?"

I looked down at myself and saw a rock necklace over a white top and miniskirt. I felt weird, but not totally in a bad way.

"My wife, please, and Wilma doesn't work for me," I said in Wilma's voice.

With an exasperated sigh, Gonzo snapped his fingers again and my wife disappeared with a small bang. I was worried for a moment, but then I heard movement upstairs. Gonzo nodded to me. Another snap and I was back to my normal boring self.

"So not Wilma, eh?" he asked

I had calmed down a bit after my wife was out of harm’s way. "Look, what is it you really want?" I asked, resigning myself to the conversation.

"Why, to fulfill your deepest desires, of course," he stated.

"Rrrr-iiiii-ght" I responded. "What’s in it for you?"

"What does any all-powerful being want in situations like this? Your gratitude and worship, of course," he said, with that smug look returning to his face.

"Bull-Scheisse," I responded.

"Okay, ok let’s just call it community service, then," he said with a pout.

"Okay, fine, so what are you supposed to do for me? Grant my greatest wish or something?"

"Something like that... Hey, how about Erza Scarlet?" he asked as he snapped his fingers...

Suddenly I was pulled off balance by a huge weight on my chest pulling me forward and something pulling my head back at the same time. Now what had he done? I stumbled to the bathroom to look in the mirror.

Long flowing red hair, brown eyes, little dagger earrings, plate armour and boots, large breasts, skinny waist, silhouette of a fairy tattooed on my left arm ... The whole nine yards.. Yep, I looked just like Erza Scarlet now. Well, a real life version of her anyway.

"What have you done to me this time?" I demanded.

"Why, I gave you a body compatible with your desires," he commented snobbishly. "Now go out and have some fun. It’s Halloween."

In a split second I was staring down a sword blade at him.

"Undo it NOW!" I said in Erza's command voice.

"But why?" he asked, confused. "This is what your subconscious wants, I looked!"

"You idiot!" I exclaimed "I don't want to BE a girl, I'm not transsexual. I'm a crossdresser, I just want to be able to look and dress like a girl!"

"Oh... Okay," he mumbled, and snapped his fingers.

"What have you done now? I still look the same," I said, glancing in the bathroom mirror.

"Well, you’re now wearing an Erza costume. Now go out and have fun!"

"I can't go out like this," I said in panic. “How do I get out of this 'costume'?"

"Of course you can go out in that, it’s just a costume and it’s Halloween. No one will make fun of you on Halloween," he said with a grin.

I continued to stare into the mirror. "O-of course they will, just because it’s Halloween doesn't meant that people won't recognize me for what I am and use that knowledge to hurt me and my family. What would the girls think when they find out that their dad is a 'fairy'?" I said, starting to really lose it, searching all over my body for a seam or zipper.

[click] [click] I heard, and looked up to see my wife behind me placing one last padlock behind my neck [click].

"The kids already know about you, dear, they've known for a long time. These locks will keep your identity safe. Now off you go, you’re not getting the keys until you have at least one full bag of candy. Oh, and make sure you watch out for the girls while you are out there," she said.

I stared from her to Gonzo and back again. They both seemed pleased with themselves. Gonzo snapped his fingers and I was standing in my Erza costume just outside our front door. I quickly turned around and tried the door. It was locked. I started hammering on the door... "DEE! DEE! Let me in!"

"Not without the candy,” was the reply as the porch light was turned off.

With a sign of resignation, I turned and headed for the street with all its ghouls, superheroes and anime characters. I might as well make the best of it and hope that this costume really does come off, I thought. I put a smile on my face. The sword that I was still holding slid into its sheath. I grabbed a cloth bag off the step and joined the milling crowds.

* * *

“You think he will notice that there are no locks on his 'costume'?” she asked Gonzo as they watched him join the crowds through the upstairs window.

“He might; he's a little smarter than many of the other humans I have worked with. You have a real keeper there... Now, shall we continue our negotiations?” Gonzo asked. “The future of both our planets depend on their success.”

~o~O~o~

The recovery from my SRS (or GRS) procedures was slow, but recover I did. And, aside from the need for regular dilation (which I am supposed to taper down eventually after a year or so), I was practically, ummm, done.

Today was my first time to jog again (well, not jog but more a brisk walk) and I had just got back to my apartment. I had a few twinges, but I knew these twinges would be happening for a while. Par for the recovery. That’s fine - I can live with that.

“Hi, Mr. Smits,” I said to my building manager.

“Hello, Ms. Delaney,” he said. “Had a nice workout?”

“Pretty great. I was just gonna grab a bottle of water. Wanna come in for a drink?”

“Thank you, but I’m pretty busy.” He indicated the ladder he had on his shoulder. “No rest for the wicked,” He said and chuckled. For some reason, that phrase stuck with me, and had me worrying about Mr. Smits.

“Okay,” I nodded, stepping into my place. “Have a nice day.” Though a very nice guy, there was something off with Mr. Smits.

As I drank a cold bottle of water from my fridge, I picked up my mail, which I had dumped into a little bowl beside the door earlier before I went for my run. And there was a bunch of letters from the Parapsychological Association mixed in with the usual ones (as I found out when I met the guys from Flagstaff, the association was the main authority in the country on ghosts and goblins and monsters and anything that went bump in the night).

After participating in that thing with Flagstaff University’s Parapsychology Department last year, I suddenly found myself on the mailing list of the association. I had been getting emails and phone calls from their members until I changed phone numbers and installed a filter app to screen all my emails. It’s nice to have fans, but this isn’t exactly the fan base I wanted. Would you?

But there was no stopping them from sending snail mail to Flagstaff University (thank God I had kept my new address unlisted), and the University people would dutifully forward my letters to me. At least only a few letters a week arrived, and it had been tapering off for a while.

I looked at this week’s batch and dismissed most of them, but there was one that caught my eye, simply because the envelope was clean and neat, and my name and the return address was neatly typewritten instead of freehand in pencil, crayon or magic marker.

Thinking that I would regret it, I decided to open it and read the letter.

Minutes later, I was on the phone and talking to Dr. Tully.

Days later, I found myself on the road with Dr. Tully and his team, on our way to yet another haunting.

* * *

“So, Debbie,” Helen, the tall bubbly blonde said while giggling, “the old team back together again! Fun, huh?”

I was sitting in front with Dr. Tully driving. I could see her from the mirror in the visor. She was looking at me expectantly so I stuck my tongue out at her, and she responded with yet another giggle.

There were five of us in the van: Dr. Tully, Jackson the big guy with curly hair and the deft touch with electronics, Helen, the tall, giggly blonde, Lucy the brunette who, I think, was the bravest of us all, and me.

“We’re almost there, Ms. Delaney,” Dr. Tully said. “Why don’t you brief us again about why we’re here?”

I nodded.

“Well,” I began…

I explained (again) that I’d gotten this letter a week ago, and it came from this family that found their little town being terrorized by some kind of entity. Almost half of the town had already relocated while the rest all lived in fear of this whatever-it was that terrorized the town.

The man who wrote was an English teacher from the town’s one remaining school (the other two had shut down for lack of students). He had been living with this fear for over a year now when the association referred him to us.

The townies (as the teacher called the townsfolk) believed that the whatever-it-was came from the town cemetery, and the… terror usually started to happen at around eleven o’clock to midnight. Many people who were out and about at night reported being chased by some night creature - maybe some wild dog or wolf - and others were actually attacked. This couldn’t be corroborated because they were soon infected with some kind of wasting disease, like tuberculosis, and passed away in less than three weeks.

The rest listened to my recitation politely until I was done, and then Jackson said, deadpan, “we already knew that.” And everyone started to laugh.

* * *

We arrived at the cemetery at around ten in the evening, and the man that wrote to me was impatiently waiting for us by the gates. After some quick handshakes, he gave us a quick tour of the deserted cemetery. Clearly, he didn’t want to be there because he rushed us through the cemetery and its main sections. After which, he jumped into his car.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Lucy called after him.

“It’s almost ten thirty!” he yelled back. “The fun starts about midnight. I only have about an hour and thirty minutes to get home! Sorry I can’t stay! Have fun!” He waved through his car window and sped home.

The cemetery was indeed spooky: headstones all over, covered with moss, and the rest of the cemetery overgrown with creepy plants and trees trailing little vines and rootlets. The guy said the cemetery hadn’t been in use for at least a year, and no one came and visited their loved ones anymore. It was disused, and it looked it.

There was no sound at all except for the wind, and all of us shivered in the cold.

“Dammit, it’s so cold!” I exclaimed.

Helen giggled. “Well, who decided to wear a miniskirt to a ghost hunt?”

“Haha. Very funny. Now what?”

We looked at each other sheepishly, at a loss of what to do next.

“Well…”

“Ms. Delaney, bring out your camera,” Dr. Tully said.

“What?”

“Just do it.”

I brought out my Canon DSLR that had Dr. Tully’s lens attached, switched it on and peered into the viewfinder. I gasped.

* * *

In my camera’s little viewfinder, I saw the cemetery in the greenish cast of Dr. Tully’s special lens and saw that we were practically surrounded by the ghostly spectral figures of people In normal everyday clothes, but all of them were clearly dead.

They weren’t gory or anything like the zombies from The Walking Dead, but they were standing like they did in that show, heads tilted and looking at us with blank expressions. I could see gravestones and trees through them. I’ve seen many ghosts since that first time in the theater and, though they still gave me the willies, I didn’t jump out of my skin. At least not anymore.

I started clicking the shutter. “Oh, my God,” I whispered.

And as I clicked, they lifted their arms and pointed to one direction.

I put down my camera and brought out a flashlight.

“Come on,” I whispered and gestured for the others to follow me.

From time to time, I would check my camera and followed where they pointed. We were slowly getting closer to the center of the cemetery. I pointed my camera to where we were apparently making for, and I saw one of the larger grave markers.

It was about seven feet tall, and had a large cross on top, or what should have been a large cross if the left side of the crossbar hadn’t crumbled away.

As we got close, we noticed that the dirt covering the grave of whoever this was, was actually disturbed.

I looked at Dr. Tully and he nodded.

“Jackson,” he said, “dig this up. I would help but I need to do something.” With that he walked away.

Jackson and the others looked at each other and shrugged. He picked up one of the shovels we brought and started digging.

I looked around and felt cold again.

I lifted the camera to my eye and looked into the viewfinder again. The specters were now all around us, looking at Jackson and the grave as he continued to dig.

Lucy, the most scholarly among the three, used her tablet to take a picture of the gravestone.

“What kind of writing is that?” I asked.

“Cyrillic, I think.”

“So. Russian?”

She consulted her tablet. “It’s Serbian. It says, ‘Ovdje lezi Petra Plogojovitz. Neka Bog oprosti njoj zbog svojih grehova, a ne dozvoljava joj da opet ugrozi zivot.’”

I giggled a bit. “What?”

“In English, it says, ‘Here lies Petra Plogojowitz. May God forgive her for her sins and not allow her to afflict the living again.’ The gravestone says she was buried in 1725.”

“Wow. More than fifty years before Independence. This grave is almost three hundred years old.”

I reflected on the translation. “Afflict the living?” I thought aloud.

* * *

When Jackson was almost three feet down, Dr. Tully returned. “I know what we’re up against,” Dr. Tully said. “Here.” He then handed each of us what looked and felt like pieces of wood, or rather, more like branches from a tree.

“Good thing we’re in Virginia,” he said. “Ash trees are plentiful.”

“What’re these for, Doc?” Lucy asked.

“I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Oh…”

Helen searched around and handed us large rocks.

“Now, what are these for?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “it’d be pretty hard to pound down a stake with your bare hands.”

“Are you done now, Jackson?” Dr. Tully asked.

“I think so, Doc,” he said. “I hit something. Sounds wooden and hollow.”

“I would have assumed the coffin would have disintegrated hundreds of years ago. Let me help. See if you can open the thing. And hurry, Jackson, it’s almost midnight!”

Jackson pounded on the side of the coffin and he eventually grunted in satisfaction. He must have gotten it open.

“Doc!” He grated. “Help!”

He was in trouble!

“Hold on, Jackson!” I cried. I was the nearest so I got there ahead of the others. Looking down, I saw him being strangled by a woman in a tattered black cloak inside the coffin. In the dark, her eyes seemed to glow. The others crowded around me and peered down as well.

For some reason, I lifted my camera and took several pictures. Is there anything like a photographer’s instinct?

But that was just for a moment. Another kind of instinct took over. Dropping my camera and allowing it to hang from my neck, I grabbed Lucy’s rock and stake and jumped in. Transferring the rock and stake to one hand, I grabbed Jackson by his collar.

With all my strength, I was barely able to wrest him from the… thing’s grip on his throat, and I leap-frogged over him.

Without thinking, I rammed the rudimentary stake into the woman’s chest, causing her to fall back.

With that, it gave me an opportunity to use my rock and start pounding it onto the top of the stake.

The rough point that Dr. Tully had carved wasn’t too sharp, so I wasn’t really doing much. But Jackson grabbed the stake and rock from me and, with his stronger muscles and larger size, he was able to pound it into the creature.

A scream like a banshee’s echoed through the cemetery and she tried to pull the stake away from Jackson. I squeezed in beside him and tried to hold down the woman’s arms. The feel of her skin was unpleasant - she was cold and a bit slimy, and as I increased my grip, her skin started to tear.

I guess I was helping because Jackson was able to pound the stake in deeper. And, with each strike of the rock on the stake, the screams became weaker and weaker until the screams faded away.

Not taking any chances, Jackson continued pounding, and only stopped when he felt the stake punch through and into the wood. At which point, I let go of the woman’s arms.

In Dr. Tully’s flash, I saw that I really had torn the skin of the woman’s wrists. I saw what looked like bone and muscles exposed but, curiously, no blood.

We looked at the woman but she wasn’t moving.

“So,” Helen called down, “is she dead?”

* * *

We stayed there for the rest of the night, taking turns watching over the body and waiting for dawn. Dr. Tully had also asked us to document as much as we could, so we started treating the thing like a kind of archeological dig. For me, I acted like it was more like a crime scene and I was a CSI photographer.

While we worked, the Doc just stayed in the shallow, three-foot-deep grave and watched over her with another stake in hand. “Just in case,” he said.

As we worked, I couldn’t help but notice that we were still surrounded by dead people, but, somehow, the atmosphere around us had also changed despite the ghosts.

I looked through the viewfinder and a lot of them were still there. Some looked down into the grave and walked away, and as they got further away, they faded into the night.

But dawn was coming, and they were starting to thin out.

One of them, a tall man in a suit and tie, looked at me. He looked like some well-to-do businessman who was just on the way home or something. The only thing that ruined it was the blood dripping from his mouth, and the fact that he was a transparent ghost.

I couldn’t hear it, of course, but I knew he said “thank you.” I could read his lips.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

He nodded to me and smiled, turned and walked away. I followed him with the camera until he faded away.

“Who were you talking to?” Lucy asked.

“Oh, no one. Just some guy.”

And then the sun peeked over the horizon.

* * *

Note - The picture was a collage made from publicly accessible pictures of the Sena Kashiwazaki character and other pictures. No IP infringement is intended.

* * *

Roberta “Bobbie” Cabot is a transgender girl from DC. She transitioned in 2004, and has been living as a girl full time ever since. With a mom from Italy, a dad from Quebec, and a spouse from Kyoto, her writing (and her speech) is less than perfect. However, she doesn't really speak Italian, French or Japanese, although she can puzzle them out a bit. She is a fan of sci-fi, drama, love stories, romcoms and comedy/sitcoms, -- these are the kinds of stories she looks for. Her only “claim to fame” is her still-incomplete story, “Danny,” which was first posted in Crystal’s Storysite back in 2009 (“Danny” is also posted on BigCloset). Her most recently posted stories in BigCloset are “Shepherd Moon,” “Autobots Revisited” and “Drew Nance, Girl Detective - Book 1: The Secret of the Old Clock.”

If anyone wants to contact Bobbie, one can click “Roberta J Cabot" in the list of authors in the story header, then click “Send author a message”.

~o~O~o~

As an immortal, unkillable vampire, I've always enjoyed one specific phrase that the Americans seem to like to use to justify pedophilia. "I keep getting older, they stay the same age." Then, of course, I actually think about the phrase, and it seems disgusting, but Hugh Hefner lived off it until he died, so honestly I have no idea where this train of thought is headed. I'm quite certain my mind would be clear if I weren't on my eighth shooter right now. The guy across from me, whose name I think is Phil, is on his fourth, and still somehow thinks he's going to beat me. Pipe dreams are nice.

Next to him is probably one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, and I think her name is Victoria. All I really care about is that she never directly looks my way, because I can already tell the connection is going to work, and I intend to make good on it. Maybe-Phil will never be able to tell the difference, and that's just wonderful. Truth be told, it's amazing he's lasted this long. Not just at the drinking game, but also at life.

"Drake here thinks he's gunna win!" Maybe-Phil slurs out, almost incomprehensible. I don't pay him any mind, I simply down my ninth shooter. I don't know if Maybe-Phil is smart enough to realize just how deep in he is, but I honestly don't care. 'Drake' isn't the weak-stomached pissant he so clearly is.

Maybe-Victoria is too busy hanging onto him to realize that my eyes are on her, every perfect inch of her. It's been quite some time since I've been in the body of a woman. Not that I have much preference. Both genders have their little wonders. I do find myself in male bodies more often, but I sometimes wonder if that's just because it's how I started out. Today, though, I'm ready to borrow a woman's body again.

Ah, yes, I feel those privy to this narration should probably know a few things before we get into the real meat of the story, shouldn't we? Certainly you've all heard the tale of Dracula, the nefarious count who rose as the first of his kind and became immortalized as a vampire? And what if I told you that's all a giant crock of shit? You'd probably shout, "Oh, no, Dracula, you've got to be kidding, I saw it all in the movies!", well guess what, I don't care! Y'see, the real story of Dracula is that he was a man who got every bad hand in life dealt to him. Story of Job, that sort of thing from the Bible? Yeah, Job wasn't the only poor bastard that God shat all over for no reason.

(Granted, I'm just speculating here, but I'm pretty sure Job didn't exist... Honestly, has anybody actually fact-checked the Bible? This is maybe more important than other things we're doing right now.)

Anyway, I was a very basic, normal person, living in a shitty and rundown farm in Wallachia. My father was murdered, my mother was taken and I never saw her again, the usual sort of thing that would happen in what are today third-world countries in Eastern Europe. I was left to fend for myself at the ripe young age of seven, which was interestingly about half my life-expectancy since I was then killed by a group of bandits on my fourteenth birthday.

I know. It was a shitty birthday.

When I finally made it to the afterlife, I had to wait in some godforsaken line in Limbo until I was eventually -- and you're never gonna believe this -- pulled from the line and thrown back to Earth! Thanks to some fucking skeleton in a robe carrying a scythe, I was back to life but not quite, exactly. The skeleton reached into my chest (which, admittedly, wasn't a difficult task, what with the giant hole the bandits had cut into me with their axes) and ripped out my heart entirely. After that, it dumped it into a glass jar and told me that I'd never again be a prisoner of death.

Now that I put thought into it, the skeleton was probably being literal, since a skeleton in a robe carrying a scythe is what people eventually started to accept as a personification of Death itself. Personally, I think Death is an average person, probably with a funky hairstyle or something like that, otherwise how would anybody not notice some six foot tall skeleton wearing a robe carrying a scythe every time somebody died? It would be friggin' impossible not to notice that!

Back to the topic at hand, after the skeleton left me, I made my way to the bandits who killed me and promptly did exactly the same to them. Limbo was probably backed up that day with all the newcomers. I didn't care, I'd gotten revenge and no matter what they tried to do to me (one of them cut my head off; it tickled), I couldn't die.

And there you have it, the origin story of the murderous, bloodthirsty monster named Dracula. I'm honestly not sure when the phrase 'bloodthirsty' went from 'extremely violent' to being a literal thirst for blood, but I've never actually drunk blood in my entire life, and honestly the idea of it creeps me the fuck out. I'm still not entirely certain where the name "Dracula" came from when my name is Vlad Tepes, but people like their movie monsters, and Vlad doesn't sound like a monster name. Either way, using it to make myself seem more imposing is quite useful, considering I'm one of the most harmless people on the planet. Well, except for those bandits. I haven't killed anybody since them, but I destroyed them.

From then on, my life was very simple. My original body aged, and I found I could use whatever powers being literally heartless gave me to take another for myself, and use it until it aged enough. I never let myself make it to a certain age, because then it became difficult to transfer until after the body died and I had to rebuild myself, essentially, bit by bit until I gained my original consciousness back. That had happened a few times, times when I lived to a ripe old age with a wonderful partner, and couldn't bear to leave them before their time. In the end, a part of my new body's original personality always left itself with me.

And it's that last thing I mentioned that brings me to today and this bullshit drinking game. In my last body, I'd married and fathered three children. I wouldn't let my wife pass alone. As luck would have it, she wouldn't either. I had no idea she'd had a gun in the bedroom, and took me with her. I can't imagine what kind of pain it put the kids through, but they were all out of the house with families of their own when it happened. Retirement communities tend to cause that.

After I found a new body, it took more time than I was comfortable with to pull myself back together inside his mind, and I found out why shortly after gaining consciousness. The man (whose name was Drake before I took him over, which is actually a hilarious coincidence when you think about it) was a college-aged alcoholic who was apparently so bad at everything that when I managed to put his shirt on the right away, his roommate nearly had a heart attack.

(Granted, I'd also told the roommate who I was and what I was doing, so that could have had something to do with it.)

Back to the present day, I've finally hit my fourteenth shooter and the room is now starting to spin. Lucky me, dumbass Maybe-Phil's face is already making out with the table. I set my glass down and cheer alongside everybody else, including Maybe-Veronica, who seems almost a little too eager to know her boyfriend lost a drinking game. I've still got her in my sights, though. Luckily, Drake will wake up with no memory of what I've done and go back to his old life.

(Also, if you're wondering about the "Maybe-Veronica" instead of "Maybe-Victoria", I've finally remembered her name isn't Victoria, but I've forgotten everything other than the letter V in her name, and thus I'll go back and forth between different V names.)

After the drinking game, I follow Maybe-Vera, not too close but not too far, either. She doesn't notice me, thankfully. If anybody were really noticing anything, I'd be considered a stalker. Well, Drake would be. He's kind of a sucker, really. It's funny in a funny way. Either way, it doesn't look like stalking, as Maybe-Velma and Drake live in the same dorm building, but on different floors. I remember one of my lives would have been in Heaven if she'd been allowed to live in a co-ed dorm.

The both of us arrive at the dorm not long after we left the bar. Drake's roommate is in place, ready to cart his friend back up to their room and throw him in bed. Honestly, the idea of that sounds wonderful to me right now, but I had more important things to do than sleep. I'll jump into Maybe-Vanessa, then I'll sleep. Preferably with someone, because cuddling is one thing I definitely prefer from the female side.

Maybe-Violet slips into the women's bathroom, cutting me off from her. It's not a giant problem, but it's a major inconvenience. I hate taking control of women in the bathroom. I always lose some form of bladder control, and usually have to stay in there for a good half an hour until I'm certain everything is dealt with. Hopefully, this doesn't end up that bad. I make my way over to Drake's roommate -- his name is Eric, I remember now; don't know why I forgot it, but I did -- and sit next to him on the lounge couch. "Be ready," I tell him.

Finally, I close my eyes and picture Maybe-Verra. I obviously don't know exactly where she is in the bathroom, but I don't need to, I just picture her in my mind. Thankfully, I'm good at remembering faces, otherwise this whole body-swap thing would be fucking impossible. The connection is made, though she's unaware of it. I let Drake's body slip, and then I'm finally free of the absurd alcoholism (well, for awhile, people's personalities never truly leave me, but that's a topic for another day).

As I make the surprisingly long journey from body to body despite the actual physical distance being less than a hundred feet, I'd like to tell you why it is I'm swapping Drake for Maybe-Vivica when I've already told you I generally take more male bodies than female. Unfortunately, the tingles have already started to take me and I can't really do that. Just know it's to help Eric because he and I have gotten to be pretty good friends these past few months I've spent in Drake's body, and I promised him I'd do this. Also, I get the feeling he's probably wanted to see how this whole thing works, and me jacking his body wouldn't help there.

As I said, the tingles start almost immediately. That's a good sign, it means the body's particularly vulnerable and I can jump in without any real damage to the original owner. If they put up a fight, it can take me a few hours to actually take control and it's almost always physically painful. Maybe-Virginia will just feel like she's going to sleep until she finally wakes up after I've left her body. If you're wondering about the moral dilemma, I'm never cruel to their bodies, and they never feel like they've been body-snatched. They have enough memory of what happens to piece what I turn their lives into back together and remain the combination of who they were and who I made them. To my knowledge, none of my former timeshares have ever gone mad from being taken over by an immortal vampire.

The tingles intensify as I start to feel other sensations. I feel the toilet underneath me, at least one hand is on the stall wall and my legs are... Spread very wide. Wider than I expected, actually. Women don't generally spread their legs when they take a piss, what the hell?! The tingles strengthen and spread throughout my new body.

And as I gain full control, I realize why and the hand that was against the wall is now clamping my mouth shut. Damn good thing, too, because Katie (that's her name, by the way; I was completely off with the V name thing) is just about to climax, and what I remember from Drake's almost completely incoherent thoughts, somebody in the locker room described her as a screamer. I remove the vibrator and let the juices flow until I can finally maintain my composure again.

I've lived centuries, been hundreds of different people, and this is the first time I've ever taken control of someone in the middle of masturbating.

I clean up quickly, make sure everything's put away and that no one will notice what I've done (well, not what I've done...) and leave the bathroom. Why Katie would have taken that chance, I'll probably find out when I'm not thinking about it. Granted, no one was in the bathroom, as most people are out somewhere for some reason. She, and subsequently I, was very lucky that nobody ever came in the entire time.

Eric is munching down on a bag of Cheetos when I get back to the lounge. Drake is still passed out, but he'll likely be that way for a good fifteen hours, then he'll wake up and get drunk again. He's only managed to stay in school because I brought his grades up.

Eric's eyes light up when he sees me, almost as if he's surprised. Then again, this is the first time I've swapped bodies since meeting him, so he doesn't yet know it's worked. "Hey there, Eric," I say, perfectly imitating Katie's sweet-girl persona (however the hell that works when she uses a vibrator in the public bathroom), "you ready to take me out tonight?"

He almost jumps from the lounge couch. "You're serious? This is really... Um..."

I smack him on the back of the head, a residual bit of Drake left over, most likely. "Yes, dumbass, it's Dracula. Now, seriously, take me somewhere. I haven't been a woman in decades, and I'm dying to have a date where the guy's paying again."

* * *

Hikaro is an author of many things. Seriously, he writes a lot. Almost too much. It’s quite frankly annoying. He should really stop, but the sonuvabitch just won’t.

