Hey all, Persnickety here, curator of the Mixed Tape collections.

The latest Mixed Tape is still coming along at a snails pace. At this point, an early February release doesn't look likely. As for the new release date, it'll happen when it happens, and it'll happen when we get at least 10 stories. I want to kick of the year with something substantial.

If you would like to be part of the collection, read on. This time around I'd also like to shine a spotlight on some of the longer stories you folks write, if you'd like on that, you'll find more information after the jump.

The guidelines are simple. You can submit up to 1000 words of fiction, but you need not expend all these words on a single story. Multiple submissions are encouraged!

In addition, this time around we'll also be accepting teasers from longer stories published in the last 12 months. If you have a story that you'd like to promote, select a 500 word excerpt and send it in, along with a blurb for the story and a short piece (say between 200-300 words long) describing what inspired you to write it.

The completed collection will be posted on this site, at Fictionmania, and at TG Storytime.

Email submissions to persnicketyb@outlook.com. (sooner rather than later would be great!)

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.

MINISKIRTS

Three bikini clad bombshells rob a bank; a mild mannered comic book artist prepares for bed; a man chats up a waitress at a train-station diner; a beautiful socialite pays a visit to her father, but is she all she appears to be? Are any of them? Hit play on this collection of nine short, short stories by nine very different voices in TG-fiction and find out.

Liner Notes

Here to Serve

One year ago today I became trapped in this body.

I shouldn’t be surprised that Doug is cruel enough to revel in my misery. He and his cronies are sitting in my section; anticipating my appearance. Today’s a celebration for them, but just another day in a continuous nightmare for me.

Walking toward their table, my cheeks are already red. Being a Hooters Girl is bad enough, but serving these particular guys is nearly too much. There’s no other choice though.

I take a deep breath, and watch one of Doug’s buddies point me out to the others. They’re already laughing. I’m still strong though, so I’ll endure the humiliation sure to come.

I ignore the snickers, as I stand before them in this ridiculous outfit. So much of the body I’m still not used to is on display for their amusement. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised a few of them are fixated on my chest.

Men will always be men, I think. I regret the thought immediately, as it’s another instance where I realize I’m moving further from my old identity.

“Welcome to Hooters, I’m Cyndi.” I say with the mandatory smile.

Doug smirks. “Looks like you’re doing well Cyndi. You head waitress yet?”

They wait for a meltdown, but I play if off. “Not yet . . .”

“Well you keep trying. Someday you might get that promotion.”

More laughter.

I want to respond, but fighting back will make it worse. Besides, I don’t have the mind for snappy comebacks anymore. Doug made sure I got a brain to match my boobs and blonde hair.

So, I play the role I’ve been forced into. “What can I get you boys to drink?”

After I’m forced to recite the entire drink menu, they choose beer.

I’m thankful for the chance to leave, even if for a few minutes. As I go to the bar though, I know they’re watching me. I try to keep my ass and hips from swinging while I walk, but I know they still laugh at seeing me squeezed into these damnable orange shorts.

When I return with the beer, the manager is chatting with Doug. God help me, now I’ll have to put on the full Hooters Girl act.

I force a giggle, “Big round of beers for big men”

Before I can take their orders, the manager interrupts, Be extra nice to these guys; Doug’s getting married tomorrow.”

I feign enthusiasm, “Congratulations! Who’s the lucky girl?”

Doug’s smile is predatory. “I think you already know Amy.”

My heart stops . . . I can’t breathe

For the first time since the transformation, tears pool up in my big blue eyes. I don’t care if people watch me jiggle as I run, I need to get away from here.

Even as the other waitresses console me, I dab tears away. Doug’s taken the last important vestige of my old life, and even if I hate it, now I can move on as Cyndi.

Berkhart is new to transgender writing, but has contributed stories in the giantess and super-women fantasy communities. The first chapter of his newest and only transgender story, “In Her Pants” was recently posted at TG Storytime.

