Du Bist Sehr Schön
A TG MIXED TAPE
Edited by PersnicketyBitch
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.
Girls who are boys
who like boys to be girls
who do boys like they're girls
who do girls like they're boys
always should be someone you really love
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.
Flashes. Red and Blue
Drivers. Eyes to road, then to GPS. Ears glued to radio chatter, mouths adding to it.
Passengers. Checking safeties. Adjusting Kevlar.
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.
Rubber tires crushing alley litter.
Rubber soles treading carefully.
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.
Men, women, uniforms, guns on monitors.
Men and women in cages on monitors.
The transformation room, many angles.
The ejaculating man.
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.
A cassette ejected from a player.
Shoved back in. Not now. Soon. First… pass me. Gestures. No. The Colt. For old times’ sake. We use our immunity. You follow?
Magazine meet rifle. Ready.
Up volume. All speakers on. Press Play.
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.
Ray stumbles from the observation room on changing legs. They give out at the first sight of blood.
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.
Du Bist Sehr Schön
A TG Mixed Tape
By ACDC Metal Fan
By Christina H
Mischief and Mammaries
By Dorothy Colleen
The End of an Old Song
By Lyodor Tolstoyevski
Horns and Halo
By Person 42
A New Type of Woman
Alice Leaves Town
(Edited by PersnicketyBitch)
By ACDC Metal Fan
“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.”
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.
By Christina H
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.
“There, there,” I heard a muffled voice say.
“Impatient little thing, isn’t it?”
Better than he…
“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.
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.
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.
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”).
By Dorothy Colleen
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....
“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.
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.
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.
“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.
By Lyodor Tolstoyevski
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.
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.
(A Paragon Universe Story)
“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.
By Person 42
"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.
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.
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 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.
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
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.
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.”
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.”
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.”
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 [email protected].
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 24th.
Until then, or until I hear from you.
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