~o~O~o~

I hate beginnings. I dislike endings more.

A story doesn't just appear from thin air, thus a beginning is a fallacy; before we know it, there is a story to tell. Just because the exciting times have passed does not mean that the story has reached its conclusion, either. There are no curtain calls in the world, waiting to draw the tale to begin its inevitable fade.

There are just complicated middles lacking in so very many details. To lack detail is to fall short of truth, and without truth, how can there be trust?

Trust is a blessed gift one must cherish and hold dear. So, should it come along, be sure to grab hold and keep a firm grip, because you never know when that delicate thread may slip from your grasp and fade into the murky darkness of the night.

Not all threads, however, are so readily broken; some bind your body to others with such firm will as to seem all but impossible to break free.

These are bonds of blood, bonds of fate, bonds of a long foretold destiny just waiting to play out in the theatre that is your life.

But maybe that need not always be so?

What if I could promise you a new fate, a destiny of your own choosing? All for the smallest of prices?

What would you be willing to give? What would you be willing to take to get your deepest desires granted? Would you accept a gift if it meant receiving an equal punishment?

I have touched upon fate and the flows of destiny, marked by all the splendour and horrors to come. I have peered into worlds untold and seen the ages thrive and crumble. And in you, my cute little friend, I see a warmth as bright as the sun, yet as soft as the clouds. However, beneath that lays a darkness so deep it threatens to consume all.

I suppose, before I go any further, it wouldn't be appropriate to forget to introduce myself, now would it? For convenience's sake, you may know me as Garnet, Disciple of the Grand Sorceress Moonstone, Teacher of the Blood Acolyte Carmine.

These days I find my training dull and fruitless, my years of study reaching their natural conclusion. Such a shame it would be to depart this plane as an echo in the wind, a whisper carried on the gentlest of breezes.

This is where you come in, my curious little friend. You are here to make my last days more meaningful and exciting. Let's not get hung up over the start of this tale and instead get to tonight's main event.

Good, good, now mind your arms as you sit down. We wouldn't want to knock something over. There would be no telling what sort of ruckus might occur if we aren't careful, isn't that right, dear?

How is it? The chair, I mean. I hope it is comfortable. I got it many years ago from a curious fellow, a bit odd in the head if you ask me. Never could keep his mind on the task at hand; made for some truly entertaining stories, mind you. You could never tell just what he would say next. Most amusing.

Now, now, I can see that worry on your face. No need to panic; chairs are for relaxing right? For taking the weight off your shoulders, to reduce your burdens, yes? Well, this one is a little special. Indeed, your limbs will feel the utmost relaxation. so much so I fear you find yourself unable to gather the slightest bit of strength, right? Although your shoulders may feel heavier, don't mind that little detail.

Worry not, we can continue our task even if you are unable to move. It just means a little more effort on my end. Nothing this old lady cannot handle, I assure you.

Now my little friend, let me free you from your burdens and give you that promised gift.

It is such a troublesome affair to feel and care and long for others.

To worry about their wellbeing. To stress over your image in the eyes of another. No, no, no, we can't allow that.

Let me free you from your obligations to the world; let me release that which the light traps deep within you.

My gift shall be the world's punishment. How could it let such a blessed child born to shine, suffer, pushed to the gutters of society? Let us bring out that brilliance hidden within you, my cute little friend.

Oh? You say that you aren't small or cute? I can assure you you most certainly are. You just cannot see it yet through this boyish veil you wear. Once we work out all this masculinity from you, I can guarantee that you will be most pleased with the result. I stake my name on it.

What do you mean that you are not here answering my task? You were out 'Trick or Treating', but lost your way and went looking for directions? Why, you should have spoken up much sooner. The process has just begun and I can not allow all these valuable reagents to go to waste. Look, the show is about to begin.

You see how those meaty hands of yours are changing? How clumsy they must have been before, not like this little pair, so delicate to touch they must meet only the finest silks. How your nails so worn from years of hard labour begin to clear and shine like tiny gems, the once rough surface now glossy as a varnish finish. See the dirty, wrinkled skin as the years turn back, countless days of dust and dirt dropping away as if but an illusion. As the tan from unregulated hours under the harsh unforgiving sun fades away, like a field covered in the fresh powder of winter's first snowfall.

How wonderful it must feel to know these changes are occurring to your whole body. The crowning glory of a master artisan at the height of their fame, working over your body on a vast scale. Slim arms shed all traces of past tedious, menial tasks, so slender they appear they would crumble at a careless touch. Your shoulders move closer together as your budding chest takes form. A once bulky and unrefined body now showing traces of elegance and femininity.

I understand how odd this must feel. How traumatic and horrifying to see your own body shifting before your eyes, but don't worry about the sensations you feel. That is just how the chair functions, you see. It would be impermissible to have you experience the pain that comes with bodily alteration.

Aha, finally your lower body is beginning to catch up. All that excess waste around your torso is most definitely not allowed to stay. I shall just store all this flesh and preserve it for later. Now you have such a nice thin waist, it seems about time for your hips and legs to catch up with your upper torso. See how the remaining flesh and fat shift to new positions? Your once stiff waist and narrow hips now slimming down before flaring out ever so slightly.

Your once muscular frame now looks so soft and thin that perhaps it could float away in a mild gale. Your legs long, smooth and slim, reaching on as if endless. You would now stand much shorter than before, not that you could tell from that gorgeous pair of legs of yours. Even your feet have become these lean little bare things gracefully tipped with such dainty digits.

Ah yes, such a petite little lass you make. That face of yours has really improved quite a bit, too. Certainly not unrecognisable if someone were to look hard enough, yet so much softer and rounder than before. The balance and shape of your small button nose to eyes like a still lake basking in the silver glow of the full moon. That ugly blonde hair now as black as the icy abyss that surrounds this mortal plane.

Truly the perfect daughter if ever I could ask for one. Almost a replica of my prime years, if I say so myself.

Make no mistake, boy. My wish was for a daughter, of sorts, and I really will not accept any refusal. So keep your chin up and embrace the changes, for they will soon become most familiar in the days to come. After all, I could not tolerate such perfection degrading with the passing of time. I shall ensure your looks will last an eternity if not longer.

You want to go home, you say? Back to your family and friends?

I fear it is too late for that, the damage already brought to pass, little one. Nought left now but to let you rest until the time comes to set you free and put the grand will in motion.

I shall bless you with a new name, a release from your past and from all that know you, so that you may begin anew and come into your own. Trust me when I say you will thank me for this one day.

Go, my cute little Charlotte. Fall into a deep slumber, for when you wake you shall show the world why they are right to fear the darkness and all it cloaks.

* * *

Author notes: Possibly even more erratic and mysterious than my last submission. I do hope that I have not failed to live up expectations :) ~Sylvia

~o~O~o~

* * *

"All right," Dan said, looking aside from the genie toward his friend Jack, "for my last wish, I wish for my ideal woman to appear facing me, and not in a mirror." Jack had a sudden panicked look on his face.

"Presto," the genie said, and waved his hands. A stunningly beautiful woman with long black hair appeared between Dan and Jack. She sighed and said, "I guess this was inevitable," while Jack just sighed in relief.

"Let me guess," the woman continued, putting her hands on her hips. "You figured the genie couldn't create life, so he would have to turn your backstabbing buddy Jack into your ideal woman, and you could claim it was an accident, you hadn't meant the wish that way."

"How did you know?" Dan blurted out, then saw Jack's glare and realized his mistake.

"You'll find out in, oh, about ten years," she said. (The genie smirked, and vanished. No one but Jack noticed; Dan and the woman were totally focused on each other.) "I can hardly believe the things I want to do to you... but I know it's inevitable, so let's get on with it." She pulled him into a kiss.

Jack tiptoed out of the room, though he probably could have stomped out and the lovers wouldn't have noticed.

* * *

Dan stepped out of the limo and went inside. As had happened every day for the last week, his wife greeted him in a negligee and practically tore him out of his suit.

They'd spent almost all their time together for their first year or so. But then Dan started getting more hands-on with managing the wealth he'd acquired with his second wish, and she had developed more of her own interests. Neither of them had aged a day in the last ten years, thanks to his first wish, and both still had a healthy sex drive, but the last few weeks were a little unusual even for them.

But something was different this time. Despite her eager ministrations, he wasn't getting hard. After a few minutes, she looked horror-stricken, and reached up a hand to brush gently against his cheek.

"Oh, no," she said. "It's already started... I couldn't remember for sure, I thought we had a few more days."

"What do you mean?" He loved it when she was cryptic and mysterious, how she would occasionally hint that she knew something and then, in most cases, refuse to say any more. The genie had known what his ideal woman would be like better than he did.

"You haven't grown any stubble since this morning," she pointed out. He hadn't noticed, but he put a confirming hand to his face: smooth as it had been right after he shaved. "And... it's not just limp, it's smaller than normal."

"What?" He looked carefully. Maybe it was. "This... this kind of thing shouldn't happen. My first wish --"

"I know. It's your third wish that caused this."

He floundered for a few moments before asking, "How?"

"You're starting to change into me. It will take about a month... and by the end, you'll be as deeply in love with the old you as I am. Only you'll get to go back in time and be with him, and I," she choked back a sob, "-- I'll be alone."

* * *

Thanks to Sylvia Waldgrave for help with the title.

~o~O~o~

And so, these tall tales are now ended, but with your participation, there will be plenty more to come. Not gonna lie, it gets harder and harder to get submissions each and every Tape, and this one in particular was cobbled together over the last week, but we made it, and that's what matters.

Now, if you'd like to contribute to the next Tape, here's what you have to do:

1) Write a story between 1,000 and 2,500 words (you can go as high as 4,000)
2) Contact Hikaro at Bandage131@yahoo.com
3) Honestly those are the only two steps

I don't set deadlines or themes, typically, but I'mma do something different. Submissions for the next Tape are due December 12th and the theme is -- you guessed it -- whatever the hell it is you celebrate in the month of December because I don't really feel like alienating people by only using Christmas. And also Christmas.

Hell, if you've got it in you, write two stories! We could use them. But, anyway, thank you for reading, and I hope some of you decide to join us in the future.

They fuck.

For the first time, for the third time.

She straddles him. Squeezes with her thighs. Squeezes with her cunt.

His hands on her waist. Fingertips trickling. Down; over hip, over ass, over thigh. Caressing up.

The Cowgirl had been her favourite position when their genders had been reversed. She’d liked looking up at his face and at his breasts. She’d really liked looking at his breasts, and how they’d vibrated and bounced as he rode her, their sway as he leaned forward, and the contrast between his tan and their cream skin, how they filled, overfilled her hands.

She’d liked to initiate by coming up behind him, hugging, pressing into his back, reaching around, cupping. Sometimes she would close her eyes and pretend that she’d pressed all the way into his skin and that she was holding its breasts with its hands. Frequently, she masturbated to this fantasy.

Their first time, their first-first time, they’d started out with the kind of spontaneity that she’d long written off as Hollywood fiction. He’d tilted her head with a thumb and forefinger beneath her chin. And then there’d been the sort of mad passionate dry-humping that fades to black that fades-in to the guy with the sheet up to his waist, and the girl her armpits. And then he was peeling off her chicken cutlets, and, oh god, she’d been wearing track pants, and her ratty, blue “Whaling Sucks!” shirt, the slogan almost flaked away, the material stretched where she liked to tuck her knees under.

They fuck.

His hands on her chest. Palms pushing up. For a moment she has something that’s almost cleavage.

A nipple disappears into the trench between two slightly parted fingers. They gently scissor the areola and the sensitive skin around it.

Two days after the first tape had transformed them. After hover-handing awhile, she’d put her arm around him. He’d made to kiss her on the cheek, withdrew. She’d made to kiss his forehead, but, again, no contact.

She’d watched the sheets wrinkle around her body. He’d looked past her, to watch the ceiling fan above.

Their second-first.

They fuck and he climaxes.

His limp cock slides out, flops onto his belly.

His hands leave her breasts, tie the condom, toss it towards the waste basket.

He begins to finger fuck her. Their third-first continues.

This is how it started:

He ejects your tape from your player.

Her skin is bronze, her nipples a rich brown, and his skin is the colour of her nipples. He has balls like a bullfrog’s throat. He’s uncircumcised this time around. She watches him peel back his foreskin.

She wiggles her toes. Her legs are long. Runner’s pins.

She looks at the pictures on your walls; you’re so comfortable with your changes and look it. Maybe, she thinks, this time we will be too.

Maybe, but it’s still to early to tell.

He hugs her from behind, presses, reaches…

They fuck.

And the sex, at least, is good.

“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 transwomen. “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.

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.

The Agent

The young girl looked down at the soapy water, bored and frustrated. She pulled the brush out of the water and on her hands and knees continued scrubbing the floor. Her breasts swung loosely under her dirty dress, no longer a distraction, as she focused all her frail strength on scrubbing. For the next hour she worked her way closer to the room at the end of the hall, the room that was only used by the Sheik.

Shouting from the compound drew her attention and the girl hurried to a nearby window. A small convoy of three vehicles entered the courtyard. A pair of Toyota trucks converted to carry a mounted light machinegun in the bed guarded a Mercedes sedan. The guards from the convoy were greeted by the men of the compound, and then a tall man in rich robes climbed out of the sedan.

The Sheik.

“Kalila, what are you doing girl! Stop gawking and get this cleaned up.”

Kalila spun around embarrassed at being caught looking out the window. The matron’s stern expression didn’t changed as Kalila picked up her bucket and brush, and headed to the stairway. As she passed Majidah, the matron grabbed her elbow. A boney hand tilted Kalila’s chin up so that the curtain of dark hair fell back.

“You’re pretty, Kalila,” then she reached forward and groped Kalila’s breasts. The young girl couldn’t help flinching back. “You have grown since the Sheik’s last visit.” Suddenly, as if having made a decision she spun Kalila around, “Hurry, to the kitchen and help the cook. Tell her that you’re not to serve at tonight’s feast. You will stay in the kitchen.” Then she added, “Oh, and put on a thicker dress, and bind your breasts, or you will risk losing your maidenhead before you find your marriage bed.” Kalila felt a surge of fear and embarrassment, two nights ago a guard had found her alone in the laundry. Kalila shuddered to think about what might have happened if not for Majidah’s timely arrival.

It was past midnight when the cook sent her, with the night’s garbage, to the refuse dump behind the compound. Dressed in a black burka she faded into the night but instead of going to the dump Kalila moved to a pile of rubble. It took a minute to dig up the Sat-phone.

“Yes?”

“Tango Lima is home.”

Without a backward glance she headed down the street, it was a long dangerous walk to the safe house, especially for a woman at night. Just as she knocked on the door a loud explosion rocked the village, followed by gunfire, and the sound of helicopters. The door opened and an old man glanced at her, and stepped back to let her inside. In perfect English he said, “It looks like you were successful, Mike.”

“Yeah, David, it took three damn months, but we got him.”

“Our extraction is set, we’ll swap back into our bodies at the Air Base in Turkey.”

Zapper started writing in December 2011 and has contributed a number of short and long stories to various websites. A few of his TG stories include: The Security Consultant Trilogy, The Bounty Hunters Trilogy, "Conan and the Blade of Costa" and his first story, "A Favor for Anna."

Can't Stop the Music

Our big story continues to be the indie girl band "Skanky Euphemism," which came out of nowhere and rocketed to the top of the charts with their debut album, "Deal With The Devil." These hard-rocking girls have captured everyone's attention with such tunes as, "My Boyfriend Wears My Clothes," "His Cheating Heart (In A Push-up Bra)," and of course the new hit dance single, "Wannabe Girl."

The band's unstoppable music has also inspired a surprising new fashion craze among young men and teenage boys, who have started coming out in droves wearing dresses, high heels, and makeup. At first this seemed limited to their concerts, but increasingly boys have been challenging dress codes in schools and everyday life with their girly outfits as they raid the closets of their mothers, sisters, and girlfriends.

But not everyone is thrilled with the fad. Mrs. Gina Crothers of the "Coalition to Protect Our Children's Childhood" has become an outspoken critic of the band and this new fashion craze. "This 'music' is poisoning the minds of our vulnerable children!" she claims. "My daughter went shopping for a prom dress and found her boyfriend already there, trying on gowns! What's the world coming to?"

When asked about the recent sighting of her husband and 22-year-old son at a local dance club in matching dresses, Mrs. Crothers had no comment.

Recently, objection to the music has also come from another surprising corner--the band itself! In an unprecedented move, Skanky Euphemism has tried to pull their own hit songs from the market. In a press conference, Skanky lead singer Jessica Jasmine said, "Guys, please! You gotta stop listening! We just wanted to get back at our boyfriends, we didn't mean to release these tracks. There's...something in the music!"

But industry insiders aren't convinced. Many believe this is another publicity stunt to drive up interest and credit the band with fanning the flames of the craze with their repeated denials.

In related news, Hot Topic, Forever 21, Wet Seal, Aeropostale, and Victoria's Secret have all posted record profits.

And now, back to the music! Again by request, here's "Wannabe Girl" by Skanky Euphemism!

Hey there, boy, you know it's true

I really want to know the inner you

But then you threw me for a whirl

When the inner you turned out to be a girl

You put on a show trying to be a guy

But your pouty protestations were all a lie

Come on and show the world who you are inside

Your glitter gowns and glamour heels are too pretty to hide!

Wannabe, wannabe, wannabe girl

You're way too real for the real world

You look so sexy and you look so fine

And I wanna wanna wanna wanna make you mine

You tried so hard to be a boy

But now we know that was a ploy

So put on your sparkly princess dress

And shout to the world that you must confess

That you're a wannabe girl...

Jenny North was bitten by the writing bug in late 2013 to turn her stockpile of crazy story ideas into actual stories, which she lately posts on Fictionmania. She enjoys writing engaging characters, plot twists, whimsy, and the occasional bimbo. She's very proud of her multilayered "Broken Echo" story, and suspects that "Mockumentary" hasn't found its audience yet. She’s also enjoying speaking about herself in the third person.

Pink

"Your favorite color is pink."

"No it's not." I puzzle at the receiver just before I hear the telltale click that says I've been hung up on. I shrug. "Well, that was weird."

And I put the receiver back on the cradle that sits on the desk in my office.

"Erin, did you connect a call to me about half an hour ago?"

"No, sir, I only just got in."

Erin's never lied to me before. No reason to think she's lying now. She's wearing a pink headband. My eyes are drawn to her head, and I follow it until the door closes behind her. What was I thinking about? Oh yes. The phone call.

I look at the receiver there on the cradle that sits on the desk in my office.

The room is stifling. Something is nagging at me, pulling my attention away from work. I find my thoughts drifting, my vision losing focus.

I pick up the phone.

"Erin, I need to pick a few things up. If anyone needs me, I'll be back in an hour."

"Yes, sir."

And I toss the receiver onto the cradle that sits on the desk in my office.

The shopping bags make crinkling sounds as I drop them beside my desk. Each item, whether it be a desk calendar, a pen, a clock, a decoration, each one is bright pink. I set them all up around my office, and then the phone rings.

And I pull the receiver off of the cradle that sits on the desk in my office.

Something is wrong.

I've wasted the better part of a day for no good reason. My thoughts are jumbled. Why am I acting this way? I rub my temples and squint my eyes, trying to work my way through whatever haze has taken me. Pink. The phone call. The voice. Why did I recognize that voice? I slammed both hands flat on the armrests of my chair.

And I flung the receiver, along with the cradle, off of the desk in my office.

It's almost time to leave for the day. I can see other people packing up their desks to go home. Can I usually see people at their desks? Isn't there usually a door in front of me? I turn around. The door is behind me. That feels right.

Erin steps through the door and smiles down at me. I can't take my eyes off of her head. Her headband.

"You've been staring at this all day," she says to me as she takes it off. "I think you should have it. Your favorite color is pink."

That voice. Something. She hands me the headband, and I tentatively pull it over my head, adjust my hair beneath it. The phone rings and I pick it up. Dial tone.

And I put the receiver back on the cradle that sits on my desk at the office.

Lyodor Tolstoyevski is going through strange period in life. Is he truly writer? Is he truly TG writer? Is there appreciable difference between transgender fiction and gender transformation fiction? Lyodor does not know answer. But maybe if you buy “Inside the Girls’ Room,” now available on Amazon Marketplace, it will help him find answer.

Sleeping in the Enemy

I slammed my feet against the wall of my confinement. It yielded, slightly. My captor was on the move again. I did not know her plans, but I intended to thwart them; her goals were not mine. I kicked again and was rewarded with a groan, which reverberated all around me. My prison continued to sway. I knew not where she headed; my prison had no windows, nor any light. I’d been in darkness since my imprisonment many months prior.

I pushed again, with both feet and hands. Success. She stopped. I heard a familiar, muffled, male voice from outside. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, I never could; hers were the only words I’d comprehended since my confinement.

“No, I don’t need to sit,” my enemy said.

I rotated my body. Turning in the tight confines was nearly impossible, but I wanted better leverage. I braced my shoulder against what I suspect was her pelvic bone and kicked upwards, repeatedly.

“On second thought, perhaps sitting for awhile would be a good idea. She’s pretty active today. Can you get me some water, honey?”

I sensed movement again, but instead of swaying, we seemed to descend for a moment followed by an abrupt halt, then stillness.

“There, there little girl,” she said.

I felt pressure against my feet. She was rubbing her belly, giving my feet a massage. It felt heavenly. I unlocked my knees, reflexively.

“I know you’re still mad; you probably think it kinder had I killed you as I was regretfully forced to do to your men. Executing you was the popular choice. No, that would have been a foolish waste. You are too bright, too resourceful, too inventive; the world needs people with your talents.”

I tried to continue my assault, but between the soothing sound of her voice and her comforting, indirect touch, I could no longer fight. I’d been deprived of outside contact, robbed of all human interaction, save hers. Despite my hatred, I absorbed any stimulation she gave me. Her every utterance bore into me, tearing at my self-will, undoing my very self. It was a kind of super charged Stockholm syndrome.

“Yes, this way will be much better, you’ll see. You will be reborn into a better life and raised with a loving family. You’ll grow into a woman who will benefit society instead of being that nasty man who preyed upon it. And, I’ve always wanted a daughter. Good night, my little angel.”

And with that she began to sing and I knew I’d lost another battle. Her sweet, melodic voice enveloped me. My cares evaporated and my eyes grew heavy. I’d resume my fight after a short nap. My thumb found my mouth and I began to suck. As I drifted off to sleep to my mother’s loving voice, I wondered if she’d continue to sing me to sleep after my birth. I hoped so.

Varian Milagro has written two TG stories to date, "Just Pretending" and "The Purse Came First", both of which are posted on FictionMania. All of his posted stories, including non-TG stories, can be found on his blog: http://varianm.blogspot.com/

Valentine’s Day

As I enjoyed the feel of her lips around my shaft, I searched for a way to tell her. To tell her that she hadn't always been the woman of my dreams. Just last week, she'd been my best buddy Ron, and we'd been fishing. Ron had been six-foot-three, two hundred and twenty-five pounds, and now Ruby was five-foot-two, one hundred and fifteen pounds. It was an amazing transformation. Ron's peach fuzz-like light brown hair had grown out into Ruby's waist-length red locks. His hair covered, muscular chest had ballooned into a pair of the firmest double D-cups I'd ever felt. It was magnificent.

She took her lips off of my cock for just a second and kissed me. I smelled the cum on her breath. I pulled her close, one of my hands on her tit, the other on her ass. I squeezed both, making her moan through the kiss. Her cunt found my dick, and then something felt wrong. I pulled away in shock and saw that the hand that had been groping her tit was now slender and feminine, with fingernails that now shone a deep red.

Unfortunately, it wasn't just my hand. I saw the effect creeping up my arm, changing it, mutating into almost a mirror of what Ruby had become. I glanced at my other arm and the same thing happened. I tried to scream, but the sound that burst from my cocksuckers - my lips! - wasn't what I wanted it to be. I clamped my hands over my mouth and saw Ruby just smiling. What the hell had she done to me?!

Whatever she had done hadn't stopped. My cock was shrinking, painfully, and in seconds it was gone, replaced by a juicy pussy. One of my hands moved from my mouth to my cunt and, almost instinctually, two fingers slid in. A moan escaped my cocksuckers. I was sweating now. Why was this happening?!

That feeling moved from my juicy spot up to my chest. I felt a stinging pain in my nipples. Both my hands moved to my chest as the flesh underneath my nipples expanded. In nothing but a few seconds, my fun bags - breasts! - were even bigger than Ruby's, growing to at least an E-cup. I tried to cover them, but it was impossible, they were just too big.

I felt my hair growing out, lengthening to my naked ass in no time at all. I needed to find a mirror, fix my make-up - see what had happened! - but there didn't seem to be one around. Why had I picked this spot to grind with Ruby?

My head felt so light, now, like I was having a hard time thinking. What was I doing? Where was I? Who was I?

"What's the matter, Bunny?" Ruby asked, and everything I'd just thought about erased itself.

I giggled. "Nuthin', cutie. Now, get the strap-on out, I wanna enjoy what's left of Valentine's Day doin' sumthin' naughty!"

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.

Vicki Stood Up For Herself

Don’t let them do this. Don’t let them turn you into a victim. One last glance in the mirror. Vicki loved the new pantsuit. Okay, it was a little tight but it looked good on her. The color – a Kelly green was perfect. Matching shoes and bag, she was ready to go. You can do this.

The No. 3 train from Brooklyn got her close to criminal court. Security was light when she arrived, no one paid her any mind and she asked where her courtroom was. When she got there, they told her to check in at the prosecutor’s table. Yes, she was Vicki Smith and yes, her purse had almost been snatched. No, she hadn’t been hurt when she was knocked to the ground. No, she never gave up her purse and yes, she had hit the man as hard as she could. And yes, that was the guy sitting in the third row.

When the judge came in, they called her case first. That was great because she had to get to work. Everything was going so good until she saw the detective in the back of the courtroom looking just at her. She almost stammered when the judge asked her a question but she recovered herself and held on. What was it? Why was he looking at her like that? Did he know? Why was he looking at her hands?

The lawyers were talking to the judge but she couldn’t focus. The prosecutor came over and told her that she could go. The judge had made clear that the purse-snatcher was going to be found guilty, and there was no reason to make her miss work. She would have to come back for sentencing and she would. Steeling her nerve, Vicki held her purse against her chest and stood up to go. The detective was looking right at her and Vicki could see a new recognition in his eyes. Did he know? She found herself walking up to him, ready to say something but he spoke first. “You did real good on the stand, Miss. Glad you got the chance to put things right.” He held the door open for her, a gentleman and then he winked. “Have a good day.” Vicki smiled back, straightened up and proudly left.