Convergence of Magics

Lights swirled and whizzed through the room at almost sickening speeds. Sometimes one would bounce of a wall and ricochet off in another direction, and other times it would simply disintegrate. There was no rhyme or reason to it, but magic could sometimes be unpredictable that way. My master and his wife were pioneers in inter-gender magic research and the lights were one of many unforeseen results of their experiments.

The lab was a simple unadorned room, with cupboards lining the walls and a large workspace at its center. Empty beakers and test tubes lined the counters, but they weren’t what I had come for. The more dangerous stuff was locked in the cupboard at the back of the room and it was there that I went. Otto and Thora would be gone for some time and I knew that if I didn’t take advantage of their absence I may not get another chance.

I unlocked the cupboard with the key, I had swiped from my master, then quickly gathered the magic artifacts made from Thora’s power, a feather of wind, three fire beads and five small phials of spirit essence. I memorized the recipe the last time my master had granted me permission to view his valdbok and I was familiar enough with potion making that I was confident I would be successful.

Potioncraft was a new art and it was one of the few ways in which male and female magic could be used together. Otto was fond of saying that the power of the seid for men and women were like different sides of the same coin. While either type differed slightly from the other, they were both elemental and some abilities, like transformational spells, were much more difficult for men to perform. Women’s enchantments had their own weaknesses and it couldn’t exactly said that either sex was overall more powerful.

Inside a large beaker, I mixed the ingredients in the order the recipe had directed then closed my eyes and began to funnel the required amounts of male energy into the container. When I opened my eyes again I found that the ingredients had turned into a clear blue liquid. I grinned then, before I could chicken out, quickly downed the entire potion.

A moment later the world started fade into darkness and when I came to again, I was laying on the ground. I shook my head then stood up. Something felt wrong, and when I looked down at my chest I found a pair of breasts sticking out from it.

“Crap!” I yelled.

A check inside my pants revealed a new vagina. The spell was supposed to make me more appealing to girls not turn me into one! “Double crap!”

“Alibran?” A voice, which belonged to my master, called from the other side of the door. “Did you sneak into the lab, again?”

“TRIPLE CRAP!”

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”).

Inspiration

Allan MacLean’s loft apartment is filled with his art. A blow up of his cover for Captain Patriot #800 – a reworking of issue one’s cover – hangs above his bed. Allan had sweat and bled for it. The eyes had been the hardest to get right. They’d had to be stern yet jovial; young and eager to take up the mantle, yet at the same time afraid, almost crushed by the legacy and the struggle to live up to it; old and wise and indestructible yet frail. He’d won an Irving award for it and he appreciates the irony that Rudi Irving who’d drawn original had, so the legend went, hacked it out in half an afternoon.

A selection of some of his own hack-work adorns the walls; covers and action pages from the planetary romance, space opera and historical titles he’s drawn for to pay the bills. But they are outnumbered by the hero pictures. Fanboys nationwide know him for the former. The comic readers of Paragon City the latter.

Allan yawns. He checks that his alarm is set. He’d love, more than anything, to sleep in, but he has a deadline bearing down on him. As he waits for sleep to come he watches, through the glass balcony door, the hero signals light up the night sky and the specks zipping and weaving and swooping between the scrapers and smiles.

Soon he’ll be joining them.

She looks at his unconscious form. His chest is hairy. He thinks this makes him look sexy; like Sean Connery as James Bond. He hasn’t had a boyfriend or girlfriend or a one or two time fuck to tell him that it doesn’t for a long time.

Figment gives herself a quick feel over. She caresses the tight spandex that clings to her curves. Then she slides open the door to the balcony. The cool night air beckons her. She steps out and embraces it. It is the only lover she and her sleeping alter ego need.

Hours pass.

The sky is a dark, dark blue and starless. The horizon glows gold. She sits on the hunched back of a gargoyle and runs her fingers over the jagged cut on her upper arm. Dried blood flakes at her touch. Her fingers come away sticky. She remembers the Executioner, a silhouette against the green and violet flames billowing up from the chemical spill, poised, ready to strike, the neon of a nearby sign reflecting off his blades. She holds the image in her mind, willing herself to remember as many details as she can so that she can draw on them later. She smiles as she recalls the expression on the villain’s head goon’s face as he turned around and saw who it was who was tapping him on the shoulder and hopes that she will be able to do it justice with her brushes and pens and inks.