[And then there’s this to end the story. I was police, there on a different case and I saw it all. The story is true, although with some artistic license in the telling. It was 1979 and for transgender people things were different. I never found out who Vicki had been before and I never saw her again to ask. I still can see a young black boy standing up in open court, demanding to be recognized and respected as the girl he truly was. Let’s hope the reward for bravery was a long and happy life.]

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.

Voice of Madness

‘Bathe in his blood!’ she said as I collapsed to the ground.

I heard the guard’s feet clomp on the floor followed by the clank of the cell door closing behind him. I rolled onto my back panting and clutching at my side where I was certain his repeated kicks had resulted in broken ribs. Each time I drew in breath, the pain which was normally a dull throb swelled to the point I felt myself growing faint.

‘Get up! Fight, kill, burn everything!

“I-I can’t, I don’t know how!”

‘Let the magic burn inside of us!’

My vision flashed a brilliant bright white and gasped and gritted my teeth as I sat up. I could use magic, but given my current state I wasn’t sure I could live with the consequences. I flexed my hand, the female one, and watched fascinated and in disbelief that it could be mine. I cupped my breast and gasped, letting my hand drop back down. There was a jagged split down the center of my body, like two of my victims sewn together in a bizarre mishmash of male and female.

So many years, so many experiments, and it had all come down to this. It all started with twins, but it’d gone far beyond that. How many victims did I abduct over the years? I always had such a clear image of their faces in my mind, but now I could only recall a handful. I’d lost my passion for the work and instead became obsessed with power, specifically magic. Men were denied it’s use, but I’d been determined to find a way to make it mine and… I did.

I’d never been given the time I needed to test it, they came before I could and I’d been forced to inject myself to save the formula. It’s how I found myself in my present predicament, a prisoner of the Nordic empire.

‘Let it course through us. Burn our enemies to ash and cinder!’

“No! I-I can’t. I won’t! It’s too dangerous!”

I hadn’t called upon the magic, but I could feel it boiling just under the surface. It was said that it took years to master the power of the seidh, but the pure destructive force could be harnessed by the untrained if they were willing to take the risk.

‘Let the power burn!’

“YES!” I screamed my resistance slipping away as I let the magic just wash over me. It whipped and whirled. It burned… oh how it burned. I let it go swirling out of me a whirlwind of destructive fire and rage that blasted my little cell into oblivion.

‘We are free!’

The voice had been so right, all this time I had fought it, but she had known. The magic consumed me, eating away at male flesh, but I didn’t care. The voice and I howled out in unison until… I couldn’t discern her voice from mine. We were Mengele.

D.A.W. is a fan of science-fiction and fantasy who brings his love of the genres to TG fiction. He 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"). He has contributed to several shared universes including Enemyoffun's DarkRealms Universe ("Hunger Pangs") and Morpheus' Twisted Universe ("Virtually Twisted").

The Mixed Tape Interview:

[Transcript prepared at the request of Arnold Whelan HM, Dean of Admissions by Sonia Jackson]

Q: What books have influenced you most a writer?

M: Good question there and I can’t single out any in particular here. I’ve always been an omnivorous reader, though have a love of the SF and Fantasy genres. So I suppose there have been quite a few that did. One day I just decided that if others could do it, so could I, so I just started on it.

Q: What authors and stories would you recommend for fans of your work?

M: The ones that come to mind first would be David Weber and CJ Cherryh. Then Tom Clancy even if he does get a bit wordy at times. Dean Koontz is another. MaryJanice Davidson and Patricia Briggs for their whimsey. There are so many but those will do for now.

Q: You’ve been publishing stories since 2000. How do you think you’ve changed as a writer?

M: Well, I’ve learned to do more than the humor that my first posted story used for one thing. This question is asking about an internal growth that I never really mapped out or thought about much as it happened. I had my first story written and ready to go, then spent a month getting up the nerve to post it so I guess you could say I’ve gotten much more comfortable with writing and more confident about the results over time. Oh, sure, I’ve picked up things along the way: Improved my grammar and things like that, but I think overall it has mainly been my own changing outlooks and willingness to pursue things that made me uncomfortable at times. For example, ‘Spectre: Shades of Grey’ and ‘The Price of Betrayal’ to mention a few. I know that probably sounds kind of lame, but it’s the best I can do here since it’s not something I ever really considered.

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

M: Two things actually. First, write what you know. I know, I know, I tend to write about some fantastical subjects, But knowing your location for the story, even if it is fantasy takes some world building just to know the more mundane events and locations in the story. So what if you’ve pulled the surroundings out of the air, so to speak. Knowing the where is important to keeping the story consistent all the way through. Also know your characters, so those things qualify for Write what you know. Also most of characters tend to be modeled in some way by people I know or have known.

Second, a good character can carry a story. As Lorilie in ‘Heaven and Hell’ and Deirdre in ‘Maiden by Decree’. Get a character that people like and can hopefully identify with helps a story a lot.

Oh, a third one, dialogue is important. The first thing I think of there is make the characters talk like real people. Use contractions such as I’ve instead I have. Dialogue that doesn’t do that seems stilted and, I think, actually slows down the story because people get annoyed with overly formal speech in stories these days unless it’s a really formal instance where such things are needed. Fit the dialogue for characters to what they are like. For example if a character is a sarcastic ass, make sure the dialogue shows that. As for stories without dialogue? Ever feel as if you’ve been wading through the biggest infodump you’ve ever seen?

M: Can you talk us through your writing process?

Q: Chaos. No, not really. I get a story idea, make my characters, have a good idea where it’s going and how I want it and, make notes to fill in the gaps then turn my characters loose. I get the framework set up along with the characters then just have fun with the thing. Very disorganized, I know, but it works for me.

Q: Can you tell us a bit about the Whateley Universe?

M: Sure. It would take more than a few words to really describe things. There are so many available powers, other abilities and problems in the universe that make it very diverse and the sheer number of active and old characters is kind of mind boggling along with the situations they get themselves into. The Whateley Bible (Sorry only available to canon authors) lists hundreds of characters from major to minor. We also generally have an overarching meta plot that the individual stories fit into in time. The four of us who originated it Bek D Corvin, Scranbler J, and Babs Yerunkle spent two years getting things together before any of it saw the light of day for readers. We all had read stories or seen movies that got us interested in seeing how we could do the same theme(s) so decided to set up a whole Universe to play in. It’s complex, widely varied in story content, and I’m told is extremely addictive.

Q: What are some good entry points for new readers?

M: At the beginning, of course. I’d start with Enter the Chaka, then Fey’s first stories, along with early Jade and the ones for Ayla. I don’t recall off hand where it is, but there is a story list that shows those that isn’t all that hard to find. [see:http://www.crystalhall.org/stories.html]

Q: How has it evolved over the years?

M: How hasn’t it evolved would be a better question here. The growth and popularity of Whateley took all of us original creators completely by surprise,as I mentioned earlier. There is now any type of character you could imagine there, along with a dedicated site to the universe with open forums and even fan fiction. Our child is bigger than we are. But it is fun, never ceases to surprise you, and is a challenge that new writers seem drawn to. Overall, it’s become something way beyond what we, the original four, ever imagined it could be.

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

M: For onething, don’t we all have that secret desire to be someone who can overcome obstacles against insurmountable odds? Someone who strives to make things right? To rise above ourselves to accomplish something extraordinary? Also, though I’m not trying to categorize anyone here, the TG community as a whole tends to get ignored a lot, denied basic rights that everyone should have, and be generally denigrated all around. Being a superhero still sets them apart, but in a good way.

Q: What are some of your favourite non-Whateley superhero stories?

M: Morpheus’ Legacy universe, definitely.

Q: And outside our fictional niche?

M: George R.R. Martin’s Wild Card series. Shared universe with a lot very good writers contributing.

Q: Anything else you’d like to say?

M: Hmm. Mainly that I have been humbled by the response to my writing over the years and wish to thank all my fans. And to new writers who have a story you think is pretty good. Put it out there for people to see. Regardless of the response, the only way you can improve is get your child out there for others to see, and hopefully, enjoy.

Musings on the Depressed Mind

One of the worst things depression does is turn your imagination against you. It puts it to work constructing worst case scenarios and byzantine trains of rational seeming, deeply illogical thought to persuade you to further isolate yourself within its confines. It warps your fantasies – not only the sexual, but daydreams and aspirations too – into toxic, unfulfilling comforts. To get any relief from them you have to indulge them to an unhealthy degree. If you’re able to. (And often you aren’t).

Other people baffle and irritate the depressed mind. It doesn’t understand how they can be so effortlessly all the things that it isn’t. For me the desire to be like other people evolved into the fantasy of literally becoming someone else. I latched onto the idea that, if I could stop being me, all my problems would be solved. Reading body-swap and transformation stories scratched that itch.

For a brief period of time, I was obsessed with the idea of escaping the prison of my inner and outer self and existing as another person. It became difficult to see other people as anything except potential vessels. I was driven to distraction by if only’x and what if’s, and constantly frustrated by the knowledge these could only ever be thought experiments.

I’ve never written body-swaps and transformations as fix-all in my stories. On an intellectual level, I do this to create narrative spaces that best facilitate compelling characters and incident. But there was, and maybe still is, an element of rebellion to the choice as well.

It’s difficult to say whether or not writing shaped the relationship with the fetish that inspired it into something healthier. The quirks and obsessions of the depressed mind are many and multifaceted, and for me, they come and go one or two at a time. Shortly after I started writing, several long dormant neuroses came back in a big way, supplanted my swap and transformation fixation, and I hit rock bottom.

My situation didn’t improve because I worked through my issues in my writing. I know that’s not how this story is supposed to go. I know a lot of people find solace in putting their thoughts into words, but I never have. In my case writing truthfully about subjects like anxiety and depression while they dominate my headspace is a masochistic act. It requires me to give those parts of myself power in exchange for insight and further psychic harm, so I don’t do it often.

The Talking Cure is something that works for me, as does simply being around sympathetic people. When I was no longer able to hide my problems from others, I found to my surprise, horror, delight and consternation, friends, family members, and acquaintances in my life who were willing to accompany me on my incremental journey back to wellness. The depressed mind wants help just as much as it wants to reject any and all assistance when it’s offered (that is, more than anything). Because of this, if you find yourself in a position where you think that you might be able to help a depressed person and are unsure of what to do next, you need to accept that whatever you do, you will, at some point, fail. Maybe a lot. The depressed mind is a master of misinterpretation; it perceives kindness as sarcasm and compassion as contempt; it finds gaping holes in the logic behind every reasonable statement and argument. You need to accept this and act anyway. Helping a depressed person, like recovering from a bout of serious depression, is a three steps forward, two steps back type ordeal.

Recommended Resources

Amazon Studio’s Emmy Award Winning Transparent examines identity and how it’s shaped by the parts of ourselves we hide from others or deny. It’s an excellent program, but also a frustrating one; it has the potential to be even better. At times Transparent’s treatment of its theme is poignant and uncompromising, at others it’s a rickety framework used to prop up (mostly entertaining) Prestige Soap antics (your mileage may vary. If HBO’s Girls does nothing for you, you’re probably not going to like Transparent much).

Transparent is at its best where it counts, though. Jeffrey Tambor is a revelation as Maura (formally Mort) Pfefferman, a transitioning trans woman, and the source of the program’s title. Though often outwardly reserved and soft spoken, through small gestures, and variances in tone of speech and expression Tambor lays bare the character’s inner personality and strength. The sequences detailing her entry into the trans community are wonderful, and raise the bar for future representations of trans individuals on-screen (Tambor is the only cisgender actor playing a trans character on the show).

If you watch only one episode of Transparent, make it episode 8, “Best New Girl,” which takes place 20 years prior to majority of the program’s narrative and revolves around (the at that time closeted) Maura’s experiences at a crossdressing camp. Not only does this episode showcase many of the most outstanding moments of an outstanding performance, it works just as well when removed from the context and continuity of the series, and includes a profoundly unsettling b-plot involving Maura’s youngest child, Ali, which is among the program's best non-Maura-centric material.

Ali (Gabby Hoffman and Emily Robinson) is the only of Maura’s children to be consistently well served by the show’s creative team. Like her brother Josh (Jay Duplass and Dalton Rich), Ali is a directionless, thirty-something, self-absorbed, free-spirit. Ali’s story offers compelling insights into the character and why she is who she is, and it matures, even when she doesn’t. Transparent’s treatment of Josh’s life skews soapier and the first season frustratingly concludes his story with a great big “oh, come on… really?” reveal. Amy Landecker, who plays the oldest of the Pfefferman siblings, Sarah, is given the weakest material: a divorce plot in which her children, and her new partner’s ex and their kids, are total non-entities, conspicuous in their absence.

By most measures Transparent is fantastic television (or is it a webseries - I don’t know, the lines between these things gets blurrier every day), some of the best of 2014, and it’s failures are the failures of a lot of first season tele - and of most tele - indeed a most fiction, period - the failure to consistently meet the standards it sets for itself; the failure to integrate all its characters and their stories seamlessly into a cohesive work; questionable storytelling choices made to prolong a semi-episodic, long-form narrative, with, as yet, no set ending. In spite of these issues, Transparent is always engaging, moment to moment, and assured in its depiction of its heroine and her inner journey. As long as Transparent continues in this vein, it could very well be an all timer.

Highly recommended.

This article has been around for a while but it remains an excellent primer regarding the similarities and differences between the trans and drag communities.

Good news, there’s a computer program that can help you writer betterer! Sort of. Slick Write is fantastic tool that draws attention to how you grammer and recommends a lot of great resources to help you improve.

(I Write Like, on the other hand will not help you improve. At. All. However it’s always good for a laugh. According to I Write Like, my Transparent review is written in the style of HP Lovecraft. As a general rule, if IWL’s algorithm spits out David Foster Wallace, you’re writing is probably shit. If it spits out Chuck Palahniuk, it’s probably not bad. Whatever IWL says, you almost certainly do not write like either author.)

Part 1

Part 2

Afterword

As always I hope that you found something that turned you on, or that made you laugh, or made you think in the collection that you just read.

I’d like to extend a big thankyou to all the authors who contributed. They have been very patient (next time you gals and guys won’t have to wait so long to see your work out in the wild, I promise). Please reward them with your comments.

Jenny North, Lyodor Tolstoyevski, Toxis, thankyou for your insightful and supportive comments regarding my depression essay.

Submissions for March’s Mixed Tape are due on the 16th of that month.

Guidelines for fiction submissions:

~ Stories are to be no longer than 500 words.

~ Write what you want to write.

~ Stories are to be accompanied by a short About the Author or Also By This Author blurb. Write one of those too.

Guidelines for nonfiction submissions:

~ Pieces are to be no longer than 1000 words.

~ Possible topics include trans issues, sex and sexuality, cross-dressing tips and tricks, writing, and books, movies, TV shows and comics about or featuring Transgender characters. If you can make a case for anything else, you can write about that.

~ Regarding style: informal is fine, and preferred. These pieces shouldn’t be a chore to read. Write your chosen topic the same way you’d talk to a friend about it, or write about it in a blog, or in an effort-comment or forum post.

As a contributor you will be able to read and feedback other contributions as they come in. If at any point prior to publication you wish to withdraw your work, that’s OK.

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.

Email submissions to hutch0@hotmail.com.au

Until next time, or until I hear from you.

PersnicketyBitch

Du Bist Sehr Schön

A collection of 12 short, short stories from 12 different voices in TG fiction. Hit play and let them transport you from the world as it is now to fairy castles and dystopian futures and back again, and introduce you to gods, daemons, cross-dressers and criminals and much more.

Ray wears his glasses like they’re an affectation, even though, and you can tell this from the way the lenses make his eyes look unnaturally small, they are not. He is clothing catalogue handsome and dressed the part in an expensive imitation working class plaid shirt and grey cigarette jeans picked out by an ex.

Ray thinks shopping is for fags. He says stuff like that on first dates.

Ray walks with his shoulders hunched, looking down.

He walks into the observation room.

He undoes his belt (his girlfriend brought it for him, though she too might be an ex; they are, at present, taking a break), drops his jeans and dacks and sits down.

In front of Ray is a two way mirror, through it he can see a room with padded walls.

A door opens. A woman is shoved through. Her lips are moving. But what she is saying to the shover Ray cannot hear.

No sound is allowed to leave that room.

Ray looks at the speakers above the closing door. Then at the woman’s breasts. They are much more interesting.

In some of the videos Ray has watched the person in the room tries to put on a show. They are always terrible. Ray likes that best about them. When he masturbates to the images of them changing, he imagines how they have been threatened.

This woman stands still, hands fisted, glaring.

But the change, when it comes, is good. And when it’s over, the man in the room breaks down and cries and slaps at his side of the two way leaving wet handprints.

Ray’s erection is long and thin and curves upwards. It rests against side of his hand. Ray squeezes his balls in time to its pulse.

Voices in quick succession. Some sweet. Some harsh. Some laughing…

The man on the other side of the two way is unaffected. He has heard them already. Which is why he hears the gunfire.

But Ray...

Ray stumbles from the observation room on changing legs. They give out at the first sight of blood.

…Some angry.

And magic is fuelled by blood. It has purpose. Corrupt it at your peril.

The soliloquies of their vengeance and the screams of their victims ring in Ray’s ears as she crawls amongst the half male, half female corpses all shot to shit.

Family Curse

“Uncle, I-I-I’m scared,” said Jessica over the phone. Her hands were shaking and she could barely get the words out.

“Sweetie, you’ll be fine. You lived through the same thing thirty years ago. The only difference is that Michael will have you to rely on,” Uncle Max replied. Since he is the only paternal figure Jessica has to rely on, he’s used to these kind of conversations.

“I know! But, but that’s not the problem. Michael isn’t me. I’m a needy and nervous and a wallflower and he’s… not,” said Jessica tearing up.

“Jessica! Michael’s a smart kid. Yes, he’ll be mad for a while, but… think of this as a way you can get closer to him. So calm down, the whole family will support him when the change happens. It’s a tradition remember?”

“Yes I know… It happened to me, to the mother I never met, to Nana, and now him. I just don’t know how he’ll react.”

“Have you warned him?”

“Yes uncle. But he’s like me when I was his age. He doesn’t believe it. When his father realized I wasn’t bullshitting, he…” The lump in her throat made Jessica stop talking. Even after all these years she misses him so much.

“Well, we just have to wait for his reaction. I’ve got to go honey. I’ll call you tomorrow m’kay? Take care.”

“Ok, I’ll tell you how it goes. Goodnight.” Jessica hung up the phone. She sighed and slid under the bed covers.

Next morning Jessica prepared everything. She took her youngest son to school, while she let Michael sleep in. There was one hour to go until he turned sixteen.

She cooked the most delicious breakfast she’d ever made. Juice, eggs, even baked some cookies. Her son was a heavy sleeper. So when she entered he was still sleeping.

She left the tray in a small table, as well as a short note. She left his room, and waited for her son to wake up. The smell of cooked bacon should do the trick.

She didn’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later, her son was out of his room with his uniform on, with the slice of toast in his mouth. “Mom! Why didn’t you wake me up!? I’ll be late for class!”

“Michael, d-d-did you read the note?” She said playing with her hands.

Michael shrugged. “Thanks for the breakfast and everything. I guess,” he said putting his uniform jacket. “I’ll be with my friends in the evening, so don’t wait for me.”

“Mikey please…”

Mickey half slammed the front door on his way out. Jessica was opening it again when the clock began to chime. And as it finished she was running to the sixteen year old girl collapsing onto the footpath.

Ever since she was little Susy has been interested in these types of stories. Other stories by her include: "Sympathy for the Girl" and "Black Bloodstains". She is the co-author of the story "K177Y Serum". You can find all of her stories at TG Storytime.

Reborn

I felt like I was floating in a warm bath. I could hear a beating. Thump, thump, thump. My Mother's heart I assumed. I could hear voices – my mother's; my father's too. I could feel their gentle presses and strokes through the wall of the womb.

I savoured my soon to be new life and remembered my past one. Trapped in the wrong body. Inside one thing, outside something completely different. How I had hated it.

I kicked.

“There, there,” I heard a muffled voice say.

“Impatient little thing, isn’t it?”

It. It?

Better than he…

It? Really?

“You feel,” said my Mother.

I felt a different sort of pressure.

I kicked again. Again. Again. Aga… The effort wore me out. I let the womb warmth and the drumming of my mother’s heart lull me to sleep.

I dreamed of my past life. Of how I hated the sex I was born into. Of how much I hated having to think and act like a man.

I could laugh at the rest of the world now. They couldn’t challenge me. I was to be reborn as the real me.

The days passed. I anticipated in peaceful limbo.

Then…

My world turned upside down. I didn’t know what was happening. Everything seemed to press down on me.

I pressed back. What was happening?

Again everything pressed down on me, more intense this time. Again I resisted. Again. Again. Aga… Finally pressure became overwhelming and I started to move.

I heard a new voice saying, “I can see the head”

The omnipotent being watched as the new baby girl was born.

Expelled from her mother’s womb she began to squall. Her first breaths.

She was to grow up in the body she so much wanted for the 93 years of her previous male life.

But she would never know it.

The memories of past lives fade away at birth.

But to every rule there are exceptions.

Maybe…

The Being watched as her new parents hugged their daughter, who gurgled happily, then drifted away to oversee the next new life.

Christina H is a lifelong trans-woman. Her stories include “A Friend in Need”, “A New Start in Life”, “For Friends and Family” and “The Making of Heather”. She hopes that her stories please you and make you happy and wants you to remember to never regret anything you do as long as no one is hurt by your actions.

Mischief and Mammaries

Boobs, you gotta love them. As a goddess I have a pretty rocking set, but that hasn’t always been the case. I used to be a dude, but that was another life and I’d tell you all about it if it weren’t so incredibly boring. My new existence is far more entertaining, but that sort of comes with the job description. I am, after all, the goddess of mischief and chaos, which used to be Loki’s gig, but he went and got himself killed (twice) and I got the honour of stepping in to fill his rather robust shoes.

Sex is a riot, but my partners are usually mortals and they just don’t have the same stamina that I do. Take my last two studs. Their affections had been pleasurable, certainly, but I’d done about everything I could think of with them and frankly it was getting incredibly stale. I knew just what they needed, a nice pair of luscious melons. I snapped my fingers and couldn’t help but grin as I watched the two transform, the taller blond one’s short cropped hair grew darker and cascaded down her back in a mass of curls before her body shifted taking on a perfect hourglass figure. The other, I made a redhead and well… let’s just say I left a little something extra between her legs.

I couldn’t wait to take the two for a test drive, but it was time to perform some of my godly duties. It was a bit of a bother, but once in a while I could derive some fun from it. I snapped my fingers, disappearing from my abode and reappeared in the domicile of a mortal, a silly little man who was always praying to me and whimpering about all kinds of dreary things. I don’t often answer prayers, but when I do, as you might imagine, things don’t usually turn out quite the way the supplicant envisions.

He couldn’t see me, which is how I like it when I’m working. The little guy went about his monotonous little existence doing all sort of tedious things. He wanted me to make his life more exciting, you know give it a little spice, and I giggled as I realized just what gift I’d confer on him, a pair of mammaries. You know it’s funny how often it comes down to that. I grinned, but instead of snapping my fingers, I switched it up and wiggled my nose.

His chest bloomed into a pair of glorious mounds, and his hips, legs and the rest of his body soon followed. Hair splashed down her back where before she had almost none and her face morphed into the perfect vision of feminine beauty. I smiled and left her to discover my handiwork. I heard her scream just before I vanished and I rolled my eyes. You know, some people are just never happy with the gifts bestowed on them.

D.A.W. is a fan of science-fiction and fantasy who brings his love of the genres to TG fiction. He is the author of “Facades” (the first Meridian story) and the "Ragnarok Rising Trilogy" (“Incompatible: Birth of a Spellbinder”, “Transfigured: Ascension of a Spellbinder” and “Destiny: Legacy of a Spellbinder”). He has contributed to several shared universes including Enemyoffun's DarkRealms Universe (“Hunger Pangs”) and Morpheus' Twisted Universe (“Virtually Twisted”).

The Whirlwind

You ever have a friend who was like a force of nature?

I sure did, and that’s why I am where I am today.

I first met Lisa Beatrix in high school, when she practically hijacked me because she wanted someone to accompany her across the street for a slushie.

I pretty much fell in love with her right then and there.

Sadly, it was not returned, as she told me, “I just don’t see you that way.”

Not that I was alone in my appreciation of her. Pretty much my whole school admired her or loved her, or at least lusted after her.

She could have done anything - been student body president, prom queen, head cheerleader, you name it.

But she gave her love to the Theater.

Musicals, plays, anytime there was something happening that related to the theatre, she was at the forefront, and she was always our leading lady.

But as I said, her popularity crossed high school clique lines, and everyone called her by the same nickname - “the whirlwind.”

As for me, my life was also spiralling, but in a bad way. I had been struggling with my gender for as long as I could remember, and by high school I was crossdressing whenever I could just to try and keep some measure of sanity.

Then in grade 12, things came to a head.

I was in the drama room after everyone else had left, cleaning up some costumes, when I spotted a beautiful princess dress hanging in the corner.

I actually sighed with relief when I put the dress on, as the horrible weight of trying to be a boy fell from me.

And then I saw my reflection in a mirror, and the illusion broke, and I collapsed to the floor, weeping.

I didn’t know that I hadn’t been alone during this until....

“Tom?”

“L..Lisa? Oh ... God ...I was just ...”

“Being a girl.”

I couldn’t deny it. I hung my head in shame.

Then she came down, hugged me, and said, “It’ll be okay, Tom.”

“N..not Tom. Diana “

“Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

And right at that moment, I knew I was gonna be okay. No matter how long it took me, no matter who tried to get in my way, I was gonna be Diana, for real.

Because I had one special person in my corner.

Lisa Beatrix.

“The whirlwind.”

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.

Small Gestures

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 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 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 crafts time.

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

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.

The End of an Old Song

“What’s the matter, Mel? Not a nightmare?”

Hyacinth got out of bed, came over and hugged her roommate.

“It was horrible!”

Tears were streaming down the shaking girl’s face.

“We were back in the Troubles, and I dreamed I was a – a boy! Oh Goddess!” She shook in Hyacinth’s comforting arms. “I don’t want to be a boy! Not ever!”

His father had said it was some kind of virus sweeping the world, and Eric had not dared to disagree, not when he had that look in his eyes. He had been hoarding cans, and had got hold of some guns. And he had chained Eric’s mother to the bed ‘for her own protection.’

Eric had always loved his mother, and now he admired her. How brave she was, talking calmly, trying to soothe his father, trying to persuade him. But he seemed to get wilder as the days passed, until one day he came in looking particularly haggard.

“It’s all over,” he said, “We’re the last.”

And then he unslung one of his automatic rifles, and to Eric’s horror emptied a whole clip into his mother. “So those crazy bitches don’t get her.”

He handed Eric a revolver.

“I’m gonna take down as many as I can. Cover me – and then use this on yourself before they get you!”

He burst out of the front door, firing wildly, and fell in a hail of bullets. With a sob Eric threw the revolver away.

A woman nudged him forward with the barrel of her weapon.

“We’ve recovered the Martyr’s body, Commander. And we found this lurking in the house.”

“At ease, corporal.”

Eric recognised the voice. Angela, from up the street? Beautiful, good natured, sweet sixteen Angela? It couldn’t be. Now she wore an officer’s uniform, and the armed women obeyed her. Eric looked up timidly into grey eyes full of steel, and yet also full of compassion. Angela raised a leather-gloved hand and stroked his cheek.

“Why, it’s little Eric,” she murmured. “And your poor mother a Martyr! Don’t worry, we’re not going to hurt you. You’re going to be re-educated.”

“Anyway you know that’s not possible,” said Hyacinth. “Boys, males, don’t exist anymore. Come on, Melody, don’t lose it now. It’s our big day today, it’s your big day! The Goddess will support you.”

In the Festival of Remembrance Melody’s class of girlygirls had been chosen to line the steps up to the Tomb of the Martyrs. Melody herself had always been told she was special, being the daughter of one of the Martyrs. Now she had been chosen for particular honour. Wearing a white robe, and with her hair crowned with a chaplet of flowers, she would walk before the Matriarch and the High Priestess in their procession to pray at the Tomb, scattering flower petals in their path.

Yes, she would do it, joyously, in her mother’s memory. For males were now extinct, praised be the Goddess!

Kandijayne has been reading transgender fiction for many years, but only recently began to write it, and has this year published her first stories on Fictionmania, BigCloset and TGStorytime. Most popular seems to be “You’ve been drafted, Girlie!”. In the ‘Real World’ ‘he’ retired at the end of 2013, so should in theory have plenty of time to write more.

The Siren

Arnon and Yaron had gone over to Dizengoff. I knew that Ibrahim had tennis lessons this time of day and would have just left. And that meant that the small garden at the center of our four studio apartments would be free for the short-term.

I'd tracked my three suite-mates' schedules meticulously for weeks, and this was the first opportunity when I knew for sure that I'd have an hour to myself. A polished nail nudged open my window blinds as a dusky eye peered into the open space I normally shared, but intended to commandeer for my own. Just this once.

Empty.

Excitement rose in the bodice of my yellow dress as my finger closed the blinds. I'd be going outside dressed as a girl for the first time. But that excitement died in an instant. The siren. That which hung over the whole country like a cloak hanging from the Iron Dome. What could I do?

The siren gives you two minutes. My unit is on the south side of the building, and the outer wall is completely exposed. There's a shelter just outside, but I have to go out to the main street to get to it. Do I dare venture out there when I'm not even sure about the garden? Two minutes is not nearly enough time to change back.

I was already out my door before those thoughts could process, yellow cotton fluttering in the wind. Fuck.

I looked at nothing but the ground in front of me until I was past the heavy shelter door and down the stairs. I didn't think anyone saw me, and in the shelter I was safe, both from bombs and from eyes.

I hadn't even calmed down before I heard a sound almost as bad as the siren: the rusty knob at the head of the stairs was turning. Someone was here! The shelter is just an underground cement box. I had nowhere to go. No way to hide my yellow dress in the dim, dusty light.

Footsteps descended the staircase as the siren blared like some faraway ambulance stuck in park, and all I could do was hold my breath, and hope.

It was Ibrahim. The two of us just stood there looking at each other under the ground, under the siren, under the war, before he opened his mouth. "What, you too?" He pulled down the shoulder of his shirt to reveal a thin, white bra strap. He smiled a little sheepishly. "I don't really take tennis lessons."

A few seconds later a missile from the Iron Dome battery would intercept the rocket launched by Hammas, and the sound from that explosion would rock the ground we were under. But I don't think either of us heard or felt it. There we were: a Jew and an Arab, hiding from the same bombs, hiding from the same eyes. Despite the war, because of the war, we'd each found a new person to lean on.

Lyodor Tolstoyevski does not intend to make political statement. Lyodor intends to share human experience. Please allow this work to stand as a story about two people, and not a conclusion about any ongoing national or international events. And may a peaceful solution arise to all conflicts currently on this earth.

Sweet Surrender

“Kara. My name is Kara.”

My heart beats painfully against my chest as the name slips from my lips, and I instantly clamp my mouth shut. I shake my head, trying to clear it of lust and confusion, but then the wicked villainess wraps her arms around my waist, pressing her exquisite body against my back.

“Kara,” she whispers in my ear and I whimper. Loudly. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

“I’m not…” I choke on the words, and they taste like a lie. Which is absurd; I can feel my cock straining against the constrictive silk of my lingerie. Every throb reminds me that I am not a girl, far from it.

“You are.” Her words ring with authority. I am, declares a voice in my head, so small and yet fervent, and for a moment I can’t remember why I’m resisting. Her hand slowly moves upward, stroking suggestively along my side. “And tonight, you are a naughty girl.”

My head falls back and I moan deeply.

“Say it, Kara.”

“I’m…” I trail off, and that small voice I can never quite shut out is almost screaming, begging me to do as she says, to let her have her wicked way with me, to let me know peace. When I speak again, my voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m a naughty girl.”

I shiver as the thrill of forbidden pleasure races up my spine, and am rewarded with a purr of approval.

She moves to stand in front of me, and my gaze instantly drops to her bare breasts, my breath quickening in excitement as I futilely struggle against her restraints to close the distance. She laughs, and her long finger brushes along my cheek to my jaw, exerting gentle pressure to force me to tilt my head back up.

And then she leans forward and impossibly soft lips mold themselves to mine. I have had my share of kisses over the years, but for the first time I understand what it means to be kissed. She is neither rough nor aggressive as her tongue coaxes me to part my lips, yet she claims my mouth for herself, utterly and completely, with every slow lick and every gentle nip, and I can do nothing but yield.

Suddenly she draws back and I nearly cry out at the loss, but then she buries her fingers in my hair and presses herself closer. For a long moment, neither of us says anything, breathing heavily as we stare into each other’s eyes.

I know the countless reasons why this is wrong, and yet I still find myself begging breathlessly.

“More. Please, more.”

And my lovely tormentor smiles.

As far back as she can remember, Minikisa has always built rich fantasy worlds inside of her head, distracting her with endless daydreams of adventure which she recently decided to share with the rest of the world. She created the Paragon Verse at TGStorytime with her tale “Of Heroes And Villains” and its sequels and fans of these will recognize this vignette as a little slice of that universe. She also wrote the short story “Dragonslayer”, a twisted fairytale she considers one of her best works.

Horns and Halo

"Rogers! Congratulations, the promotion is yours!"

She sat there, seething. She had been here longer. She was way more qualified. She deserved that promotion!

But the bastards wouldn’t give it to her.

Her rival for the past three months smiled a big, fake smile and stepped up. He shook her boss's hand, kissing ass. She put on a very strained smile, odd thoughts crossing her brain.

We both watched her, knowing the other was watching her too.

"Burn his house down!" I said.

"But that's not... you know, nice. Or legal." My other half said.

"So? He's an asshole! Light it up!"

"Go ahead. Should be entertaining."

I stopped and looked at my other half. What game is she playing here?

"Run that by me one more time. I thought you were the good one! You should be against this!"

"Why? Burning his house down seems completely reasonable."

Okay then, if you insist. "Just go grab the lighter fluid."

Later, in the dead of night both I and my other half watched as she grabbed the required materials, and set out.

"You know, this isn't such a good idea..." My other half began. "I mean, why? There really is no point. The world has bad people. No need to stoop to their level.”

And the mortal paused.

I wasn't having any of it. "Or," I said... "you could light his house on fire. Watch in twisted glee as you see your rival lose everything he didn't work hard for. Not like you. You worked hard for everything, but you still lose opportunities like that."

I smiled as the mortal continued walking. Stupid mortals. They never think things through. They make it so easy to manipulate them.

I knew that my other half would be trying to think of something to convince the mortal in her favor.

"Remember," I said, "we both wanted you to burn his house down. So don't listen to whatever her complaints are now. They're irrelevant."

She continued, a smile growing on her face. It turns into an evil grin and I know that she's mine.

As she walked, her gait became more manly. Her frame took on a serial killer aspect - my favorite. She became a work of art destined for the museum known only as the state penitentiary.

And when we watched the orange glow of the house contrast nicely with the black of the night and listen to the screams, I knew that my work here was done and my other half defeated. The mortal, now a man, looked down in shock. A gift of recognition for his services.

As the cuffs were placed on him, my other half frowned at me.

“What? You can’t blame me. She wanted this, after all.” I turned away, laughing.

Now who's next? So many forms, so little time. I see that a certain recently promoted someone got out with barely a singe.

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.

A New Type of Woman

The sterile smell of antiseptic filled the waiting room, mixed with the natural odors and perfumes of the people filling it, and the bright lights irritated the eyes. Yet, they were the furthest things from Carol Newman’s mind as she sat in the most uncomfortable chair in the world. It wasn’t that it failed to support her sore back – It didn’t – or that the hard, plastic seat pressed against the tender, aging skin of her backside – it did.

It was the thought of what lay prostrate, unmoving on a gurney down the hall as the doctors operated.

She had been there too long, yet received no answers. Furthermore, the dishevelled man across the room kept eyeing her, making the agonizing wait even more uncomfortable. Finally, he sat next to her, causing even more uneasiness.

“They won’t bring your son back. When they fail, call me.” Dr. Robart left his card on the seat.

That was two months ago.

“I am happy to have you back with us,” Dr. Robart said when Hal Newman first awoke, “though I must inform you that you have undergone a rather significant change. You see, the procedure we used on you is experimental, and the model for its development, a unique prototype. We only have one mould available.”

He stepped aside to reveal a large mirror, and Hal caught the first glimpse of his new body. She sat naked, staring in utter shock until it dawn on him. The vision in the mirror of the beautiful woman was him!

Several minutes later, she was allowed into the restroom to clean herself.

“You must be careful how you move and conduct yourself for a while. Your new body and your new life will feel different than what you know, but you will adjust in time to become the woman you see,” Dr. Robart had informed her.

That was an understatement. Every movement was foreign, every internal feeling like it was from another world.

When she mustered the courage to face the world, she forgot to heed Dr. Robart’s warning and lurched into the doorframe. But there wasn’t the pain she expected, and when she looked in the mirror, there was no wound. Just a thin crease in her skin along her scalp.

She pulled at it and felt the expected resistance, but then it peeled away from itself. Until it came off in her hand. She looked at the backside of her face in stark shock. Then back to the mirror.

She screamed.

It took only moments for others to arrive, including her family. They stood staring at the metal and plastic plates of her sub-dermal face, the maze of circuits barely visible beneath the translucent plastic, and the soft LED lights flickering from behind her constructed eyes.

“Oh, we’re so sorry, honey,” said her mom. “You weren’t supposed to know about that quite yet.”

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.

Alice Leaves Town

Alice had her chair pulled up in front of the TV which was squawking about the radar map. Terry overheard her as he checked his list. There were tarps and chicken parts in the truck. No one was near the canal. Terry hit Alice from behind, knocking her unconscious. At the canal, chicken parts into the water attracted the gators. Then Terry added Alice to the mix. He jumped back in the truck and hurried back to the house. Hurricane Katrina was coming and it was supposed to be really bad.

“What’s your name,” the tired social worker asked.

“Alice, Alice Wade.” Terry shuffled forward and sat down.

The social worker barely looked up. Terry had serious people searching for him and he looked around. To get out of town alive he had to be someone else, someone who would check out. No guy had looked enough like Terry to let him make the switch. It was because he was so small, with a weak chin and no build. Then, a woman in line in front of him was the same height, build – a perfect match. Terry found out that Alice lived alone and rented rooms. Soon he was her tenant and got the facts about her. His plan was to wait for the right time, get rid of her and then dress up like her and take her car. Katrina changed all that.

Terry pushed his wet grey hair back from his face. Alice parted hers down the middle and Terry had to look like her.

“Address?”

Terry answered and the social worker took it down.

“Next of kin?”

Alice didn’t have any. The social worker grunted at that.

“Here’s your FEMA number, and your cot assignment. Doctors over their” – she pointed – “if you need ‘em.”

Terry nodded. Doctors were to be avoided.

“Still got ID, any credit cards, money?”

Terry focused on ID.

“What about ID?”

“Lots of people lost their ID in the storm. You need a temporary driver’s license, go over there.” Terry nodded, got up and left. His raincoat was two sizes too big and his clothes baggy. He picked them out because they made him look small. Three hours later, he had a Louisiana driver’s license with his picture on it, good for one year. A small, tense grey haired middle-aged woman with glasses, her face devoid of makeup, pale and worn. No smile.

The next day, people started to leave. Terry found some better clothes and shoes that fit. Those people were watching buses leave but they gave no notice to the grey-haired woman in the mom-jeans and puffy coat get on the bus to Chicago along with lots of other women.

There were two duffle bags full of money to get, hidden in a building near Midway airport. If he changed identities again, he’d need new ID and that had risks. Better to stay Alice for now. He checked his watch and settled in. Next week, better get a passport.

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

Reunion

Robin straightened her light blue cocktail dress feeling light headed from the butterflies in her stomach. She took another look at the petit blonde in the mirror, pleased that her eyes matched her dress, and amazed that it had already been a year. The door to the bathroom opened and a pair of giggling women broke Robin’s reverie.

“Can you believe this place?”

“Amazing isn’t it.”

Robin brushed past the women, although she had to admit they were right. The mansion was truly amazing. Ever since the Fae had “Returned” life in America had changed. Robin’s high heeled sandals made a click-clacking sound on the polished hard wood floor as she returned to the main gallery.

As a waiter walked by Robin scooped a fluted glass of Champagne gracefully from the tray, barely noticing his starched white and black uniform or the large gossamer wings, like those of a butterfly, sprouting from his back. Robin spotted a kiosk with a map that showed the portraits in each gallery. It only took her a second to figure out where to go.

Robin took a sip of Champagne, happily noting the red lipstick mark on her glass, as she navigated her way between guests. Her destination was about as far from the main gallery as possible, but Robin didn’t mind the walk it gave her a chance to people watch. There was a cute looking lesbian couple holding hands as they looked at the portrait of an elderly couple. Then Robin turned the corner to the wing that held her interest.

The gallery held portraits in pairs, one male and one female. Robin stopped in front of the portrait of a man, her glass of Champagne momentarily forgotten. The man was large, easily six and a half feet tall, with a beard and receding hair line. Robin felt her heart flutter and drained her glass in one swallow attempting to settle her nerves. The man in the picture was handsome enough, but his eyes looked sad. He was in a garden filled with exotic flowers and had dirt on his hands. Next to him, in a sundress, stood a short, plump, blonde woman. Robin felt a tear leak from the corner of her eye. The gardener’s familiar face brought up emotions Robin had hoped to never feel again.

“Rob?”

At the deep masculine voice Robin turned around. The man from the portrait stood behind her.

“Patricia, you cut my hair and beard.” The words tumbled out before Robin could think.

“You’ve grown my hair out and lost weight . . . you look good.”

“I . . . uh . . . thanks.” Robin said, then added, “I go by Robin now.”

“I’m Pat.”

Involuntarily, Robin glanced at the woman in the picture next to the Gardner. Then Pat moved to stand next to Robin, “Are you happy, now, since the switch?”

“Yes, I feel like I’m the person I was always supposed to be.”

“Me too.”

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.”

Afterword

As usual, I hope that you enjoyed reading this collection as much as I and my fellow contributors enjoyed putting it together. Please take the time leave a comment (I’m sure you don’t need to be told how much us authors benefit from feedback). Tell us, what was your favourite story and why?

I’d like to extend a big thanks to all the authors who contributed; the newbies and the veterans of previous Mixed Tapes. I’m looking forward to working with some of you again on future collections.

I’ll be putting another collection together next month. If you want to be part of August’s Tape e-mail me at hutch0@hotmail.com.au.

The guidelines are as before:

• Write a short piece no longer than 500 words. Apart from that limit, write whatever you want.

• 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 17th of August 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 (hopefully) occur on Sunday the 24^th.

Until then, or until I hear from you.

Cheers

Persnickety

Exchange the Experience

A TG Mixed Tape

A sellsword who has kidnapped a princess gets more than he bargained for when he delivers her to his employer. A crossdresser deals with the death of a loved one. A young man prepares to confront a sinister something lucking in the woods. A mysterious clown performs a life altering magic trick. Hit play on this collection of 11 stories by 11 different voices in TG fiction, but be careful, it might just change your life.

The shop slotted in easy. Someone had been using the space right before me which tends to lessen the resistance a lot. Even so manifesting is always a bumpy process. I hear talk that with the next model that if you don’t know what to look for you won’t notice a thing. Until I see it with my own four eyes I’m calling bullshit.

I checked the merchandise to see if anything had been damaged by the rattling around. A couple of cheaper fragile items that I hadn’t thought worth boxing up for the trip had fallen from their perches. No great loss. I vacuumed up the pieces and chalked out a couple of runes to mitigate the residual magic.

I was running low on Wanda’s™ Temporary Dust. I figured that there’d be enough to do the whole shop. I figured wrong, ran out half way through the job and had to grind up some dust of my own (not hard, but time consuming and tedious). If it were up to me I wouldn’t have bothered dusting the shop at all, but it’s written down in the Franchise Rules and the Powers that Be are sticklers for that sort of thing and, idiot that I am, I didn’t read the document all the way through and signed in blood instead of ink.

Anyway, once that was done I lit the incense candles, cast a Glamour to change my appearance (no sense in scaring the customers) and turned the sign hanging from the door to “Open”.

My Grand Viz’s™ All-Seeing Crystal Orb said my first patron would be Byron White. A guy desperately in need of a break. Partner passed on. Taken for granted at work. Overlooked for promotion. The Naughty-nice-o’meter (my official Morality Reader still hadn’t come through so in the meantime I was stuck with this POS from an even shittier North Pole Surplus store) put him in a bit of a grey area. But I’m a softy. A simple good luck charm should make things better for him. So I was surprised when a young couple walked in through the door. I gave my ASCO thump. That didn’t do the trick. I was going to have to readjust it later.

“I’m telling you this isn’t the place,” said the man.

“Well it wasn’t here yesterday,” the woman snapped. “How many disappearing, reappearing jumble shops can there be? Hey. You. Beardy.” She reached into her satchel, took out a cassette and waved it in my face. It was labeled A TG Mixed Tape.

“I really, really, don’t think this is it,” the man mumbled. “It’s smaller. There’s different stuff. S’not the same old dude.”

“Well, gee, I dunno. Maybe it changed. It is a magic shop after all. And you.” She sprayed me with spit as she spoke. “You will reverse whatever the hell this Thing, the hell YOU did to us.” She returned the cassette to her satchel and withdrew an impressive looking hand cannon. “Right. Now.”

Exchange the Experience

A TG Mixed Tape

Liner Notes

Lone Wolf

By ACDC Metal Fan

I quickly ran toward my hunting rifle. I loaded it up and stuffed a handful of spare ammo into my pocket.

“Someone there?” I shouted aiming my gun at the source of the sounds. Yeah, as if a raccoon, or whatever it was, would be up for a game of Marco Polo.

“Anyone?” I stepped off the porch and began to walk slowly towards the rustling bushes. “Hello?”

There was an answering snarl and then a large beast lunged out at me! I glimpsed shaggy fur, and a half human, half wolf shape. I fired and fired again and hit it in the head both times, but I might as well have been shooting at it with a water pistol for all the damage I did. The creature bared its teeth and lashed out with a clawed hand and knocked the rifle out of my grip. As I turned to run it backhanded me and knocked me to the ground.

Then it was on top of me, shredding my flesh with claws and teeth. I passed out.

When I came to I found myself in an unfamiliar clearing. The creature was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear a howling in the distance. I looked up at the full moon above me. It was so beautiful. So shiny. So…

I howled in agony. A burning sensation began to rip my body in half. I felt huge bolts of pain coming from my legs and arms. I felt my fingers and arms stretch and heard the sound of cracking bones. My toes grew longer and larger and busted out of my old sneakers. I felt a painful shock coming from my knees, like if they were being cut in half.

I felt my hair being pulled, not only from my head, from my entire body! Even parts that didn’t have hair in the first place. My stomach began to rumble. There was an agonizing pain in the groin, like my balls were being kicked to the insides of my body. It passed to my spine, which felt like if someone was pulling out the end of it. I felt something pulling me down from my chest. A burning sensation came from my nipples.

The buttons of my shirt popped out. Two large and furry mounds began to form. My shredded pants fell away. And at last, I felt my chin, nose and forehead grow out of their proportions, my teeth like they were being pulled out, and my ears moving to the top of my head.

And then I stood in a way I never thought it was possible. Like standing on my tip-toes, but still being able to jump and run normally. My hands and arms were longer, with fur all over them. My fingers ended in claws that looked like they were able to cut through anything.

And what a better way to prove it. I could smell deer nearby…

Ever since she was little Susy has been interested in these types of stories. Other stories by her include: "Sympathy for the Girl" and "Black Bloodstains". She is the co-author of the story "K177Y Serum". You can find all of her stories at TG Storytime.

Slugs and Snails

By Christina H

Andy shouted down to his best pal, “Going to the party later?” Andy was half way up a large tree that overhung the pond, he was after the football he had accidently kicked into it.

Marty squinted up answering, “Sure Mum’s making me, we’re going to have to get going soon to get changed.” He watched as Andy edged closer to the elusive football, wondering to himself if cute little Angela would be there, she sure was cute with her big blue eyes, long wavy blonde hair and just the trace of bumps where her boobs were growing.

He felt uncomfortable thinking this as boys of his age usually tormented pretty little girls like Angela, but WOW did she look good in her pink girly clothes!

“Got it,” he heard Andy grunt then came the ominous crack as the thin branch Andy was sprawled out on snapped, sending Andy, Ball and branch into the pond.

“You OK?” Marty shouted seeing his best friend surface, covered in pond slime but still holding the football!

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Andy yelled back, “But there sure is a load of frog spawn in here, we should get some and chase the girls with it, I bet we make that Angela scream and run.”

Andy waded to the shore, laughing and telling Marty, “We’d better get home and get changed we can get the frogspawn later.”

Marty looked at Andy and thoughtfully said, “Maybe it’s not such a good idea chasing girls like Angela – she’s nice.”

Andy’s eyes lit up and he started chanting, “Marty fancies Angela; Marty fancies Angela,” as they ran home to get changed.

The arrived at Andy’s home first and Marty got his revenge as Andy’s mum gave him a telling off for coming home in such a state. Marty trotted to his own house, two doors down shouting back, “See ya at the Party”

A voice awoke me from the depth of my slumbers, “Angela Honey, Angela, you fell asleep while I was doing your hair, come on honey, let’s make you pretty for the party.

I woke up and looked at myself, my long blonde hair fell in gently waves across my slender shoulders, I was dressed in a pale pink satiny bra with matching panties, my heart shaped face with cupid bow lips, cute little button nose and big blue eyes framed with long lashes screamed girly girl.

Mum held the party dress I was going to wear, a glittery mini dress in deep pink, with a thin gold belt to nip in my blossoming waist, I had gold gladiator sandals with a 2” heel and a matching purse completed my outfit.

Tears escaped my big blue eyes as I realized it had all been a dream!

Why can’t people see the real me? Why can’t people see what I know I should be?

It should have been the real me falling in the pond, me Andy, not false me Angela.

Christina H is a lifelong trans-woman. Her stories include “A Friend in Need”, “A New Start in Life”, “For Friends and Family” and “The Making of Heather”. She hopes that her stories please you and make you happy and wants you to remember to never regret anything you do as long as no one is hurt by your actions.

Good Deeds

(A Tale from Meridian)

By Daniela A. Wolfe

Sometimes it's hard staying humble, but it was a virtue so I had to at least try. Still, I had to admit I did good work even when I seldom got credit for it. My current venture was only just wrapping up.

She was in a restaurant, a ritzy one from the looks of it. Funny, how changing just one little detail had such a ripple effect. Before I got to her, she was holding a gun to her head, ready to blow her brains out. Judging from the way she was looking around she didn't understand where she was, or how she'd gotten there nor did she seem to have noticed her new body.

I was beginning to wonder if she'd ever wise up, but then she finally glanced down at her chest. She let out a high pitched squeal and lurched onto her feet. I followed her into the bathroom and when she caught that reflection in the mirror she started to teeter on her feet. That's when dark beads of mascara stained her cheeks, and I rolled my eyes as she started to sob. Why were mortals always so emotional? Wait, that last one didn't sound like a sob, in fact it sounded more like a giggle, which was followed by a second and third.

I couldn't blame her for laughing, I would be too if I found myself living in the right body after a lifetime spent in the wrong one. I doubted that she'd be posing in any magazines any time soon, she was far from ugly. She was pretty in a girl next door sort of way, which I think suited her pretty well.

"Hey, are you Ellie?"

"I, uh, well," was all she said to newcomer who'd just stepped inside the restroom.

"Well whatever, there's some guy out there looking for an Ellie."

She moved to leave, but the other woman stopped her. "You know you may want to clean yourself up. Unless you want him to know you've been crying."

She bit her lip, then grabbed a paper towel, dampened it and washed the mascara from her face. She didn't spend any time applying new makeup, but I don't think she knew how.

"There you are." A tall dark-haired man approached her a moment after she exited the bathroom.

She looked nervous, but I really don't think she should have. The two of them had grown up together in Meridian. In her old reality she'd never had the courage to tell him how she really felt and their relationship had never been a romantic one, but... well things had changed.

"Thank you, whoever or whatever did this," she whispered to the open air.

She couldn't see me, but I couldn't help but smile, sometimes I did get credit for my good deeds. "You're welcome."

"Something wrong?" Jeff asked.

"No," she bit her lip then looked around a final time before turning back to him. "Everything is just fine."

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” (the first Meridian story) 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”).

Timelapse

(A Gender Virus Story)

By PersnicketyBitch

When Scott began taking the photographs I would, as he set everything up, blush and stroke my cock to coax it to hang a little longer. As I did this I would ask myself “is it…” but it was a while before I worked up the courage to ask my friend. It doesn’t change, at least not visibly, during the first second of footage. Nor during the second; though it was sometime around day 38 or 39 that I found myself incapable of getting a hard on.

For the umpteenth time I am watching the last nine months of my existence unfold in 11.25 seconds. Next to me Leah is editing a sequence that’ll go on the DVD as an extra. It’s about our love life during that period. There’s a bit where we go shopping for male strap-ons. It’s funny, but forced too. We’d never have done it if there hadn’t been a camera in our faces. She (Leah) keeps glancing at the clock. She’ll be calling it a day soon. She has a date tonight. She’s been apologetic to me about it since she asked him. I’ve told her I don’t mind (and I really don’t) but I don’t think she believes me.