Miles away, an electronic beeping.

She vanishes.

And Allan MacLean wakes up.

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 Northwood Remedial Education Experiment

“Ah Claudia, come in and sit down. How did it go?”

“Well, thank you, Headmaster. The Inspector seemed impressed with everything he saw in our Remedial Unit.”

And so he should, thought the Headmaster. Claudia Frampton was an excellent teacher and an efficient administrator, the best person to run the Unit, and an improvement in every way on the Claude Frampton who used to teach in the main school. Not to mention easier on the eye! He had often dreamt of unpinning her severe bun, removing her glasses (“Why Miss Frampton, you’re beautiful!”), taking her in his arms and… He dragged his attention back to what she was saying.

“…Statistics and exam results tell their own story, of course, and the fact that ours have improved each year over the three the Unit has been open, is persuasive. But there’s nothing like seeing for yourself. When we went to the Domestic Science class, they were baking Birthday Cakes. You know how much the girls enjoy that, and their enthusiasm was palpable. But I was able to emphasise that they were all also achieving high academic grades, as much as the French class we visited next. And of course I was able to get him to interview Louise Hardy.”

The Headmaster leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers,

“Ah yes, your star pupil. Still headed for Oxbridge, you think?”

“Undoubtedly. I expect straight A’s in all four A Levels, and she should breeze through the entrance exam. And she interviews well. Her combination of winsome modesty and an ability to emphasise the points she wants to make in an enthusiastic, but non-threatening manner, would charm anybody. She certainly charmed the Inspector.”

Claudia leaned forward, the front of her blouse tenting out invitingly.

“I really must thank you, Headmaster, for all the support you’ve given me and the Unit. We’ve proved conclusively that when pupils are given one last chance, by being transferred to the Remedial Unit, even the disruptive, the lazy, or just the underachievers can turn round their results, and indeed their whole lives. Dramatically so. Remember what Louise was like before she became Louise?”

“All the girls are a credit to you and your staff.”

“Thank you for that. I’m sorry to say that I kept emphasising that the Remedial Unit is now achieving better exam results than the main school.”

The Headmaster waved his hand. “Don’t apologise. If it helps to persuade the Inspector to give us an ‘Outstanding’, then I’m happy.”

“Outstanding? The Inspector was so impressed I suspect he’s going to recommend that the ‘Northwood Remedial Experiment’ be rolled out to schools up and down the country.”

“That is certainly extremely encouraging. But he didn’t comment on any – er – discrepancies?”

Claudia laughed. “Discrepancies? Good heavens no! I think by the time the Inspector left he had completely forgotten that our Unit is an integral part of Northwood High School – for Boys!”

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. In the 'Real World''he' retired a few months ago, so should now have plenty of time to write more.

Doing My Nails

I'm not sure how Erica convinced me to let her paint my nails at lunch, but there I was, my right hand splayed out on the table. I sighed. High school girls. What are ya gonna do?

She'd done each nail a different color: the pinky was just blue, but each finger was progressively girlier. I pulled my hand away as a glittery brush was brought from my thumb and screwed onto a jar.

"Hey, I'm not done yet."

I sighed. High school girls. "Fine." I forfeited my hand back to her custody.

"First we seal in the blue." She took out a clear jar.

"What's the point of clear nail polish," I protested. "The color is already there!"

"Shush," she admonished me, "sealer is very important, and you'll understand as soon as it's applied." Then she brushed a coat over my pinky in a single stroke. "Doesn't that look better?"

I told her I didn't notice any difference. She told me to wait for it to dry.

I blinked. Something was different.

"Is this Essie or OPI?" I asked.

Erica's face brightened. "Neither, it's MAC Spirit of Truth. But those were good guesses, where did you hear about those brands?"

I couldn't remember. I just knew them. She grabbed my hand while I was still thinking and quickly coated the purple on my ring finger in sealer.

"Hey, I wasn't ready yet," I protested.