The changes start becoming more noticeable about three and a half seconds in – three months real time. The beginning of spring seemed to trigger something in me. I lost two inches in a week. The weight fluctuations hit me especially bad; I ballooned in an out. My every movement was accompanied by the cracking of joints. I decked my physiotherapist with the best punch I’ve ever thrown after a session where she’d made me put my jelly legs through what felt like hell. I wasn’t one of the lucky ones who stabilised early.

At the halfway point of the video the backdrop changes from the wall of my apartment to a series of motel rooms and bedrooms belonging to new acquaintances, many soon to be friends. Nathan (I remember her dressed up as a sexy Freddie Kruger and the way the others at the club had looked past the burns) and her boyfriend Terri (who’d gone as Frankenstein’s Monster to hide in plain sight the scars that he’d gotten on the day that they’d met, when people calling themselves Christians attacked the clinic they were in). Joshua (who’d just been diagnosed and couldn’t wait). Irene and Lawrence and their children Ross and Amber (who’d all started their transformations at the same time). Father (now Sister) Jason. Judith. Gary. Nala. Dominic. And so, so many others.

The last five seconds of the video unfold in herky jerky, live action stop motion. My mosquito bites become gravity bangers. My cock and balls withdraw into my body but the encasing skin remains until almost the very end. When I began to menstruate my empty scrotum would become bloated with blood.

Then 11.25 seconds have passed, leaving me as I am now.

I believe I am better for them.

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.

Birthday Girl

By Lyodor Tolstoyevski

The clock ticked the minutes away as I shifted higher in my seat and tried to see whose file the receptionist had just opened. There's no going back after this, I told myself, even though my decision had been made long before.

"We got here early, remember?" My mom squeezed my hand as she spoke. "You've got plenty of time."

She's been so supportive of me throughout this whole thing. More than I think most parents would be. More than dad's been. But as comforting as her familiar grip and her familiar voice are, they aren't quite enough.

She takes my other hand and pulls me gently towards her. "Remember your tenth birthday?"

"The clown?" A smidgen of a smirk forced its way past my anxiety, and my mom just nodded. She'd hired a clown on my tenth birthday.

"You remember his magic act?"

The smirk rose up higher and almost pushed itself into a smile. "Yes, I think I remember his magic act."

"You had no idea where he pulled that rabbit from."

Granted that I was a ten year-old boy, but a whole live rabbit is still impressive

"And Uncle Thomas couldn't for the life of him figure out how Cousin Erin was hanging in mid-air like that." She said.

He'd been allowed to inspect her from every angle, and he never found a wire or anything.

"We'd been expecting foam balls and sleight of hand, but every trick was just more and more incredible. He had lights that came from nowhere, smoke that came from nowhere, and this projection of a giant owl looked so realistic, I swear I felt wind when it flew by me."

I had felt wind, too.

"It's so weird that his last trick was a dud, though. You remember that one?"

She prodded me, urging me to speak. So I did, reluctantly. "He covered me in a giant sheet and said 'now I will turn our birthday boy into a birthday girl.'"

"I think everyone was expecting him to pull up the blanket and reveal one of your friends, or you in a dress, or something. But nothing happened. It was just you."

I faked a dramatic sigh. "It was just me."

"But today Dr. Euling is going to do what the clown couldn't."

I looked back at the receptionist, still looking at the same file. Probably someone else's prep info for sexual reassignment surgery. But mine would come up eventually.

Mom's little story did its trick, but not quite how she'd expected. Because there's another part of the story I never told her. Never told anyone. I guess I thought it was silly, I guess I was a little embarrassed. But in twenty years, I've never told a single person that after the clown said he'd turn me into a birthday girl, he leaned down close and added five words through the sheet into my ear:

"But only on the inside."

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: "The Ukrainian Maid." Do not be hesitating to read all works of Lyodor Tolstoyevski!

What The?!

By Maggie Finson

Daniel gasped, fingered his skirt and petticoat then noticed the obvious bulge of breasts as he looked down his body. “What the Hell?!!”

“You have no idea what it's like”, Anna grinned while fingering her tie, jacket, and what was in the pants she was wearing. “Being a woman in this 'enlightened' time of 1962. Girls and women are expected to be pretty, and dress in confining, and/or fluffy things just to keep the MEN happy.

“I always felt wrong.” Anna shook her head. “My body just wasn't what my brain said it should be and I found that going the 'accepted' way for females was intolerable. Everything was wrong, I should have been playing football, baseball, and flirting with girls!”

“But that wasn't how things were.” She went on. “I had to be pretty, learn how to keep house, and be waiting for some MAN to decide I should be his wife and then spend the rest of my life happily keeping the house clean and being a mommy to the kids he would get on me in an act so disgusting to me that I couldn't bear to really think about it. I was a male in a female body and everything was wrong.”

“I'm sorry you had to go through that.” Daniel twitched his skirt again with a sigh.

“Sorry?!” Anna shot back. “You have NO idea of what kind of pain that kind of thing can cause!”

“So you did what?” Daniel asked as if he was in daze. “Why am I in your body and you're in mine?”

“I found a spell.” Anna gave him, in her body a smug look. “That would let me switch bodies with someone. I couldn't think of better person to do that with than my overbearing, masculine brother

“So sure, so entitled, so secure in the primacy of your manhood.” She gave him and evil grin and went on. “Now you can be the one expected to be pretty and looking for a husband, while I can go out in the world and really do things for a change. I hope you hate every second of your life now, Anna.”

“You could have asked.” Daniel told her.

“And you would have agreed. Sure!”

“I would have, Daniel.” The new Anna smiled. “You got what you wanted, so did I.”

“I hope you enjoy being a man with all the pressures that involves. I'm content to be Anna.”

“What the....” The new Daniel got out.

Maggie Finson has been posting TG fiction for years. Her stories include “Heaven and Hell” and “Maiden by Decree”. She is one of the creators of the Whateley universe.

Formula

By Meka Soulstorm

“It’s happening” he called from the bedroom. I dropped the sponge and plate I was busy washing in the sink and ran back there, my hands dripping wet, to see my husband, standing in his underwear, looking at himself in the mirror. His skin was rippling and swirling around, his hair almost glowing.

The empty vial and syringe lay on our dresser. After he’d injected the formula and nothing had happened, we both thought it was a dud. I returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning up after dinner. It had been a special dinner, it was going to be the last meal we shared together as man and wife, of course. But then, after we’d made love one last time, nothing had happened. All his excitement vanished in an instant.

I had silently breathed a sigh of relief as I cleaned; I was supportive, of course. That’s what wives are for, but still...losing my husband forever wasn’t my idea of a fun evening together. He’d saved up the money and bought the stuff himself, though, and I didn’t have much choice in the matter.

My relief faded, but was replaced with excitement as I watched his body shift and ripple, weight redistributing itself. I cringed as his bones cracked and reshaped themselves, his pelvis and hips expanding as his waist tucked in. He was in shape before, but making a change like this meant that there was going to be a lot of waste to dispose of.

His penis fell off first, followed by globs of fat, skin, and muscle sludge, a disgusting beige goop. I thanked God that we’d put a plastic sheet down. What couldn’t be dropped collected in his...well, now her gut, and I could see her stomach distend nearly as much as her breasts had. I was no board myself, but my husband’s breasts were magnificent to behold! Nearly-perfect round orbs of girl flesh where hard pecs had once been.

She was coming along beautifully, blonde hair cascading down her back as her facial features settled into a vaguely European visage. He’d ordered the Swedish Model formula, and the beauty that now stood before me confirmed how worth it his purchase had been.

“Babe...it worked. Look at me...I’m a total hottie!” he exclaimed, his new higher register sounding sweet and feminine.

“That you are, how does it feel though?” I asked calmly.

“It’s...amazing. It hurt during the transformation, oh man, especially with the bones...but it’s great. I feel completely natural, like...this is the body I should have always had.”

I nodded along, sighing quietly to myself. I excused myself to the bathroom while he continued admiring his nude form. I opened the medicine cabinet when I noticed a gift-wrapped package. And a note. ‘You think I’d leave you hanging?’ I looked inside. A vial and syringe, labeled ‘Lesbian Lover - M”. A mental formula.

I smiled as the liquid finally reached my brain. I wouldn’t be losing him after all.

Meka has been offering her own unique perspective on speculative TG fiction for several years. Other works include “Rachel Graham’s Precious Little Life” and “Rachel Graham’s Infinite Wisdom”, available on Amazon and other fine booksellers. Her other work is available on Fictionmania under the name Mekalicious.

Future Ghosts

By Nicki Benson

Three minutes to reach the by-pass. Right at the second roundabout. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. Past the shopping parade. Left, then left again.

“Is that you, son?”

His voice had sounded different. Almost pleading.

Should I change into…?

A shirt and jeans.

What about…?

A shirt and jeans.

Ease into the kerb. Turn off the engine. Run a comb through my hair.

“I’ve had an accident. Can you come round, change the sheets before your mother gets back from the town?”

Bowel cancer. Inoperable. Accidents will happen.

Along the path. Open the front door. Hesitate before climbing the staircase.

Future ghosts in the living room. Talking in whispers. Dressed in black.

One of them stands apart from the rest. She wears my face.

Tread and riser. Tread and riser. Tread and riser…

Brace myself for the stench. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

Who am I kidding? He doesn’t want me here. I’m a necessary evil.

“I hate yer! Understand? I hate yer!”

He didn’t say that this afternoon. He didn’t have to.

Pause once again on the landing. Take one tentative step towards the front bedroom. The air smells faintly of…

Stale coffee.

That’s all.

Just coffee.

“Sorry to drag you out. I didn’t want your mum coming back and finding the bed all—“

“I know.”

Pull the covers off. Beneath the striped pyjamas, a shell of a man.

Frail. Helpless. Grown old in a matter of weeks.

So many things he’ll never do again.

Clean linen. Plump pillows. The offer of a pot of tea, refused.

A real daughter would sit with him, hold his hand, melt the glacial approach of death with comforting words and tender smiles.

If I did all that, would I become truly female? Could it be that the rest might follow naturally?

“Dad, I want to—“

“I’ll be fine.”

He’s ashamed. Humiliated.

If I stay, I’ll only make it worse.

“Okay,” I sigh. “Bye, then.”

“Bye, love.”

Carry the stained bedding downstairs to the kitchen. Stuff it into the washing machine.

Love.

That single word.

Doing what he can. Looking after me to the very end.

The ghosts watch me leave. Some of them are grinning. They heard it too.

Nicki Benson, who has also written under the pseudonym ‘Touch The Light’, is the author of a novel-length story cycle that begins with “The Transmigration Of Richard Brookbank”. When not mired in self-indulgent fetishism or descending into conspiracy theory hell it attempts to examine the relationship between memory and identity. The unfinished “Goodbye Master Stokes” has a more realistic premise. Another sidelined project, “Oblivion’s Curtain”, is currently being resurrected as “The Muses Of Strathgorrie”.

All in the Cracker

By Person 42

"Sir, could I offer you a cracker?" The old man asks Robert.

"What? Why would I want a cracker?" Robert responds, raising one eyebrow.

"Well, this, my dear friend, is the most delicious cracker in the world! Secret family recipe, ya see?"

"Hm. Well... if you're just giving them out... I guess I can take one." Robert says, acting cautiously. In fact, he doesn't trust the old man at all. He tucks his wallet just a little bit further into his pocket.

“Here you are, sir! Please, tell me if you like it!"

Robert tentatively takes a bit of the cracker, instantly spitting it out.

"Ugh! This is the grossest thing I've ever tasted! It tastes like... like..."

Robert licks his lips. He closes his bright green eyes in bliss and moans in a feminine voice through closed lips. When he opens his eyes, they are baby blue.

"Like, the best ever!" Robby finishes. He lets out a feminine giggle.

"Why don't you finish it, then?" The old man asks.

"Oh! Like, of course!" Robby giggles and shoves the whole cracker into his mouth.

Robby's body begins to tingle. As the cracker melts in his mouth, parts of his body melt away, revealing smooth and hairless skin, three shades lighter than it had been previously. He closes his eyes, and his hair elongates, going to the small of his back and turning blonde.

Robby's hips widen with a sickening crack, but since he's too busy savoring the taste of heaven he calls a cracker, he doesn't notice.

Robbi's stomach rumbles. The old man smiles, knowing that her new organs are forming.

Rambi's face feminizes, and she shrinks. Makeup applies itself to her face. A perfume mist materializes and hangs around her. Rambi's brain feels fuzzy for a moment, so she giggles.

Thinking is, like, so HARD! She thinks, her brain hurting in the process. Visions of the old man start to fill her head as her outfit becomes a very revealing dress.

"Bambi? Are you coming, dear?" The old man asks.

Bambi's eyes shoot open at the sound of her name. "Oh, like, of course, master! Do you have, like, another cracker?"

"I've got plenty for you to give to all of your friends."

Bambi smiles, hopping and clapping her hands before saying, "Yay!" Her eyes, her vacant blue eyes, show absolute devotion to her new master.

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.

Promise

By Toxis

Alone upstairs, Belinda adjusted her veil. The quiet noise of family and friends drifted up the steps. She needed to do something about her eyes, all that crying. Emily was gone truly and forever and Belinda didn’t know what to do with herself. Have some dignity, she told herself. Emily would admire that and a sense of humor too. Everyone else will be so depressed. If Belinda fell apart, the rest would too. Emily should be here. She always did know how to handle the most awful moments, and of course there was that one amazing time too.

“Can you tell me what you are doing in my clothes?” Emily had said as she stood in the doorway. Jason looked back in shock. What was she doing here? Emily was to have been away until Saturday, and it was Friday. He tried to run but she was standing in the only way out. He was trapped in the room, in her clothes. He couldn’t breathe or speak or even move. Emily calmly walked across the room and took his hands in both of hers. “You look like a deer in the headlights. Why don’t you sit down with me and tell me what’s going on?”

Jason began a rambling lie about Halloween parties and costumes, babbling, stammering, lost, bereft of anything to say. Nothing could fix this. Everything was over. Emily would leave him and his life would be ruined. “Let’s try again, dear, and this time, let’s just tell the truth.”

Slowly, Jason confessed that he was a cross-dresser, at least that’s what they called it then. He had a small wardrobe of his own but enjoyed trying on Emily’s things for variety. Naturally slim and the same height as her, Jason could fit into Emily’s clothes quite well. Emily had been impressed at how well Jason carried off his impersonation. And had promptly handed him a purse and walked him out the door. Sitting in a restaurant a few minutes later, Emily insisted that Jason get something to eat and chat with her. Under her prodding, he admitted that he liked being called Belinda and had always wanted to go out but had been too afraid. “We’ll make a regular thing of it, just you and me. No one else need know. Something we will share.” That was Emily, facing reality and finding the good in it. And then making things better.

Belinda fussed at the mirror. Emily had made Belinda promise to. It was time; the car from the funeral home had just pulled up and Belinda had to go down. Time to leave. She took off Jason’s watch and put on the one Emily wore. One step in front of the other. People would stare but what did that matter. One last time, Emily and Belinda went out.

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

The Bargain

By Zapper

Cassius glanced over his unencumbered shoulder at the guard flanking him. Even through his armor the lush wriggling form of the bound and gagged princess was a distraction.

“Guard the door.”

“Yes, sir. The lads have set up a defensive position in the pass. King Deric won’t get through anytime soon. Will that be enough to pay your debt?”

“I owe Darkor three favors. Counting the kidnapping and stopping Deric’s rescue attempt, I still owe him one task.” Cassius said, striking the oak door.

“Enter.”

Cassius pushed his way in. The room was poorly lit and filled with arcane objects. The smell of brimstone was strong enough to make a lesser man gag. Cassius navigated his way through the bric-a-brac to the torch lit area where Darkor stood in his sorcerer’s robes and pointed hat.

“Chain her there.” Darkor pointed to a circle. Once done Cassius looked at the sorcerer.

“Go stand in the circle next to the Princess.”

Spotting the circle Cassius moved over to it. “What is my third task? Master.”

“Reconciling Princess Cordelia and her father.”

Cassius looked at Darkor in confusion, “Didn’t we just kidnap her? Sure, the inside help made it simple, but won’t you at least demand a ransom.”

“Of course not. After all Princess Cordelia was running away. You caught her and when I realized who she was I arranged her safe return to her father.”

“But what of our holding action in the pass?”

“Just an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

With that the Sorcerer lifted a hand and pointed it at Cassius freezing him in place. Then Darkor pointed at the now smiling Princess. A second later cramps wracked Cassius body. A low moan escaped his lips and then he felt his flesh shifting around. Long brown hair fell into his vision as his armor dissolved into diaphanous flowing silk garments. A ripple moved through his chest expanding the flesh and then flowed down his torso shifting his hips with a popping sound. A sharp pain in his groin left him panting in quick little breaths, and then it was over.

The transformed Cassius reached up, with manacled hands, to feel the globes on her chest.

“I’m free at last!” The masculine roar caused the horrified Cassius to look over at Princess Cordelia.

“Are you satisfied with our bargain Princess?” Darkor asked.

“Yes!” Cordelia shouted. “What does a Grimoires mean to me? I’m not a sorcerer, and now I’m not chattel! I’m a man, a warrior, and a mercenary Captain. I have my own Free Company. But what is to prevent her,” Cordelia pointed at Cassius, “from telling my father?”

Darkor laughed, “Would your father care? She is now of his blood and will produce sons for whoever the King marries her off too. You see, Cassius third task is to reconcile the King with his daughter through filial obedience. The magic of the bargain will ensure compliance.” Darkor grinned evilly at the horrified Cassius, “Won’t it Princess Cordelia?”

Involuntarily, Cassius felt herself nod.

Zapper started writing in December 2011 and has contributed a number of short and long stories to various websites. A few of his TG urban fantasy 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”).

Afterword

I hope you enjoyed reading this collection as much as I and my fellow contributors enjoyed putting it together, and that you take the time leave a comment (I’m sure you don’t need to be told how much us authors benefit from feedback). Tell us, what was your favourite story and why?

I’d like to extend a big thanks to all the authors who contributed; the newbies and the veterans of previous Mixed Tapes. I’m looking forward to working with some of you again on future collections.

Speaking of, I’ll be putting another collection together next month. If you want to be part of July’s Tape e-mail me at hutch0@hotmail.com.au.

The guidelines are as before:

• Write a short piece no longer than 500 words. Apart from that limit, write whatever you want.

• 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 20^th of July 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 (hopefully) occur on the last Sunday of the month (the 27^th).

Until then, or until I hear from you.

Cheers

PersnicketyBitch (editor)

Funky Lady: A TG Mixed Tape

A mortally wounded superheroine chooses her successor. A young man makes a mistake when administering a love potion. In the near future changing genders is as easy as popping a pill. Hit play on the first Mixed Tape collection of 2015 for all these stories, an interview with Morpheus, and more!

The Blackhawk, battered to hell, breaking apart, lay on its side in the ruins of the reception building of the Avalon Gulch Retirement Commune. The image would, Cooper knew, be forever fixed in his mind as a monument to the moment he realised he was overseeing yet another meat grinder.

The drone operator had been young. Her fingernails black with stars dotted and planets splodged in. Cooper had watched the feed from the UAV over her shoulder, distracted by the fantasy art on her desk. In both, spools of lightening uncoiled and lashed from wands and staffs and the cupped hands of old geezers and dames.

Another helicopter thundered overhead. Its downdraft churned up a haze of ash as it headed towards the stone circle at the opposite end of the valley. Several leafless, emaciated, charcoal caked trees toppled.

The envoy from the Collective joined him in the doorway of the newly erected command tent. She wore a pantsuit, which, glimpsed peripherally, appeared silver. Her hair was styled in a bun and possibly shot through with blue highlights; it was difficult to tell. Looked at straight on her hair was black and only black and her trousers and top were grey.

“We apologise,” she said, “We did not realise that there would be a High Morgana in residence at this outpost.”

“It’s like they say, no plan survives contact with the enemy.”

“Quite. But in any case, there is nothing more we would have done to help you had we known. It is best for all of us that they remain unaware of our part in this. We have seen your service record, and your father’s. You understand.”

Cooper nodded. His right hand brushed the grip of his Beretta 9mm on his hip, shadowed the khaki of his pants, entered a pocket. He withdrew a vacuum-sealed plastic bag containing a cassette tape and held it out for the envoy to take. “The artefact you wanted.”

“There were several.”

“This was the only one that was intact. We did find parts of the medallion. And a lamp, like you described, but that was broken too. They took the rest with them when they retreated through the portal.”

The envoy took the cassette. She weighed it in her hand. “There should be more.”

“There was, but an RPG hit the crates so now there isn’t.”

The envoy’s pupils dilated until her eyes were almost completely black. “That was very unfortunate.”

“Yes,” Cooper said. “Very unfortunate. These things happen.”

The envoy blinked. When she reopened her eyes they had returned to a kind of normal. They had been light brown before. Now they were green. She tilted her head, a kind of half nod. She, and by extension the group she represented, were going to let his lie, told on behalf of the organisation he belonged to, slide.

For the moment.

“I can’t believe this,” the drone operator had said. But Cooper was beginning to.

Same as it ever was, really.

Of course I'm weird. I pride myself on being weird. When I was in fifth grade, I got to be the one who sang "I've Been Working on the Railroad" off-key for our class Halloween video. It scared away the ghost. When I got a promotion at my after-school job in high school, I ran a victory lap around the building. They locked me out. I used to decorate my office with stuffed animals. I still would if I had an office. And just this year, I covered myself in chocolate syrup and tried to get people to hug me. I set the video to Zelda music.

If I were to ask any of my friends if I was weird, they would laugh in my face. Or think I was trying to pull something. Because of course I'm weird, why am I asking?

So I suppose "am I weird?" isn't really the question I want to know the answer to. What I'd really like to know is "how weird am I?" Or maybe "am I too weird?" Or even "am I in control of my weirdness?"

I mean, everyone's a little weird, right? She wears her hair in pigtails even though she's 50 and her daughters tell her it looks dumb. He speaks fluent Mandarin even though he's never left the St. Louis city limits and doesn't plan to. In some way or another everyone has their quirks. And that one guy who doesn't? Who's completely normal in every way? Well, what kind of weirdo could possibly be that average? Everyone's a weirdo in their own way.

So why am I so paranoid about one particular way in which I'm weird? That I read and write gender transformation stories? I don't feel like my gender or sexuality doesn't match the body I've been given, and I have no real desire to make any changes to my gender, sexuality, or body. I just enjoy reading and writing about people who are forced into changing theirs. If I were to look at it from a sterile perspective, it's just a literary genre like any other, if one that overlaps significantly with an oft-misunderstood community.

But somehow there's a strange line there that I can't quite cross. I can't quite bring myself to tell people about this interest of mine. The few times I have told people, it's been a very big deal for me. And lately I've been tempted to tell even more people.

The number who know has been slowly growing, and each time I tell someone I end up getting nowhere near the reaction that I’d built up in my head. Just "I wasn't expecting that, but cool." But that moment before I say it out loud is still tense.

And as I'm going over the scenario, the thought occurs to me: "am I coming out of the closet?" It immediately feels wrong. Like it's an insult to friends of mine who actually have come out of the closet. What I'm doing is nothing compared to what they went through. I will not be denied the right to marry, nor the right to rent an apartment, nor something as basic as love, as I have seen happen to friends. There's no established social stigma against what I do, no groups organized against it. Heck, a lot of people probably wouldn't even understand what it is. I could easily pass it off as just some hobby instead of the integral part of my identity that it is, and the idea will still at least be out there, even if not fully inculcated.

And yet, it still feels like I'm coming out of the closet. And in a strange way, that's kind of why I read and write in this genre. "You're not a woman, but you're taking on certain aspects of being a woman," is in some way similar to "you're not queer, but you're taking on certain aspects of being queer." This transition period is probably the closest I'll ever get to living out one of my stories. Probably the closest I’ll ever want to get.

So while this might not actually be a big deal once it's distilled down to its basic components, it's still a big deal. Even if I'm not really risking anything, even if all I'm really doing is acknowledging publicly a thing that I've been privately acknowledging for years, this is a time I need to pay close attention to. I may never get better insight into my own writing.

Lyodor Tolstoyevski is the author of Inside the Girls’ Room: A Modern TG Myth, now available on Amazon.

The staccato crack of thunder in the clear sky was loud enough to cause me to break hard and slide to a stop alongside the trail. I dropped a foot to the ground to catch my Yamaha YZ250 and looked up. Shock ran through my system when I spotted the pair of meta-humans flying overhead, fighting.

The large man standing on a black energy disk blasted away with some kind of negative energy at the redheaded woman in red and white spandex. The woman crossed her wrists and the blast splashed against an invisible shield and an instant later I heard a crack of thunder.

“My secret dies with you!” The man thundered, and my brain to kick in and I recognized him. Rumble was the leader of the Metro City Guardians, the most respected Hero Team on the East Coast. Then I noticed that the woman’s side was blackened and burned.

“Not today!”

She gestured with one hand and a burst of white hot fire shot out in a tight bar as thick as my wrist and it was Rumble’s turn to defend. His whole body seemed to vanish within a sphere of black energy. The flame strike was deflected and the woman used the opportunity to dive below the trees vanishing from view. After a second the sphere disappeared and I could see Rumble look around, confused, and then fly off, searching for the woman.

“Son of a Bitch!” I’d just seen a real meta-human battle! “Molly’s never going to believe me.”

I kicked my bike into gear, thinking about my girlfriend. I rode for about twenty minutes before I spotted a prone figure blocking the trail and skidded to a stop.

“Shit!”

I pulled off my helmet and moved to the woman’s side when it hit me, this was the meta-human Rumble had been fighting. I reached down touching her shoulder and she looked up mesmerizing me with stunning green eyes.

“Help . . . I . . . need your . . . help.”

For a moment I couldn’t respond. The burn in her side must have been insanely painful, the blackened flesh had peeled away exposing her ribs and a lung.

“Blaze?” I gasped recognizing the heroine for the first time. “I can call an ambulance.”

“Will you take up my burden?”

I wanted to help but she wasn’t making any sense and then I heard myself say, “Yes.”

Power blazed from her green eyes into mine. I felt my flesh changing, shifting, and then my hair got longer and turned red. Pain wracked my body and I fell to my hands and knees and then it was over. Panting, I looked down into her beautiful face and knew that mine was an exact match.

“Why?”

“You’ve got to get to the Guardians,” she whispered, fading, even as I felt the buzz of power and knowledge blossom within me. “Sinestra has swapped bodies with Rumble. She means to destroy the team from within!”

Zapper started writing in December 2011 and has contributed a number of short and long stories to various websites. A few of his TG stories include: The Security Consultant Trilogy, The Bounty Hunters Trilogy, "Conan and the Blade of Costa" and his first story, "A Favor for Anna." He is currently finishing up a novel titled “Never Meddle in the Affairs of a Woman”.

This story is set in the near-future that Neil Gaiman’s establishes in his short story “Changes”, which you can find in the collection Smoke and Mirrors.

Ariel on black. Game0verMan counts Antonio Banderas/Selma Hayek’s kills in

Red pills spill, clattering, out onto a white tabletop, skitter, bounce momentum off each other. Superimposed: Overdose.

Fade in OST-09 (Retribution). Perccusive, synthy accompaniment to autofire tearing up an adobe wall. Reddish spray, the gunman’s head snaps sideways (1). Enter Jesse Riguez (Banderas). Grey fatigues. Bullet mushed into his kevlar vest over his heart. Cold eyes in a cocksure face.

The federale double taps three of the gunman’s buddies (2-4). Wrestles with another, crushes his throat with an elbow (5). Pulps a guy’s stomach with a sawn off while his team, just rescued, look on (6).

A kitchen. Broken glass, crockery, frypan, crisped bacon on tile. The tough bellows and comes at Jesse (Hayek). Yoke in rivulets on a fist. Chucks of whites caught in arm hair. Jesse swipes with a knife. Her assailant backs, comes at her again. On the bench a toppled tequila bottle fuels an inferno atop a gas cooker. Jesse whips a dishcloth through it, hurls it at his face. He bats it asi–

–and she’s on him. Knife in-out-in-out-in-outing into his gut, his chest, his gut. Finally, a wrenching slice. Intestines unspool like sausage string (7).

Four men pile into a black sedan. In the background smoke rises from the top floor of an apartment building.

Jesse, behind the wheel of a similar vehicle. A door is missing, the panelling sieved by gunfire. She rams into the goons’ car, pushing it through a protective barrier, to concertina against the concrete of the dry storm water drain below (8-11).

The club has a double decker stage. Jesse lies flat on the glass upper level, wincing as bullets lodge in the see-through surface inches from her face. She wears a camo patterned bra, a black G-string, heels and a bandolier from which she unclips a two grenades.

Three men are thrown, shredded, into the air. (12-14).

Off the stage, amid the chaos on the floor, Jesse scoops up an MP5 and begins to spray (15-28, in a series of rapid edits and freeze-frames with MS-paint-ed on red circles to mark the kills).

Backstage now, the submachine gun exchanged for a Kalashnikov. A man collapses, his torso a squibby mess (29). A girl (Génesis Rodríguez) with a machine pistol is cut down with a three round burst (30). A carefully timed shot through a cheap partition wall enters one ear and exits through the other (31). A girl, a guy (Diego Luna), clutch gouting throats (33-34).

Jesse (Banderas again), force feeds Rafael (Raymond Cruz), a handful of red pulls. He bucks and writhes. The ropes tying him to the chair are tight. They rub. They tear him. The kingpin screams with a woman’s voice, then like nothing human. His jaw dislocates, eyes bug, bones crack and break through stretched, now liquefying, skin. Exposed muscles and organs bloat and whither. The grotesque falls apart. Jesse watches the ripples in the pool of blood on the floor.

Final count: 35

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.

"Soooo…how is it?"

"What?? The weather, the economic situation, Justin Bieber's first chest hair?" Maggie cocked her head to one side in a perfect simulation of clueless innocence. She couldn't help needling her friend Jordan a little.

“Mags, please,” Jordan begged.

"Well…" she began, sounding at least superficially serious. She formed a rectangle with her hands and framed Jordan within its borders, as if she were M. Night Shyamalan setting up his next shot. "…the alcove behind you really needs remodeling. I mean, track lights? That’s so ‘80s."

Breathe, exhale slowly. Remember she's trying to help, Jordan told himself. "You know what I mean, Mags," Jordan said, not quite successful at removing the exasperation from his voice. "Did I do okay, or not?"

"You look," she began at last, squinting and scrunching her nose in a way Jordan couldn’t resist. "annoyingly adorable. Looking this good before noon—it’s inhuman!” She gave Jordan a playful swat on the shoulder.

“’It’s inhuman’ is right.” Jordan brushed down his bangs for the eleventh time. “I know I’m missing something.”

Honestly, some people! They just can’t take a compliment. “Well….” Maggie began to gesture in front of Jordan's face, as if wielding an imaginary makeup brush." Adding a bit more color at the corners of your eyes would really bring out that natural innocence of yours. But no more excuses. We are going out, young lady. I don’t waste my creative genius on wallflowers."

Jordan put his hands on his hips, a gesture more comic than menacing in these circumstances.

"You’re enjoying this WAY too much. This isn't one of those forced-fem transgender stories, you know.”

"I'm not 'forcing,' I'm encouraging," Maggie said, emphasizing her statement with a little nod of the head that proved far too distracting for her hapless victim--er, project. Damn her for being so cute anyway. "Letting a butterfly out of its cocoon, if you'll forgive the cliché. I'm wittier after I’ve had my coffee."

She added a few additional flourishes to her friend's handiwork, retouching his mascara for insurance. "You know you want this, and I know you know you want this, and what's more, you know I know you know I--"

"--I get it, I get it." Jordan said, raising a hand to stop her. “But there’s no way you’re getting me out that door looking like this, lady.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Do you not know me? But you’re right—I’m not”. Jordan wasn’t sure he liked that smile. “You’re going to get that contraption in gear and do it yourself,” she told him, pointing to his wheelchair.

Jordan frowned. “And if we run across those Delta Chi goons?”

Maggie blew a raspberry. “Just smile at ‘em and watch their steroid-addled little brains short out.”

It was Jordan’s turn to smile. “I could use some extra courage. A kiss might help.”

Maggie laughed. “You are the master of creative avoidance, missy.”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘mistress’?” Jordan joked as their lips met.

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."

This story takes place during the events of ‘Destiny: Legacy of a Spellbinder’ and is written from the perspective of a secondary character. Please be aware that it does contain minor spoilers.

Tires screech from the street behind me and I pull my apprentice robes close as I step into the convention center. I shudder, and bite my lips. I am worried that the gathered magic users--Spellbinders, Charmers, Enchantresses, and Mages all come at the behest of the Seidskati for an emergency meeting of the council--will see through my disguise. I am an imposter, once a man I had been transformed so that I could tap into the power of the Seidh, a power which is denied to males.

I stop and cup my breasts and get an odd look from the woman next to me. My boobs feel so right, but come with a terrible price. I have always been certain that I am meant to be a woman, but society hasn’t been so understanding. Once, I came close to taking my life, but then I heard about the formula, one which promises to turn any man into a woman and by extension a magic user. Whispers mostly, unsubstantiated, but I had so desperately wanted to believe and as a member of the Sons of Odin it was already in my grasp.

The spellbinders control everything and the Sons of Odin claim to want equal rights for men and even transgendered people like me, but their methods are not those of the righteous freedom fighters they claim to be. There are rumors that they are preparing for the end, the battle of Ragnarok, but if so I think I’ve chosen the wrong side. I hate them. They killed my mother when I refused to cooperate and are holding my sister ransom to ensure I cooperate now.

I have no choice, I must continue or risk losing the only person I care about. I walk slowly through the convention center, craning my neck around looking for a flash of that trademark Le Fey auburn hair. The place was big and it was going to take time. There is a balcony up above and stage at the far end. She could be anywhere. Bryn is Sophie’s friend, and given my transformed self’s resemblance to my sister I am the perfect person to play her. Especially with the illusory spell cast over me.

“Neil?” I ask sidestepping the fair-haired giant of a man standing guard over her. She is beautiful just like her mother, and like Aryanna she has been born male.

Bryn spins around and I watch her eyes grow wide. “Sophie?”

My lying face contorts into an awful smirk. A lie, just like everything else about me. The Sons of Odin want me to get close to Aryanna, and through her daughter, I can do just that. Aryanna is part of the task force hunting down the Sons of Odin and they desperately want to get at her. A lot of people will probably die as result of my actions, but I don’t care. I will do anything to save my sister, even betray her best friend.

D.A.W. is a fan of science-fiction and fantasy who brings his love of the genres to TG fiction. He 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"). He has contributed to several shared universes including Enemyoffun's DarkRealms Universe ("Hunger Pangs") and Morpheus' Twisted Universe ("Virtually Twisted").

Houndstooth. Black and white. Classy. Stretched, but not quite taut, across the expanse before me. Soft, thick fabric starting on her waist and stopping just at her knees, a delicate silver zipper, almost unnoticeable, the only break in the pattern. A voice in my head told me not to stare, but I really didn't have anywhere else to look. Her rear end took up most of my visible space at the same time as it blocked me from standing up. Not that I'd give up a chair on a bus this crowded anyway.

The bus stopped short, and suddenly that tube of houndstooth cloth had fallen onto my denim lap, her stylish skirt sliding against my workman jeans, her delicate silver zipper scratching against my big brass fly. The woman seemed as embarrassed as I was, and got up off of me as soon as she could apologize, retaking her previous position in my view. I was left to pretend not to stare at the black and white pattern interrupted only by a heavy brass zipper.

The zipper didn’t seem to belong there, bulging against the fabric. I supposed I wasn't one to talk, looking down at the delicate little silver one embedded in my own jeans. It didn't look like it should have been capable of holding the heavy denim together, but somehow it did.

Denim might be a bit of an exaggeration. I mean, they're pants, and they're blue, but it's not really that rugged canvassy cloth you usually think of when you think "jeans." It's more, I don't know, I wouldn't call it leggings because it's clearly pants, but I'm starting to re-think why the zipper looked out of place before. Obviously this is the kind of zipper that they put on tight pants like these.

If my pants were made of rough, worn material like that houndstooth, then a rough, worn brass zipper might make sense. But my thin silver one definitely fit me, as did my soft cotton. I looked at the way the houndstooth wrapped around her legs individually, letting the black and white pattern exaggerate and warp with the curve of her thighs, the bend of her knees.

It was so different from how the same pattern lay flat across both of my legs in one solid panel. No, this pattern is definitely more suited to skirts than pants, so it's probably a good thing that the woman standing next to me on the bus was wearing a plain old pair of workman’s blue jeans.

I looked back down at my own lap, hands folded. Something seemed wrong. The zipper. Wasn't I just saying there was something wrong with the zipper?

Then it hit me. It was on the front! I'd put my houndstooth skirt on backwards! I could feel my face redden and tried to keep my head down. At least I was sitting. Lord knows how embarrassed I'd be if I'd been standing. Standing like that woman in the jeans.

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". Do not be hesitating to read all works of Lyodor Tolstoyevski!

It was 1983.

I couldn't ignore the image I saw in the mirror. Instead of the svelte Latina I had been, there now stood a rather muscular man, though I was still Hispanic. I pulled off the nightie that I'd been wearing and examined my naked body. It looked and felt so foreign to me.

I reached for the light switch, but it wouldn't come on. I flipped it two or three times, but still nothing. I ignored the light and just decided to leave the room, so I made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. As I passed through the house, lights flickered, then died. Why was this happening? Was it related to my odd gender transformation? Two odd things in one night, there was no reason to assume they weren't connected.

What had that creature called me as she floated above me? A Chosen? Block? What did these things mean?

I reached the kitchen, and the refrigerator suddenly stopped working, just like everything else. Whatever this was, it was centered on me. I took the milk and sat down at the table. I wasn't sitting long when the sound of a train passing through the building caused me to drop the milk bottle. I was clearly too disoriented to remember that I lived nowhere near any tracks, and shouldn't be able to hear the train. Too many things were running through my mind.

I could still hear the train, so I stumbled through the apartment to get to the front door just as Melanie opened it. She walked in, pure shock on her face, and then she fell down. I rushed to aid her, but I could see the fear in her eyes. "Don't worry," I said to her. "I'll get you to a hospital."

She stammered out words that I couldn't hear, coughing as she did. I tried to comfort her, but I couldn't ignore that fear. I tried to tell her things, I tried to tell her that everything would be fine...

I knew I was wrong.

That didn't stop me, however. I picked her up and carried her downstairs to the car. I set her down across the backseat and tried to start the car. I turned the key a dozen times, and nothing happened, not even an engine sputter. Melanie had just used this damned station wagon, there was no reason for it to be like this!

Melanie coughed again. I spun around and reached out to her. "Melanie, please, hold on."

She struggled to speak, but I shushed her, then resumed my attempts to start the car. After the twentieth time, I finally heard her say, "Are... you..."

It just dawned on me... She couldn't recognize me. "Melanie, it's Juanita, I'm... just different."

"Wha... Wha..."

"I don't know. I'm just..."

"My pa..."

She coughed one last time. I saw the color drain from her face. I whispered, "I'm sorry, Melanie." It was the last thing I said for a long time.

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.

"Excuse me, but do you have something that will change me into a woman?"

"Say, weren't you in here just last week looking for a 'love potion'?"

"Not just any woman. I need to be the kind of woman Todd Lane will love."

"How did things work out between you and what's her name --"

"Hang on, I've got photos of his last couple of girlfriends on my phone... Here's his girlfriend Ashley Penn, and this one's his previous girlfriend, Stacia Harmon."

"Ashley Penn, right. The love potion might not take effect instantly, but give it some time."

"So could you sell me something that will turn me into Todd Lane's perfect woman? Or if not that, at least make me look sort of like those women, only hotter?"

"Hmm. You seemed pretty hung up on this Ashley girl yourself, last week. Did you use that potion I sold you?"

"Yes, but never mind that now. Ashley thinks she's hot stuff, but Todd'll dump her once he sees the new me --"

"Wait, let me get this straight. You got one of Ashley's hairs and dissolved it in the green potion?"

"Oh, it's embarrassing to remember what a crush I had on Ashley... But... yeah, I had my sister grab a hair from her hairbrush."

"Then you took your own hair and dissolved it in the red potion?"

"Yes, okay, but how am I going to get Todd to notice me?"

"And you put the green potion in your drink, and the red potion in Ashley's drink?"

"Yeah, sure... wait. Green in my drink and red in hers?"

"Yes."

"Oops."

"Well, then. How close are this Todd and Ashley? Might he have used her hairbrush at some point?"

"Could be."

"And do they have the same hair color?"

"Pretty much."

"And do they sometimes share sips from the same drink?"

"I think so... what does that have to do with making me Todd's ideal woman, though?"

"You are an idiot and I really shouldn't help you again... but your money's good, and my rent's due... all right, listen close."

"I'm listening."

"Unlike last time. Anyway: get one of Todd's hairs this time, and be sure it's his."

"Okay."

"Dissolve it in this blue potion, drink it, and go to bed, thinking about Todd. You'll wake up with the kind of body he's most attracted to."

"That sounds simple enough. How much do I owe you?"

Kids with more money than sense can be annoying, but they're useful at times. Next week, she'll buy a personality to attract Todd.

Trismegistus Shandy has written more than twenty transgender stories and novels, available at Shifti, BigCloset, Fictionmania, Smashwords and Amazon, beginning with "From Nowhere" in 2007.

Everyone was marching. Evie hurried to catch up; she had been taking pictures of the people climbing the statue in the square. No one would believe where she was, there right in the middle of it all. It was so exciting! Camille, her friend from the salon, came over with a crowd. Everyone was buzzing, pointing at the cameras, the helicopters overhead capturing the scope of what was happening. Evie took the cup of coffee; it was a cold day. She hoped she wouldn’t need to pee and then miss something.

Freedom of speech is so important. The ability to say what you want. To tell everybody what you believe in, what makes you who you are and what you are. They would never understand back home. When Evie tried to explain what she was feeling, they sent her to doctors who drugged her and to summer camps that were supposed to drive the devil out of her. Her momma turned away and daddy wouldn’t even talk to her. Salvation was Paris and a student exchange program. Evie saved her money because her parents were never going to pay a dime to send her to France, the way that place was. She went to class until her visa was about to expire and then walked away. Time to start a new life.

The Place de la Bastille was somewhere up ahead and the streets were jammed. How many people are there? Camille was handing out signs. Black and white. Oh my God, it can’t be! “Evie” was the name that she had picked for herself back home when she came out, when she started to dress and be the girl that had always lived inside her, the name that people made fun of as they bullied her. Happier now than she had ever been, Evie waved her sign.

After all, that’s what momma used to call her. Today, Evie would tell the whole wide world who she once was forced to be and now who she truly was.

J'ai été Charlie. Je suis Evie.

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.

The Cleaver house….

“Here you go, boys,” June said as Wally and Eddie sat down for lunch. She placed a plate with grilled cheese sandwiches on the table to go with the bowls of tomato soup.

Beaver and Whitey edged away as Eddie glared.

“Hey, jerk, whatta you lookin’ at?” Whitey cringed and pulled further away.

“What was that, Eddie?” June said as she walked past the table.

“I was just telling Wallace what a lovely dress you’re wearing, Mrs. Cleaver.” While it was true – her dress, yellow and full skirted – was lovely, she didn’t buy his excuse for a moment.

“Why, thank you, Eddie. You sure take such an interest in women’s apparel.”

Eddie’s face grew a dark pink and Wally covered his face to keep from laughing. Beaver just shrugged; Eddie would punch him in the arm later if he said anything.

And Whitey just stared at June. His eyes darted up and down between her head and her toes; shoes shiny and black and elevated oh so slightly by two inch kitten heels; nylons smooth against her legs. He eyed the dress; from the hem of her skirt up to the scoop neck that revealed her pearls. And he sighed…..

A short while later at Whitey’s house….

“That was pretty funny how my Mom got Eddie feelin’ all stupid, huh?” Beaver said. Whitey stared out the window. His mother was hanging clothes out on the line and the boy couldn’t tear himself away.

“I said my Mom got Eddie lookin’ stupid, huh?”

Whitey nodded absentmindedly.

“Stu….pid,” he said.

“You don’t look too good, Whitey….you sick or somethin’?”

“Si….ick…..” Whitey stammered.

“Uhhhh….I gotta get home. I just remembered I gotta mow the lawn….” Beaver said as he hopped off the lower bunk of the boy’s bed.

“That’s okay…. I am feelin’ sorta sick.”

“Yeah, sick,” Beaver muttered and walked out. A moment later he was on his bike on his way home.

Whitey closed the door behind him. He rushed to his closet and pulled a box from the back and set it on his bed. Opening it, he smiled nervously and sighed at the contents…..

“Why Edward, that was just lovely of you to say such a thing,” The woman said, teetering on kitten heels. Seamed stockings-clad legs that looked too short for the lime green rayon dress. One hand was placed carefully on hip while her other ran fingers through hastily combed hair. A knock came at the door....

“Hey, Whitey, I left my baseball cards on your desk,” Beaver said as he opened the unlocked door and barged in.

“Uhhhh……I…I can explain….” Whitey stammered; red faced.

“Hey….” He paused, looking Whitey up and down.

Whitey eyed the open box on the bed. A navy blue dress lay folded on top of other clothing.

“I…thought maybe we could bbb…both…..”

“Both?” Beaver’s eyes widened in shock as Whitey cringed.

Beaver grinned as he locked the door behind him.

“Both? Yeah, okay.”

'Andrea rediscovered her 'self' after decades of hiding. As things began to emerge regarding her gender issues, she was prompted to write stories as a way of expression. Her works include stories and poems and songs; all with the hope of providing encouragement and support to those like her. She's written fan fiction for Narnia and Middle Earth and even for Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Foyle, as well as anthologies such as Chances Are and Christmas Hopes. And even a crime drama, Defender's Dream.'

It was something about the changes pregnancy brings about, the upsetting of the body's equilibrium that triggered the memories. I'm Ellie Smith, 36 years old, married to Joe, a taxi-driver, and we live in a small apartment in Queens.

Except, I don't think any of that is true.

The door to my boss's office opened, and his wife walked out. Tall, blonde, beautiful, elegant, effortlessly stylish, and only 24 years old. Amanda Carson is everything I'm not.

"Good morning, Ellie!" she said, giving me a dazzling smile as she swept past. I returned the greeting, scowling at her back as she entered the elevator.

"Is something wrong, Ellie?" asked my boss.

This was it, the moment of truth. Do I tell him of my suspicions, and if I do will he think I'm mad? For a moment I almost chickened out, but the moment passed.

"Yes, Peter, there is."

He ushered me into his office.

"You'd better tell me what the problem is."

"I've been having visions, flashes of memory in which I'm living in your mansion, only it's my home. Then I see this strange glowing green jewel and... This is going to seem mad, but I don't think I'm Ellie Smith. I think she swapped bodies with me and I'm really Amanda."

"I see," said Peter, sounding concerned. He reached into his desk.

"Is this the jewel?"

There was no mistaking the glowing gem he was holding.

"Yes," I gasped, unable to look away from it, "but why do you have it?"

"Oh Ellie, poor confused Ellie. It wasn't you and Amanda who swapped bodies, it was you and me!"

"Don't...understand."

The jewel was putting me into a stupor. Try as I might I couldn't look away.

"It's very simple. I looked at your life, at your power, wealth, and gorgeous wife, then looked at mine. Joe's a sweet guy, but a future with him in that little apartment, pushing out kids, wasn't the life I wanted. No, I wanted yours. With the jewel I could take it. I was told pregnancy could uncover hidden memories, and what to do if it did, so relax, and let its rays wash over you…"

I woke up. I blinked, and took in my surroundings.

"Why am I in your office?" I asked Peter.

"You wanted to talk," he said, "to share your worries about your pregnancy."

"I did?"

"Yes, but don't worry - it's perfectly natural to find a first pregnancy hard. I'm sure you'll find the next one, and those that come after it, much easier. Being a mother is what nature intended for you."

"I...thank you," I said. "Did I see Mrs Carson in here earlier?"

"Yes. We're having a second honeymoon in the Bahamas, and she was just confirming the arrangements. I can hardly wait!"

I felt a twinge of jealousy, but there was no point in envying him. It might not be fair, but you can only live the life you were given. Right?

BobH has been writing TG fiction for over a decade. He has written over 80 shorts stories and novellas which you can find at Fictionmania. Many of these are connected. To find out where to start follow this link: https://fictionmania.tv/stories/readhtmlstory.html?storyID=1.... Recently he has written several Star Trek fanfics riffing on the Original Series episode "Turnabout Intruder".

With his first novel David Mitchell begins as he means to go on. Ghostwritten is a sprawling, globe-trotting, genre-hopping, thematically rich whole made up of impeccably structured, character-driven novellas and short stories. It’s humane and unabashedly earnest. And wonderfully written – Mitchell has a real knack for making the everyday seem otherworldly. As in his subsequent literary mosaics, Cloud Atlas (now a Major Motion Picture™) and The Bone Clocks, Mitchell employs the device of transmigrating souls to create characters who are unconstrained by the limitations of a single viewpoint. Mitchell uses these beings to examine the role of the reader as they consume his stories, and stories in general, and to illustrate, by bearing witness to, the ways in which the thoughts and actions of an individual shape and are shaped by history, fiction and place and the thoughts and actions of others.

Here’s an excellent panel recorded at last year’s San Diego Comic Con. The speakers are Joe Abercrombie (The First Law Trilogy), Diana Gabaldon (Outlander), Lev Grossman (The Magicians Trilogy), George R. R. Martin (A Song of Ice and Fire), and Patrick Rothfuss (The Kingkiller Chronicle). If you don’t have time to view the whole hour, skip ahead to the Diana Gabaldon’s bit at 17:35 (I relate so much).

Did you know that Frederator, the animation studio behind Adventure Time*, produces a web series based on another Pendleton Ward concept? If that isn’t reason enough to watch it, there’s a body swap episode.

*If you aren’t already watching AT, you should do that. It’s smart, audacious and more inventive with its visuals and innovative in its storytelling than anything else on TV. And I look forward to seeing the projects that members of the shows’ creative team pursue when they move on. Rebecca Sugar (a writer and artist who worked on “It Came from the Nightosphere,” “What Was Missing”, “I Remember You,” and “Fiona and Cake”) has her own series now, Steven Universe, and it’s fantastic. Check that out too.

If you like pop culture and are interested in the people who create and contribute to it then you’re guaranteed to find at least one show to add to your to binge list on the Nerdist Podcast Network. The Sex Nerd Sandra Podcast is one of the least geeky things the network hosts, but don’t hold that against it. The program is a fun and informative mixture of advice and conversations with comedians and people in the sex industry. Readers of the Mixed Tape collections may enjoy THIS episode about a transgender porn star and THIS episode about the sex lives of ordinary transgender individuals.

On the 28^th of December 2014 seventeen-year-old Leelah Alcorn stepped out in front of a semi-trailer. Leelah took her own life because she believed that she would mean more to the world dead than she did living. She doesn’t. No one in her position does. And it’s for these reasons we should be careful that we don’t turn her into symbol of how we are failing transgender youth.

Nearly half of all young transgendered people will at some point attempt suicide. They do not need a martyr. They deserve to live to see a world where this isn’t the case. I don’t know what steps we’ll have to take to get there, but awareness is a start. Find out what organisations provide support to LGBT people and people with depression in your area. Go out of your way to read news stories about LGBT issues. Read Allie Brosh’s blog posts on depression (and remember friends don’t leave friends ignorant of Hyperbole and a Half). Most importantly, get involved!

Subject: Morpheus

Duration: 01:24:58

Date: 26/01/2015

00:03:29 – 00:19:04

You’ve written almost 300 stories. That’s a pretty daunting body of work. What stories would recommend to a reader looking to get into your stuff? What are your personal favourites?

I think my recommendations for a new reader would depend entirely on who the person is and what genres they like. If they like superheroes, I'd recommend The Miracle Legacy to start with. If they like humor, I'd recommend The Devil Inside. And if they like long stories with plot development, I'd recommend The Changeling Chronicles or Angels and Demons. As for my personal favorites to have written, I'd say all of those are among them. I'm also quite proud of many of my Legacy Universe stories, The Karma of Serenity, The Academy, Augmented, and my current project Among the Val Kyr.

Can you tell us a bit about your Legacy series?

I've always been a fan of comic books and creating my own comic characters, so I'd started to write a few comic book fanfiction stories. However, I found that while writing the Ice Queen Cometh and Enter the Darkness, the comic books they were inspired by had the status quo change so much that it created too much of a disconnect between that and my stories and what I'd had planned for sequels. Because of that, I created the Legacy Universe as my own little playground, where I could use my own characters without having to worry about anyone else's continuity.

Recently you’ve been writing stories set in the Whateley Universe. What is Whateley and what inspired you to start writing stories in the setting?

The Whateley Universe is a collaborative universe, created and written in by a group of talented writers. It focuses on a private boarding school for mutant teenagers, which might be described as Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters on steroids. A lot of the stories deal with TG protagonists, but certainly not all of them. I have been reading the Whateley stories for some time, and finally felt inspired to write a simple fanfiction story set in that universe. However, that opened up the floodgate of inspiration, leading me to write a few more, until I was invited to start writing in the official canon universe.

How is writing a Whateley story different from writing a Legacy story?

My Legacy Universe is my own private playground, where I can do whatever I feel like without having to worry about stepping on anyone else's toes. The Whateley Universe, however, is a collaborative world where I have to coordinate with the other authors so events and characters don't contradict each other. That makes it a bit more challenging to write Whateley stories, but that also helps to add depth to the universe.

Do you intend to return to Legacy Universe in the future?

Definitely. I have a number of Legacy stories still planned, though admittedly, I've been procrastinating for the last year on the next story in the series, as it will be quite a challenge to write what I have planned. Every time I get close to writing it, my muse suddenly gets excited by something else (like a new Whateley story) and runs off on a tangent. Hopefully, I'll get to the point where I can work on it within the next couple months.

Superheroes are staples of TG fiction. Why do you think that is?

I think the superhero genre works well with TG fiction because it is a genre where just about anything is possible. The genre gives a lot of freedom to a writer, letting you do things with a character and situation that, in any other setting, would just come off as too far-fetched. And of course, some of it is wish fulfillment since in a super hero world, you could stub your toe on a radioactive meteorite and suddenly gain your ideal body and incredible super powers. But most of all, writing super hero stories is just fun.

Who is your favourite Superhero?

I've never had a single favorite hero, though there are a few I'm quite fond of...usually until the comic is taken over by some writer who ruins them. Spider Woman, Power Girl, She Hulk, Ghost Rider, Damage (as DC had him in his origin comic), Magik, Mystique (not quite a hero), and Mantra are some of my favorites.

What makes a good hero? What makes good villain?

I think the best heroes are often ones who are relatable on some level, ones who aren't perfect and have to struggle a bit to be successful, often against even themselves. I can't relate to characters who are gods, royalty, too powerful, or too confident, which is why I frequently use an 'everyman' who stumbles into power he wasn't prepared for in my stories. As for a good villain, the best ones don't really think of themselves as villains. They have a bit of depth to their character and motivations.

What books have influenced you most a writer?

I am an avid reader, and while many of the books I've read have had an influence on me, I can't pick out any single book that jumps out as a singular inspiration. I think that just about everything I read settles into my subconscious, where ideas and inspirations bubble up to the surface without my really being aware of where they may have originated.

What authors and stories would you recommend for fans of your work?

There are a lot of good authors out there, and some of the ones I enjoy reading stories from are Eric, Elrod, D.A.W., Amethyst, and Sleethr. If I didn't mention your name, don't feel offended as there isn't enough space for me to name every author whose work I enjoy reading. For anyone who likes superheroes, I would recommend nearly any of the Whateley stories.

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

I think that the most useful piece of advice I've ever been given was that I should write for myself, not for my readers. I try to focus on writing what my muse wants, knowing that some people are going to enjoy it and some aren't. But as long as I'm happy with what I've written, that's what is important.

Can you talk us through your writing process?

I'm afraid I don't really have much of a process. I know some authors are very organized, create outlines, making lots of notes, and working out all the little details before they ever start writing, but that doesn't work for me. For me, every story is different, with some of them coming to me fully formed in my head and just needing to be put to paper, while I start writing others with only a basic framework or a few ideas in mind, and I come up with most of the story as I actually write it. For some stories, I have them worked out in my head for months or even years before I write them, but for others, I just start writing and then see where my muse leads me.

You’ve been publishing stories since 1998. Between then and now, how do you think you’ve changed as a writer?

When I first started writing, I mostly wrote short stories, focusing on the method of transformation or single plot element. Many of my earlier stories were written in the Spells R Us and Altered Fates universes, as they were well defined and provided a framework for me to work in, but over time, I became bored with those short simple stories and felt constrained by writing in other people's universe. Now, I tend to write long stories, focusing more on world building and a developed plot, often really starting at about the point where many of my earlier ones would have ended.

Is there anything else you'd like to add?

2+2=5

And finally, are the rumours true, is "Morpheus" really a collective of authors controlled by a terrible and alien intelligence? [See The Morpheus Collective by Elrodw]

We firmly deny there is any substance to this rumour.

Used to be that Kaitlin could wake up at eight, be up and out of bed in a lickerty-split and be out the door at something between a walk and a jog fifteen minutes after that, cardboard cup, Rice Krispies in soy-milk sloshing at the rim, in one hand, phone in the other, the slack of a headphone cord whipping about and whichever class she wanted to brush up on blaring in her ears at 1.5 speed, hurrying her to a just-in-time arrival at Advanced Ley Lines, or Intermediate Summoning and Containment, or Thaumaturgical Theory three-oh-whatnot, or A History of the Multiverse: Dominion’s Fourteen through Twenty-one, or whatever it was that particular day.

But for the past two weeks, ever since the planets aligned for her and her roommate, Kaitlin’s alarm has been set to seven. She slowly sits up in her bed and spits strands of beard out of her mouth, rubs the sleep from the crevices of her crow’s feet and massages her shoulders, her elbows, her knees, which does nothing to stop her joints from popping and creaking as she climbs out of bed and shambles her way to the bathroom.

“Morning Kitty,” Sonia says. She’s standing in front of their shared sink-cabinet, back to Kaitlin, naked except for a towel turban. She shoots a broad grin into the mirror. Her growing dimples dislodge a dollop of white from a cheek. Sonia catches it on a finger, smears half back onto the wart, and the rest onto a cluster on her nose. Her breasts are large and deflated. Her skin is tinged greyish greenish and roughened by cellulite.

Kaitlin nods at her and yawns. She has not had a good night’s sleep. “Morning back at’cha.”

She sits down to pee. As her small gristly penis sputters into the bowl, she drums her hands against her gut. “Jeebus, I feel like absolute crap. Do I look like crap Sonj?”

“She asks the hag. Girl, you look like Father Christmas, quit bitching.”

“I wish I had a team of magical elves to do my bidding.”

“Who wouldn’t? I can’t wait until I’m faculty. Then I’ll have apprentices that I can boss.” Sonia wrings water out of a sponge. She begins to dab and wipe her face. “I’ll be like, Yo, Johnathan Smith-Jones, inheritor of the Merlinic powers, and you, yeah you, Jennifer Jane Doe, Morgana’s child, by the magicks and wisdom ‘vested in me by the founding witch and warlock, I mark you my wards. Now pass me that grimoire, and type up this huge-ass pile of transcripts, and then iron my robe and polish my pentagram and chain, but first skedaddle off to the kitchens and get me a BLT because I am faminished, and grab a coke from the vending machine on the way back ‘cause I am fucking parched.”

“Master Whelan, is that you?” Kaitlin says.

Sonia cackles.

Kaitlin groans as she stands up, flushes.

“Hey, Saint In-the-Nick. I can see your sack.”

Kaitlin steps in the shower cubicle. The glass walls are misty. She scrawls Ho, Ho, Ho on one of them. Then she turns on the taps, obliterating the words with steam and spattering water.

Over the drumming, over the hum and hiss of the pipes, she hears her friend thanking her for helping with her Sum and Con essay the previous afternoon. “…and if the workload Whelan’s dumping on me stays what it is, I just don’t know how I’m going to keep up with classes.”

“It’s the least I can do since mine’s gone AWOL”. Kaitlin hasn’t seen Morfrân since he chose her. After the ceremony, the Chief Binder had left for dominions unknown.

She yawns.

“Need some wakeup juice?”

“Always.”

Sonia leaves the room. Kaitlin raises her voice. “Make it two spoons of coffee, heaped, two of Quick, three Sugars. If you haven’t snuck the last of the ice-cream, use that instead of milk.”

“One sickly-sludge coming right up.”

Kaitlin yawns again. She tilts her head to face to the nozzle.

Water clings to her, finds her wrinkles and courses along them, like the water from the Æthereal pool had after she’d emerged, gasping. The High Merlins and Morganas had watched her with blank expressions as she’d fallen to her hands and knees on the angular cutting pebbles of the shore. A hand reaching out. Lines of power running from the fingers and knotting into a glyph. “…by the magic and wisdom invested in me by the founders of our order, I mark…”

I hope you enjoyed the first Mixed Tape of 2015. Remember, comments are great and you should leave them!

I’d like to extend a big thankyou to all the authors who contributed, especially Lyodor Tolstoyevski for his fantastic essay – Lyodor, you’ve set the bar high for future submissions of that nature – and Trismegistus Shandy, who did a better proofreading job than I did.

Submissions for February’s Mixed Tape are due on the 19^th of that month.

* Guidelines for fiction submissions:

* Stories are to be no longer than 500 words.

* Write what you want to write.

* Stories are to be accompanied by a short About the Author or Also By This Author blurb. Write one of those too.

Guidelines for nonfiction submissions:

* Pieces are to be no longer than 1000 words.

* Possible topics include trans issues, sex and sexuality, cross-dressing tips and tricks, writing, and books, movies, TV shows and comics about or featuring Transgender characters. If you can make a case for anything else, you can write about that.

* Regarding style: informal is fine, and indeed preferred. These pieces shouldn’t be a chore to read. Write your chosen topic the same way you’d talk to a friend about it, or write about it in a blog, or in an effort-comment or forum post.

As a contributor you will be able to read and feedback other contributions as they come in. If at any point prior to publication you wish to withdraw your work, that’s OK.

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.

Email submissions to hutch0@hotmail.com.au

Until next time, or until I hear from you.

PersnicketyBitch

It’s been awhile since we’ve all gone out together. So we intend to make a day it. Xavier, always the early bird, was making rainbow swirl cake when I woke up. I boiled some water and added eggs. A few shells cracked and things got a bit puffy. Mostly they worked out.

The communal parklands are only a 15 minute commute away, but I can count the number of times I’ve been on one hand. Rod jogs there most mornings, but he never goes in, it’s his turn back point. We set up under an oak. The roots and branches are thick, and some of the lower ones droop and brush the ground. They make great back-rests.

Rod is in a mood, and we kiss. He rolls up my shirt, exposing my midriff. Joaquin, my primary, but not the father, pours tea from a thermos. We talk about Institute office politics, and the Bardarbunga eruption, and what song we are going to sing for karaoke at Ira and Clarice’s civil ceremony. John Green passed on a week ago and is still trending. We reminisce about his books and videos. Xavier says that his whole Manic Pixie Dream Uncle persona shitted him right the fuck off as a teen and we pelt him with pistachio shells.

A group of kids play on a jungle gym. They wear lycra jumpsuits, to accommodate their fluid, mutable bodies. Their legs grow longer as they run, their arms as they climb. When they rough and tumble they make themselves as big as they can. There are no bruises or scabbed scrapes afterwards. A statue of military man with a bushy moustache looks past them, in the direction of the launch site.

The baby kicks. Rod grins. “What do you think our little astronaut’ll be in the ultrasound tomorrow. Boy or girl?”

“It was boy last time. And the time before that. It’s due girl again.” Xavier says.

“Whatever one, it’ll be neither, really, or both.” I say.

“Well yeah, but chromosome wise. Like, physically.” Rod says and produces a coin. A signal that the familiar guessing game is about to begin in earnest.

I look at Joaquin.

He’d been in the chamber with me. As the head doctor counted down, he’d taken my trembling hand in his and said they should’ve put a DJ, or someone like that in charge, you know, considering the nature of the artefact.

He hadn't taken his eyes off the speakers. And I didn’t take my eyes off him. He grew a little taller, a little pudgier. His face and groin changed. I felt something twist in my belly and blacked out.

Joaquin takes my hand in his. Rod absentmindedly tosses his coin towards the statue then retrieves it from behind my ear. Xavier cuts a slice of cake. I think they will be good fathers.

Girls will be boys, and boys will be girls

Answered Prayers

Tiny little droplets, trickled down my cheek and I stared up at the statue of the goddess begging her to answer my prayers. If the Aesir were so powerful why wouldn't they grant my simple appeal? I would think she, of all the gods, would be the most sympathetic to my plight, but I guess the worries of a simple mortal like myself were beneath her notice.

I stood and pulled my hood up over my face, glancing around the temple and shook my head. Her shrine was unlike that of any other god or goddess, there were no priests, priestesses or even an attendant in sight. Other than a simple altar and a towering statue with her likeness the room was empty, but even as I looked around I couldn't escape the feeling that I was not alone. Was it the presence of the divine that I sensed or was it merely a product of my imagination?

I shook my head and moved for the open archway which led back out into the city, but before I could I felt a hand on my shoulder. My heart was racing as I slowly turned to meet the gaze of the smiling figure. The statue didn't do her justice, her soft features were framed with long auburn tresses and one look at her body was enough to make me weak in the knees. She was perfect in every sense of the word, and I doubted that anyone, man or woman, could find fault with her voluptuous form.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked her hand reaching up to touch my cheek.

A simple nod was all I could muster, but it seemed to be enough for her. She backed away, then shook her head and placed her hands on her hips. It seemed so strange, but there was something very... human about her posture. Everyone knew her story and how she had been born to a human mother, but somehow I expected that she would have shed her humanity. To see that it was still very much intact seemed so... odd.

She shook her head and turned her back to me. "Prayers are... still a little weird for me. So, forgive me for taking so long. I-I'll gladly help you, but you do realize that once it's done, it will be permanent. It's a big change, I know, so if you don't think--"

"NO!" I screamed, then ran a hand through my hair and grimaced. "Please, you can't come all this way just to tell me no."

"I didn't intend to." She spun back around and smiled.

It happened so quickly that I don't think I was fully prepared for it. Whirling bursts of energy flew out from her fingertips. The brightest light filled my vision, and when it cleared again, the goddess was gone. I looked down at my now flat chest and smiled, finally my prayers had been answered.

D.A.W. is a fan of science-fiction and fantasy who brings his love of the genres to TG fiction. He 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"). He has contributed to several shared universes including Enemyoffun's DarkRealms Universe ("Hunger Pangs") and Morpheus' Twisted Universe ("Virtually Twisted").

Bed 13

Many a tear has to fall,

But it’s all in the game….

Jenny DeNapoli—“Nurse Jenny” to everyone on the ward—smiled as the tone arm moved along the record grooves. “Much better,” she said as she readied herself for the evening shift.

“Good luck with bed 13. The little demon’s at it again,” said Ilse, the day nurse, dabbing disinfectant on a still-fresh set of bite marks.

Nurse Jenny sighed. She’d come so far with Emma, and now….

As Ilse’s footsteps faded in the distance, Nurse Jenny relaxed, amused that Ilse had her almost standing at attention.

Nurse Jenny approached bed 13 ready to scold her young charge, but the urge dissipated as soon as she saw the restraints binding Emma’s wrists and ankles. She wasted no time in freeing the child.

“Hey, sweet pea….” Nurse Jenny stroked the child’s cheek. Nothing.

“OK, what’s wrong?” Nurse Jenny grabbed Emma’s spelling board and walked around the other side of the hospital crib. “Are you in pain?”

Emma’s wavering right hand tapped the word “NO.”

“Where’s Annie?” Nurse Jenny asked, as much to herself as to the child.

Emma’s tears said everything.

Nurse Jenny sighed.

“Never mind, sweetie. I know.” The young nurse cursed under her breath, remembering how long it took to sew the straps so Emma could grasp the doll.

“I’ll talk to Nurse Ilse, I promise. Now be a good girl and hold still for me, OK?” Nurse Jenny said as she removed the child’s gray institutional gown. “I have a surprise for you, birthday girl.” She reached into her bag, retrieving something pink.

Emma gasped.

A dress!

Emma flapped her hands in approval, so fast she seemed ready to take off.

“Shhh…calm down, honey,” Nurse Jenny chided her. “I can’t get this on you if you don’t hold still.”

She rubbed her hands through the child’s close-cropped hair. “We’ll have to do something about this too, won’t we?”

Producing a ribbon from her purse, Jenny proceeded to tie it around Emma’s head. Opening her compact mirror, she let Emma inspect the result. “See? There’s my pretty girl! Now we can have our own tea party….”

“What are you doing?”

Oh, God. Ilse.

“I can explain….” Jenny began.

Ilse silenced her. “I highly doubt it. Go!”

“I was only trying to make her happy.”

“’Her?’ Ilse raised one eyebrow.

“Yes, her. She’s a little girl, regardless of what you might think!”

“You’re delusional! Leave, now! ”

Jenny left, knowing this time she’d lost.

As Ilse removed the dress and bow, Emma lunged, determined to give Ilse a matching set of marks.

But Ilse was ready. Grabbing the child’s thin arms, she pulled the restraints tight, pinning the child on her back.

The last thing Emma—known in the records as “Edward”--saw was the pillow covering her face.

Ilse dryly noted the time of death, remarking, “Just like in Germany. We knew how to deal with cripples—and queers.”

The music stopped as she walked away.

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."

Clueless

“I just don’t get why you’re so spacey,” John said.

I shrugged. How was I supposed to know that chick was hitting on me last night? She was totally out of my league, and I’m a pretty approachable guy. I'd figured she was honestly looking for help with her dress.

“Just wasn’t thinking about it,” I said. “Besides, I wasn’t gonna abandon you at the bar like that.”

“Dude, stop making excuses,” John rolled his eyes. “You’d cheer me on if I went home with a babe like that, and I’d do the same for you. You gotta stop being so damn clueless about everything around you.”

I leaned back in my chair. “I’ll do better tonight. I guarantee I’ll notice anyone who hits on me.”

John was nodding in agreement when he... changed. His outfit went from a t-shirt and jeans to a tight dress. His body slimmed, contracting in some places and expanding in others, filling that dress out in all the right places. His hair grew long and thick, and when his (her?) head bobbed back up I saw an undeniably hot, female face.

“What the fuck?” I shouted, eyes wide. “John? Holy shit, you okay?”

John stared at me, confused. It took me a moment to realize she was looking at me like I was insane, not like she was trying to process what had just occurred.

“Who’s John?” The girl’s confusion disappeared, replaced by a mischievous smile. "Wait, did you go back out for a second chance at that hunk? Did you bring him back? I promise I won’t be mad, but I wanna hear how you hid him from me.”

Seriously? He’d just become a she, but was only concerned about whether I brought that guy home last night?

“What? No, you’re John.” The weirdness of the situation was making me physically uncomfortable, like I wasn’t sitting properly. I adjusted and crossed my legs. “You’re my best friend. A dude. And dudes don’t just turn into chicks.”

“Are you messing with me or something? It’s not very funny. Like, I know you’re kind of ditzy, but this is ridiculous.” She shook her head. “Ugh, whatever. Are we going out or what?”

I was defeated. There was no stopping John, or whoever she was now, when they wanted to go out drinking. I’d have to convince her about the transformation once we got there.

“Whatever. Just give me a minute, okay? My hair’s a mess, I don’t have any makeup on, and there’s no way I’m leaving without a bra.” I looked down at my exposed cleavage. “This top is obscene enough without the girls bouncing around.”

Sighing, I teased a few curly blonde locks out of my face. Maybe she'd believe me if I proved I wasn't oblivious. I may have missed that cutie last night, but now I was ready for any man that tried to catch my eye at the bar…

There's an urban legend that claims transgender stories spring fully formed out of the the ether, signed only as "Maredsous." They currently tend to be sex focused, but rumors on the wind speak of thoughtful, character-based tales in the near-ish future. Dare you seek these mysterious texts?

Dear Diary

On a dusty shelf you notice a lone book that catches your eye. You pick it up and brush away the cobwebs to see that it's a girl's diary, but as you thumb through the pages it isn't at all what you expect. The entries don't read like the private thoughts of a young girl, but rather like the angry vindictive rantings of an adult, furious at the world. Other entries seem hopeless, almost like suicide notes. And each page is written in a different handwriting.

You flip to the last entry in the book, written in a feminine script:

I am so sorry.

I don't know what else to say. I haven't done anything wrong, I've committed no crime, I've tried to lead a good life. So it feels strange to apologize for something I haven't even done yet. But I know beyond doubt that when my time comes, I will commit the same unspeakable crime that was perpetrated upon me. Because the alternative, to be cut off from everyone and trapped forever in a formless existence, is about the worst kind of hell I can imagine.

I wonder what kind of person you are. If you're a sinner or a saint, a man or a woman. But it won't matter, just like it didn't matter to the person who came before me. I know what awaits me, trapped in a living purgatory of solitary confinement. And to my shame, I know that I will take you, just as I was taken. I pray someday you may forgive me.

As you may ask forgiveness from the one that follows you.

You try to look up to ponder its meaning, but to your horror, your eyes stay fixed on the page as you are struck by a paralysis...unable to move, unable to breathe. You feel your panic rising as you struggle against your body, trying desperately to command it to do something. Then you feel a surge of relief as you take a long, slow breath. Then another.

Except you're not the one in control.

Reduced to being a passive observer in your own body, you feel as you touch your chest, following its rise and fall with every breath, feeling your beating heart.

You try to scream, but you are unable.

Suddenly your perspective changes and you're now looking up at yourself, but from an angle you've never seen in any mirror. You want to move, to yell, to act, but you are only a formless spirit in a void, trapped within the pages of the girl's diary, looking helplessly up at your body.

Your former face looks down at you remorsefully. "I truly am sorry," you hear the thief say, fluttering your eyes and tilting your head in an effeminate gesture. You watch your hand pick up a pen.

"Before I leave, I have to write a new entry in the diary. What would you like it to say?"

Jenny North was bitten by the writing bug in late 2013 to turn her stockpile of crazy story ideas into actual stories, which she lately posts on Fictionmania. She enjoys writing engaging characters, plot twists, whimsy, and the occasional bimbo. She's very proud of her multilayered "Broken Echo" story, and suspects that "Mockumentary" hasn't found its audience yet. She's also enjoying speaking about herself in the third person.

The Mixed Tape Interview: Jenny North

Tell us a little bit about yourself.

I've been involved in the TG community in various ways over the years. Some people may remember me from my TGFA web site which I created in the mid-90s to share some excerpts from various TG media. (Mainly comics, since I'm a comic book geek.) But I got away from that when I started delving into my TG side in real life, going out quite often as Jenny and supporting my local TG support groups. Then several years ago I got into cosplay, which has been great fun. And recently I was bitten with the writing bug and have been posting TG stories again. I wish I had time for all my interests!

You cosplay, can you tell us a bit about that?

I got into it quite by accident! The old "City of Heroes" online game had a Halloween contest to dress as your character in real life, and I pranked my friends (who didn't know about Jenny) by entering without telling them, figuring they'd recognize my character when the pictures got posted. Their reaction was PRICELESS. I won "Most Daring" which got me some pretty neat prizes, and even got my character into the comic book! (Fulfilling a lifelong dream of being in a comic!)

From there, it took off. I've done over 30 different costumes...Cheetara, Jem, SheZow, Bugs Bunny (from "What's Opera Doc?"), even Mantra. I love all the the creativity, and wearing them to conventions is just awesome, especially when I rope my friends into it! I've posted pics on Flickr if people are curious. (And there you can also learn my "secret identity," though in truth it's hardly a secret.)

What are some good resources and hints for anyone looking to get into the scene?

Sites like Cosplay.com have great online communities, but just going to a convention is a great introduction. Many have cosplay discussions, and most cosplayers are happy to talk about their costumes! But if you're looking to make your own costume, I'd say you need perseverance when making it, and attitude when wearing it! You have to be willing to put yourself out there, but in my experience the cons tend to be very welcoming since they're geek-friendly. And if you're doing crossdressing cosplay ("crossplay"), appreciate that you're more likely to get read because you're often getting more scrutiny...but I've never had a hassle. (Though while dressed as a pregnant Scarlet Witch last year, I did have one woman ask when my baby was due!) But I think most importantly, dress as a character you love.

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

Growth is the single most important thing for a sympathetic character. Things don't feel real if the story moves forward but the hero hasn't changed.

I also like what I've heard referred to as the "rule of three": when describing a person, place, or thing, use at least three different elements, of which one or two should be non-visual. I've found that especially useful when describing a transformation, since involving more of the senses makes it more immersive.

What books have influenced you most as a writer?

I enjoy Peter David's work, which includes many comic books, the Star Trek: New Frontier series, and a whole bunch of other things. He tells a good story and I really like how he weaves humor into it, but I've often been impressed by his ability to take two dangling threads that you didn't even realize were dangling (often written by different authors), and then weave them together in a way that makes you think that had been the plan all along. It doesn't detract from your enjoyment of the story if you don't get the references, but if you do, it's like a magic trick!

You've been writing for a while, your first story was published in 1999, but you've only recently begun to share stories on a regular basis, why is this?

For years I've kept tons of notes and ideas, and I guess it finally bubbled over! It's a great creative outlet (when I'm not working on costumes) but was kinda born out of frustration, having read so many TG stories over the years. I'd read a new story and think, "Rats, another revenge plot. I’d love to see a different take where a victim isn't a pushover but doesn't feel the need to seek retribution." Then I'd wonder how to end a story like that in a satisfying way, and soon found myself writing it because I wanted to know how the story would go! And it's great to be able to give something back.

How do you think you've changed as a writer over the years?

My real-life TG experiences have been a great source of inspiration, certainly. And I also feel like I'm being more intentional about looking for ways to challenge myself. When choosing a story to write (or a costume to make), I tend to gravitate to things I haven't seen done before, or putting a new twist on something familiar. (My friends are used to me asking, "Hey, is this idea brilliant or idiotic? I'm not sure.") I'm actually kind of jealous of writers who've found their niche since I feel like I'm kind of random: a story about a guy forced to become transgender in his mind; a sex-and-humor-filled humiliation conga; a fanciful adventure with TG meta-commentary; a documentary of a crazy publicity stunt gone wrong...I guess I can provide novelty, if not consistency!

Tell us a bit about your story Broken Echo.

[Archivist's note: You can read Broken Echo here]

There's a saying I like: "Talent imitates, genius steals." A friend and I were talking about the novel Cloud Atlas, and we were impressed by David Mitchell's ability to weave together six stories spanning different time periods, and write each story with a different stylistic feel that was appropriate to the time period. So since I wanted to try my hand at writing different genres, it seemed like a great opportunity to snitch the concept and do a TG story in that same style, but instead of just spanning time periods, to mix in the traditional TG story elements like magic, femdom, transformation, and crossdressing.

Of course, I knew I was in deep with the story when I had to create an infographic to keep it all straight! I made sure that the story could be enjoyed even if all of the interconnections, repeated lines, foreshadowing, and the like escaped the reader's notice, but I think the hidden complexity made for a more layered story. And it was fun pulling out all the tropes and using them in new ways. Like a fantasy adventure (complete with a prophetic riddle) in there with a romantic comedy and even a bit of campy horror. And--because it's me--ramping up the meta commentary along the way.

In the story you examine many of the tropes of magical transformation and forced-femme fiction. As a trans person how do your experiences inform the conclusions that you reach, and your work in general?

I'm quite proud of being trans, so for me, I love to show that there can be many good things that come with the territory. And although TG stories take transformation literally, it's also a powerful metaphor...the experience changes a person, for good or for ill. It challenges them, and facing (and hopefully overcoming) challenges is what it's all about to me.

Now given what I just said this may sound funny to say, but I also love writing humiliation into some of my stories, because it highlights how much perspective matters. (For instance, I love to crossplay and go out in public, but another person might find that same experience to be absolutely mortifying!) And I think many M2F stories with humiliation are predicated on the idea that it's shameful to be a woman, or shameful to be trans. I personally don't agree with that, but sometimes the characters have to go through the journey to come to the same conclusion...so what was humiliating at first might be enjoyable later, assuming they're growing and changing their perspective.

Any final thoughts?

Well, first, many thanks to PersnicketyBitch for putting together these monthly anthologies! They're entertaining to read, and it's amazing to be able to collaborate with so many fun and talented writers!

And one last bit of wisdom I've learned is to be honest with yourself why you're writing, and also why you post what you write. For me, many of my stories are experimental (*cough* Mockumentary *cough*), so I know from the start that means they're not all going to be huge hits or get tons of comments, but if I get just one comment from a person who really "gets it," I'm delighted. (And then there are some stories I write that I may never post!) But I figure if you write what you love, you'll always have something to read!

Receptacle

I never see their faces. There are no mirrors here.

I come to in the transfer vat. Eyes that are not my eyes snap open. I gasp, gulp and then violently exhale ensorcelled perfluorocarbon mix.

Today’s John has long hair. I see lazily waving strands at the edge of my vision. My restraints unclasp and I kick off, and when I break the surface feel it plastered to against my face, my neck.

The towels here are 30”-60” inches. I figure the John at 5 foot 6. I drop the plush blue terrycloth onto the floor and shuffle my feet dry on it. I feel my face. The John has a hooked nose, a breakout on his left cheek.

He’s slim and sinewy. Mario and Peach by way of Frazetta on his right forearm. A grower. Not a bad chub once he gets going. Average erection. (You always peg out after transfer.) Probably a size queen, but maybe I’m being disingenuous. Still, there’s a type.

The suite is open plan and windowless. There’s a kitchenette and a home theatre setup which you can watch from either a treadmill or a couch. And white everywhere you look. White shelves stocked with copies of AVN Magazine and all of Astral Projects’ productions. White walls. White floor. White ceiling. White doors locked from the outside.

The sets are more ornate. And there’s a selection of costumes, not just scrubs. Niko usually places me in The Gym or The Ranch when I’m on the clock. But after hours I prefer The Manor House or The Sorority.

To kill the time before switchback, I start by watching Changeroom IV. For all the technomancy involved behind the scenes, most of Astral Projects’ films are real scrappy. To make a porn shoot anywhere near fun for an outsider a lot of corners have to be cut. The star swaps and pro/amateur vids are the only ones that get views.

In her VO the Jane who’s wearing my body says her name is Sadie. She’s twenty-eight and a flight attendant. Maybe that’s true, maybe it isn’t. She uses words like shlong, and wiener. My body’s hips gyrate crazily. She giggles as she describes what it’s like to flip flop. Opposite her is a John in Xiaolian’s body. His favourite shows are Kill La Kill and Attack on Titan. He fakes an orgasm any time anything – fingers, vibrators, dildos, but not my borrowed penis; no penetration allowed – touches Xiaolian’s clit.

Who is she? I wonder as I masturbate. Who is Everly, happily married, two kids? Who is Jeremy, lyricist, in-between bands? Who is Caleb, intern at ILM? The woman with birthmark shaped like Antarctica on her hip? The young man with the outie and the vasectomy scars? Who are these people behind their breasts – full, round, drooping, pert, small and conical – or hairy chests, hairless chests, beer guts or pigeon chests, and the build and release of their orgasms, each, if examined closely, as unique as a fingerprint?

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.

Saint Patrick's Day

I stumbled out of the bar and puked all over the alleyway. When I was done, I brought the bottle back up to my mouth and chugged some more Heineken down. My eighth bottle of the night, I was doing good.

I heard a noise from the other end of the alley, or three feet away, I couldn't really tell, I was outrageously drunk. I looked in what I assumed to be the direction of the sound and saw a woman standing there. Long hair, slim figure, nice tits.

“Hey, baby,” I slurred, then dropped the bottle.

She was suddenly beside me, I think. “Ooh, snookums,” she said, running a finger under my chin, “you look all kinds of bad, sweetie.”

I took a step toward her, and almost fell. “Take me back to your place, and I'll feel like a million bucks, babe.”

She smiled – I think – and whispered, “Oh, you'll feel different, alright.”

I tried to smile, then threw up all over herrack. She just looked annoyed. After that, my face hit the ground, and everything went black.

I woke up in a room, tied to a bed. Ooh, she liked it kinky. I looked at my hands and saw the bright purple nail polish that someone had put on me. What the hell? I leaned up as much as possible and took a look around the room.

The door opened, and she walked in, smiling. “Oh, good, you're awake, Sugar.”

I tried to play it cool. “Hey, honey, how about we get this started? I'm eager to find out how good your tongue feels – ” and then I said the weirdest thing possible, “ – in my pussy.” I would have smacked myself on the head for that, if I could move my hands. Why had I said that?

That smile grew wider “It's about damn time you started coming around, Sugar.”

I felt something... Something creeping up my body. It was kind of pleasant from my feet and up my legs, but as it hit my crotch, it started to burn. I screamed, but it was more like a screech. It wasn't long before it turned into a horny moan, and then I heard my voice shouting, “Fuck me!”

The sensation moved from my pussy – my what? – and made it to my chest. It wasn't painful anymore, though, it was extremely pleasurable. That horny moan returned, and I came just as the feeling moved from my boobies to my head. What was...

I woke up in a room, tied to a bed. Oh, God, I loved it kinky. I looked at my hands, saw the bright purple nail polish I had put on last night and smiled. I leaned up to look over my boobies at the other woman in the room. “Hey, Ruby, get over here and eat me out. And don't worry, I dyed my bush green. It's Saint Patrick's Day, after all!”

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.

Sometimes I Hate This Job

I tried to gather my thoughts as I pushed the doorbell. My uniformed colleague tapped my arm and pointed to the moving shape approaching us through the ripple glass in the front door.

“Mrs Smith?” I asked flashing my warrant card, my uniformed colleague nodded to her.

“What’s happened—it’s Sam, isn’t it? Oh my God, what’s happened?” We followed her into the house. I asked her to sit down, did she have anyone we could call for her? She was weeping buckets and I hadn’t broken the news yet, other than to nod at her question regarding her son.

“What happened?” she asked her hands gripping each other the fingers were white.

“It looks very much as if he took his own life.”

“Did he suffer?”

“I hope not, he used his car exhaust.” I paused to let this information sink in. “He left a note.”

“Do you have it?”

“The coroner will have the original until the inquest, you can request it afterwards.”

“Why can’t I have it now?”

“It’s evidence, I’m afraid. I’ve brought you a photocopy.” I handed her the paper but she asked me to read it to her.

Dear Mum,

I’m sorry about this but I can’t go on any longer pretending to be something I’m not. I’ll never be able to be who or what I want to be, not to experience fully the life I want, so I’m pulling the plug on this one.

Please don’t be upset, just think I’m out of my suffering by the time you read this and for the few minutes before I go, I shall be who I wanted to be—in my mind anyway.

Good bye, I love you, Mum.

Your loving daughter,

Samantha.

“What does that mean?” she asked me.

“He was wearing a wedding gown when they found him.”

“A dress, he was wearing a wedding dress?”

“Yes, apparently he looked really nice.”

“He wanted to be a woman?”

“Apparently.”

“I wish he’d told me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll let him be buried in the dress if that’s okay, if it’s not too soiled.”

“It’s not, he had on a pair of Tena Lady pants, presumably to keep it clean. I’m sure he’d appreciate being buried in it.”

“Why did he have to do this—surely they can make men into women these days can’t they?”

“So I believe, I don’t know why he did it but he hints that he wouldn’t be as pretty or convincing as he’d have liked.”

“He was a bit tall, I suppose...silly boy, I’m his mother, I’d still have loved him.”

“Her, you’d still have loved her,” I gently corrected.

“Isn’t that what I said? Sorry, sorry Samantha.” She began to cry again and my colleague went to get her neighbour.

“At least there were no kids involved this time,” said my colleague as we returned to our car.

“Just that poor woman’s daughter,” I said and drove us back to the office.

Angharad is the creator of Easy As Falling Off A Bike, which she believes is the world’s longest story involving transgender characters. She has also written several other serials, many short stories and one full length novel, Snafu. Angharad’s fiction explores many aspects of gender identity and its ramifications and crosses several genres from comic to action adventure. You can find it at Big Closet, Sapphires Place and maddybell.com.

Talk to Me

She just wanted her life to be easy. So, why was it that she found herself facing this person again? It felt as if their lives had been hopelessly intertwined. It was like no matter what she did, she eventually ran into him again. She refused to believe in fate. She had decided long ago to walk to the beat of her own drum, make her own choices. But here they were once again. Why did she keep doing this to herself?

The table created a division between the two, marked with scratches that had begun to make some of the previous coat of paint peel off. It was due for a makeover. By the looks of the man opposite of her, he could use a little of the same. He looked worn. The kind of worn only life could do to a man, cheeks covered by a light stubble and eyes too old for his face.

For a short while, they just stared at one another, almost as if daring the other to break eye contact. When he didn’t, she sighed quietly and spoke up, instead breaking the silence.

"So here we are again. It must be some kind of record. A broken record." She said, still looking him straight in the eyes, his as unflinching as her own.

It didn’t surprise her when he didn’t have much to say. Nothing new, at least. She had heard it all before. She had even said some of it herself, at times. It was an old tale, reused and abused, threadbare to the point where one could see straight through it. He wanted another chance. Excuses, as always. There had not been a good time. What would the others think? Maybe tomorrow, or next week, would be better? If only.

When it was her turn, she spoke her mind clearly. There was no place for him in her heart anymore. Nor in her mind. This was the only way. To do otherwise would just be to return to the dark times. He was an anchor weighing her down. The dream he was holding onto was her nightmare.

When she had said all she wanted, all she needed, she closed her eyes for just a moment. It had felt good to say it out loud, even if it had only been to him. Maybe now he would finally get it. Maybe now she wouldn’t have to see him anymore. Maybe now she could finally leave him behind forever.

She pushed her chair back and stood up, leaving the vanity mirror by itself.

Melange is possibly a collective of like-minded raccoons who occasionally write stories both long and short, or delve into poetry. Her most ambitious undertaking so far is her “Horizons of the Heart” series, spanning two books, and coming to terms with how building her own fantasy world setting is actually a lot of work. She has a lot of dreams, and a lot of ideas for stories, but sometimes it takes more time than anticipated to turn them into proper words.

They do it Because They’re Driven

There’s a lot to admire about Speed Racer (2008). It’s audacious, bold and utterly bonkers, endlessly inventive, and a deeply heartfelt, soul-bearing artistic mission statement from its creators, Andy and Lana Wachowski.

It’s also a difficult movie to actually enjoy.

Over the years many filmmakers have attempted to translate comic-book imagery to screen, the most successful so far being Edgar Wright with Scott Pilgrim vs the World (2010). But prior to Speed Racer (yes, I know it’s an adaptation of a cartoon; however in this case the same principles apply), the gold standards w/r/t fidelity to comic book aesthetics were Zack Snyder’s 300 (2007) and Robert Rodriguez’s Sin City (2005). Both movies are astonishing to look at, but often visually inert, frequently lingering on static compositions lifted directly from their respective sources.

Unlike Snyder and Rodriguez, Wright and the Wachowskis not only have a great affinity for the iconography of their material, but also a keen interest in replicating the experience that every reader hopes for when they open a comic. Scott Pilgrim succeeds because of Wright’s unerring sense of how the modern moviegoer processes visual information. The Wachowskis are extraordinary visual storytellers (I put off writing this article several times to rewatch Morpheus’ rescue from The Matrix – that lobby scene! – and the highway chase from Reloaded) but with Speed Racer they overestimated the audience’s capacity to keep up with them, and the result is a film that many will perceive as an eyesore and disregard.

Which is a shame. The Wachowskis are two of the most exciting voices working in the modern blockbuster scene. When they fail, the do so in memorable ways, and not for want of ambition. Their most recent film, Jupiter Ascending (2015) is unquestionably a bad movie, but it’s a handsome production – a gorgeous love letter to the golden age of hand-drawn sci-fi/fantasy cover art – and it has a lot of interesting stuff going on regarding the psychological makeup of its villains. The much maligned Matrix sequels may be many things but no one can say that don’t ooze style or deny the enormous risks their creators’ took with their story (or, for that matter, convince me that they aren’t absolutely fucking fantastic, if flawed, movies).

The Wachowskis filmography is destined to become an important chapter in the history of queer cinema. Their first film, the slick low-budget erotic thriller Bound (1996), is an escapist piece written and directed for an audience who share its heroines’ sexuality. While Bound isn’t entirely true to the experiences of real life female couples, it aspires to be an accurate representation of fantasies that lesbian and bisexual women might conceivably have (which are not – surprise, surprise – the same as the fantasies heterosexual men have about lesbians and bisexual women that inform almost every mainstream depiction of non-heterosexual female sexuality).

The Matrix trilogy (1999 – 2003) posits a future where gay and lesbian relationships are normal and accepted. In an early draft of the first film the character Switch (the member of Morpheus’ crew who wears white) had a different gender in the virtual world. Lana Wachowski came out as trans to her friends, family and colleges during the back-to-back filming of Reloaded and Revolutions.

The Wachowskis didn’t direct V for Vendetta (2006), but they did write the screenplay, and by all accounts were very hands on producers. It’s a touchstone movie for the generation of kids who entered adolescence after 9/11, playing a pivotal role in their political awakening, and encouraging them to give a damn about LGBT issues (Revisiting the film, I was struck by how invested it is in its gay and lesbian characters). However, V for Vendetta’s legacy isn’t entirely positive, especially online, with sites like 4chan, and other virtual clubhouses for angry young men, appropriating it’s iconography to frame their toxic cultures and the assholeish actions of their members as heroic. For good and ill the Wachowskis' interpretation of Alan Moore’s graphic novel is a movie that resonated, and arguably the pair’s most culturally significant work.

Directors are often highly visible figures in the filmmaking process, not so Andy and Lana. Since the The Matrix turned them into household names, up until the release of Cloud Atlas (Co-directed by Tom Tykwer, based on the David Mitchell novel)in 2012, the pair refused to be interviewed and to appear publicly. Rumours abounded regarding Lana’s transition, and were, at her request, denied by the actors, crew and producers who were asked to verify them. It’s easy read the penultimate scene of Speed Racer as a reflection on this decision.

Speed Racer is a movie about staying true to the creative self in a commercial space. This theme is expressed beautifully during the final moments of the film’s final race, where a series of brief cutaways and flashbacks revisit its most salient ideas as its titular hero floors it and the neon rainbow colour pallet blurs and streaks, until at points it seems as if Speed is driving into the Stargate from 2001. “It doesn't matter if racing never changes. What matters is if we let racing change us,” intones the voice of the enigmatic Racer X, as the film cuts to a childhood daydream, before returning to the present where the now adult Speed is living that fantasy; a juxtaposition that the viewer can’t help but feel encapsulates the struggles and triumphs of the artists behind it.

Speed wins the race. The crowd goes wild. Meanwhile, in an emptying corporate suite, Racer X watches as they flood the track. His boss, Inspector Detector, a division head in Speed Racer’s CIA proxy, asks him if he’d like to join Speed and his family to celebrate. Racer X declines and Detector asks him why he hasn’t told them the truth. A flashback follows revealing X to be Speed’s older brother, who we discover faked his own death and underwent extensive surgery to reinvent himself. X agonises over this question, and decides that he has to live with choice he has made. The film concludes with Speed and his family, triumphant, adored, accepting Speed’s trophy.

Since the release of Speed Racer, the Wachowskis have ceased to avoid the spotlight. When Cloud Atlas premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival they walked the red carpet alongside their formidable ensemble cast. When the movie received a 10 minute standing ovation they were there to bask in it.

You can read more about the production of Cloud Atlas and the Wachowskis here.

You can watch Lana talk about coming out and her struggle with gender dysphoria in her acceptance speech for the Human Rights Campaign’s Visibility Award: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=crHHycz7T_c

Later this year Andy and Lana Wachowski will make the jump from the big to the small screen with Sense8, a science fiction series that true to form sounds audacious, inventive and just a bit bonkers.

Recommended Resources

Trans Issues

Fiction

In the twenty-fifth century, humankind has spread throughout the galaxy, monitored by the watchful eye of the U.N. While divisions in race, religion, and class still exist, advances in technology have redefined life itself. Now, assuming one can afford the expensive procedure, a person’s consciousness can be stored in a cortical stack at the base of the brain and easily downloaded into a new body (or “sleeve”) making death nothing more than a minor blip on a screen.

Ex-U.N. envoy Takeshi Kovacs has been killed before, but his last death was particularly painful. Dispatched one hundred eighty light-years from home, re-sleeved into a body in Bay City (formerly San Francisco, now with a rusted, dilapidated Golden Gate Bridge), Kovacs is thrown into the dark heart of a shady, far-reaching conspiracy that is vicious even by the standards of a society that treats “existence” as something that can be bought and sold. For Kovacs, the shell that blew a hole in his chest was only the beginning. . . .

THIS REVIEW COMES IN THREE PARTS.

Part the first: So should I read this book?

In Altered Carbon Richard K Morgan recreates on paper the brand of amped up violence, propulsive storytelling, and, yes, smarts of the top tier actioners of the 80’s and 90’s. The “About the Author” blurb in my copy of Altered Carbon doesn’t have a lot to say about its subject, it does however inform the reader that Joel Silver, the producer of Predator, Lethal Weapon, Die Hard and The Matrix, has purchased the rights. Altered Carbon is a book that lends itself easily to a simple “if you... then you…” review. If you don’t think Altered Carbon sounds like your sort of thing, then you’re almost certainly correct. If you silently “fuck yeah’d” to any of the movies mentioned so far (and indulge me this brief interruption where I also title drop The Terminator, Robocop and Total Recall), I assure you, Altered Carbon is the absolute motherfucking shit, and you’re going to love it.

Part the second: Missed opportunities

I imagine that some readers of these collections will be left wanting more from the body hopping in Altered Carbon. The novel could stand to be a bit more varied w/r/t the sleeves it’s protagonists finds himself in, especially considering how go-for-broke it is in every other area. It feels thematically inappropriate that certain characters aren’t switching gender, body type, and body age on a regular basis. However, a sex scene between two psychically linked characters is sure to please anyone who reads this sort of fiction for the smut.

While Morgan has clearly put a lot of thought into the mechanics of the resleeving process, he does throw a few “biological truths” that smack of bullshit in to the mix. These might rub some the wrong way, but I think most of them work in the context of the “what-if” science-y sounding non-science that Morgan’s builds his story around (let’s be honest, the speculative elements of most speculative fiction are bullshit; we read the genre for it’s interesting half-truths and lies). Most of them. Not all. Altered Carbon’s one instance of on-page gender bending takes place during a torture scene, and the explanation for it, which partially hinges on the “fact” that men and women experience pain differently, is contrived entirely for shock value.

Part the third: Altered Carbon is not transgender fiction, and what we should take away from that.

There are no trans characters in Altered Carbon. Nor does the novel incorporate or comment on trans experiences in any meaningful way. Altered Carbon is a body swap story written by a cisgender man, about cis characters, and sold to a predominantly cis audience. This is OK. Body Swap stories are not inherently about or for any one group. However, it’s important to call a spade a spade. And it’s important to do that w/r/t the stories we read and write. Those of us that do write need to recognise that we are publishing work in spaces that purport to host stories about and/or by and for crossdressers, trans and non-binary individuals, and their allies, regardless of whether they actually do or not, and acknowledge this ideal reality in our work.

Writing

The author of Eat, Pray, Love talks about her latest novel, her work prior to her breakthrough book, and the week she spent in male drag researching a magazine article (a condom full of bird seed is involved).

Jenny North - Elizabeth Gilbert has some really insightful comments on writing and being an artist, and I found her observations on getting involved in the male culture and even impersonating a male really intriguing. It's fascinating to me how her F2M impersonation is in some ways just the opposite of a M2F impersonation (like the body language where she had to reduce her movements) but also how they're very much the same (like how you sometimes feel compelled to overshoot the mark a little to compensate for not having the physicality of a typical man or woman).

She also makes one observation that I think is particularly valuable for writers of TG fiction. In the interview she talks about her time spent in male drag, and how (contrary to what you might expect) that didn't make her feel stronger. As she says, "I lost all of my tools for managing the world." It wasn't just the physicality, but the sense of helplessness at not knowing what to do. I relate to this. When I first started going out as Jenny, I worried about presentation. There were a lot of things I hadn't considered, like the first time I was in line for the ladies' room and the woman in front of me struck up a conversation. At first I was like, "Ack! I'm not socialized for this!" But in my case, I'm an enthusiastic learner for feminine skills, because I chose to be there...but for a transformee in a story, that could be both insightful and unsettling!

Just for Laughs

Afterword

I hope that you enjoyed this month’s TG Mixed Tape. Can you believe it’s been a year since the first one? (You probably can, it’s not that long really.)

When I created the first collection I wanted to put together the sort of resource that I wish had been around when I stumbled upon sites like this one. So many stories get published, it’s hard to know where to start reading. I conceived the tapes as a way of connecting readers with authors.

I’m a big believer in the question “what’s next.” I think it’s vital to the longevity of any ongoing creative project. You have to keep doing new things or your audience gets bored, or you do.

The author interviews were an obvious add. Like the anthology format it’s something we haven’t seen a lot of in our niche (as far as I can tell the only precedent is a series of Q&A’s moderated by Anne-Mal, way, way, way back in 2000/2001). And they suit the author showcase nature of the Tapes to a tee.

These collections are posted on sites whose content often skews fetishistic. I’m not knocking it, I enjoy reading and writing smut. There will always be a place for erotic stories in the Mixed Tapes. However, it’s also true that fetishes and their creative expression, such as during a role play session, or through writing, frequently involve problematic or outright regressive ideas about gender, sexuality, race, and just about everything else.

We can’t, as a rule, choose our kinks. There’s a compelling argument to be made that many common fetishes are the subconscious reacting to or appropriating aspects of everything that is problematic and regressive in the societies in which we live (for instance, theories like this hold that rape fantasies often emerge as a response to rape culture). But we can choose to express our fetishes in ways that explore and deconstruct their troubling aspects. Simply indulging is OK too, provided that you are doing so from a place of understanding, and are able to distinguish fantasy from reality.

I hope that the more realistic stories in these collections; the articles and essays; and the articles, books, movies, podcasts and websites listed in the recommended resources section, and the attached commentary, help you contextualise your fetishes and make you think about the type of stories you read and write, but most importantly switch you on (if you aren’t already) to the stories of trans people in the real world and the issues the affect them.

To any trans and non-binary people reading this: I wish you more than luck.

PersnicketyBitch

Submissions for April’s Mixed Tape are due on the 20th of that month. Publication will occur sometime between the 27^th and 30^th.

Guidelines for fiction submissions:

• Stories are to be no longer than 500 words.

• Write what you want to write.

• Stories are to be accompanied by a short About the Author or Also by This Author blurb. Write one of those too.

Guidelines for nonfiction submissions:

• Shoot for 1000 words. It doesn’t matter if you go a little over.

• Possible topics include trans issues, sex and sexuality, cross-dressing tips and tricks, writing, and books, movies, TV shows and comics about or featuring Transgender characters. If you can make a case for anything else, you can write about that.

• Regarding style: informal is fine, and preferred. These pieces shouldn’t be a chore to read. Write your chosen topic the same way you’d talk to a friend about it, or write about it in a blog, or in an effort-comment or forum post.

As a contributor you will be able to read and feedback other contributions as they come in. If at any point prior to publication you wish to withdraw your work, that’s OK.

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.

Email submissions to hutch0@hotmail.com.au

I’d like to leave you this month with some short reflections by myself and a several other regular contributors about our favourite Mixed Tape stories.

Birthday Girl by Lyodor Tolstoyevski (published in Exchange the Experience)

Birthday Girl looks like it’s building to a bittersweet denouement, then concludes with a gut-punch. LT does an excellent job conveying just how unfair it can feel to be different in this dark, nasty, yet ultimately hopeful piece. ~ PersnicketyBitch

The Bloody Faithful By Jennifer Ravyn (Published in Irresistible, Kissable)

I like the mix of intrigue, danger, and mystery. How did the main character become Faith? Why did Faith swap and give up her immortal life? Will the new Faith succeed and escape Lucas? Ms. Ravyn has managed to pack a very short story full of interesting characters and a rocking plot that made me want to either read more or write the rest of the story myself! ~ Zapper

Family by BobH (Published in Its Strange but it’s True)

BobH does a masterful job of setting up this SciFi story about the end of the world. It felt like the young couple escaping back into time had to go in one direction. However, BobH's clever twist was one I didn't see coming and left me chuckling. Very well written and like most of BobH's stuff worth reading. ~ Zapper

Farm Visit by Dorothy Colleen (published in Irresistable, Kissable)

This is not a story about being transgender. It’s a story about being a person. About going through something that everyone goes through at some point in their life. But, by chance, the narrator does happen to be transgender. And that aspect is used to add a wonderful depth to the character. ~ Lyodor Tolstoyevski

Future Ghosts by Nicki Benson (Published in Exchange the Experience)

In Future Ghosts Nicki strips down her prose to the point that “spare” is almost an inadequate descriptor. The result is a profoundly evocative piece that demonstrates the potential of the flash fiction format better than any other Mixed Tape story. ~ PersnicketyBitch

Melissa by D.A.W (Published in Anything Goes, Don't Blink)

This story is light and funny kind of like a good piece of candy. I loved the simple straight forward approach that sets the reader up for the about face right before the end. In the end it's a wish gone wrong story, but it's handled so well that it’s one of my favorites. ~ Zapper

Can’t Stop the Music by Jenny North (Published in Don’t Make Me Wild like You)

A funny little tale that really managed to set itself apart from the majority of TG fiction out there. It’s a tribute to Jenny’s talent as an author, that I enjoyed the tale despite the fact that I typically avoid crossdressing tales. The whole thing reads like a news article, but has a bit of a fun and sassy feel to it. ~ D.A.W.

Hatching by Zapper (Published in Anything Goes, Don’t Blink)

A classic fantasy tale involving dragons and a slave boy at the very bottom of society’s ladder. He managed to really pack a lot into this little yarn and I think it helps bring a bit of awe and wonder to the piece. ~ D.A.W.

Sweet Surrender by Minikisa (Published in Du Bist Sehr Schön)

To my mind this is the sexiest story that has been submitted to these collections so far. As always, Minikisa’s style is deceptively simple and straightforward. I wish I could infuse my writing with half the rhythm that she does. ~ PersnicketyBitch