"What, were you going to root through your backpack in the ten seconds the coat takes to dry?"

I blinked. Something was different.

"Well, maybe I was." I unzipped my bag and pulled out a few compacts. "If you're doing my nails, I have to make sure it matches my face."

Erica laughed. "There will be plenty of time for that when I've finished." And with no ceremony she used the sealer on the red paint of my middle finger.

"Well maybe I just wanted to look at my options for now. You know about my complexion."

"Oh, I know about your complexion," she gave me a wry look.

I blinked. Something was different.

I brushed my bangs out of my eyes with my free hand. "Yeah, I guess I complain a lot, but I probably do have better skin than most girls."

She sealed in the pink on my index finger, and we waited together for it to dry.

I blinked. Something was different.

I spread my knees a little, testing them against the denim of my skirt, jangled the bracelets on my wrist, y'know, normal things you do while waiting for nail polish to dry. And then Erica sealed in the coat of glitter on my thumb.

I couldn't wait for it to dry. I blew on it, I waved my hand, and then I blinked.

Something was different.

The bell rang, and I flounced up off my chair. That lunch period was barely enough time to get one hand done. I sighed. Being a high school girl. What are ya gonna do?

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!

A Wonderful “Dream”

I smile to myself, climbing in bed. Tomorrow is going to be a great day for my business! A deal we can't refuse is going down. We're not even going to try to make it any sweeter. Nonetheless, I need my sleep so I don't look too bad during the meeting itself. I pull the blankets up and over me, and settle into bed.

The television is flipped on, and as I fall asleep, a lingerie commercial comes on...

I'm standing in my office. Why am I in my office? The meeting! Of course! But that doesn't explain why I'm standing on my chair. I shrug, getting off. No matter. I'll just call my secretary and tell her to redirect all of my calls. I do so, and hear the normal growling in response.

Wait a moment. My secretary didn't growl. I walk outside, the distinct sound of stilettos following my every move. Man, I seriously hate my noisy shadow. I look at my secretary, and see a bear in her place. But this doesn't phase me. Bears can do the job just as well as my old secretary could.

I walk to the meeting, my skirt making me shift the way I walk. No more long strides!

I pause and take a deep breath outside the office. It's now or never. I need a good impression or else bad things may happen to me and my employees. To be extra cautious, I unbutton my top a little.

Why did I do that? I'm a man.

My cleavage certainly looks better now. Ooh! You can even see a bit of my pink lacy bra! Good. That should sweeten the deal a bit.

I walk in, smiling. Our business partners smile at me. I take my top off, and rip the skirt off. I throw them at the door, hanging them on the handle. The bra follows, and I'm standing there in my panties and heels.

"Now, gentlemen, shall this meeting commence?"

My eyes flutter open, my mind racing. Why was I a woman in that dream? No matter. I get up, pausing at the sudden lack of feeling, vision, and consciousness that followed.

I wake up what feels like a split-second later. My breasts were aching. Breasts? There seems like there's something funny about those...

They must be a bit bigger than usual. Oh, no... am I pregnant? I don't remember getting drunk... or being on the pill... or being able to be pregnant for that matter. Wasn't I a guy?

The brunette girl in the mirror looks familiar. Is she my daughter? No, my daughter is only three. Didn't I not have a daughter last night?

My infant screams from the other room. I run in, my unconstrained breasts jiggling the whole way. I whisper comforts to her, gently letting her have her breakfast. After a few moments, she starts falling asleep in my arms.

"Sweet dreams, sweetie."

Person42 is an author who posts mainly on TGStorytime. The author is responsible for short works such as "Christmas Wish" and "The problems with gambling" posted on TGStorytime. 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.

Next Train

Susie leaned over the table so Tom got a good look at her low cut top and he gave her an inviting smile in return.

He'd been coming to this diner for months and had enjoyed the innocent flirting, but it was time to reward his patience. The fact her leg rested against his told him she was ready.

Tom said, “I'm leaving Susie.”

Susie frowned and handed him the bill, “When will you be back?”

Tom paid in cash. “You won't see me again. I'm leaving on the next train.”

He felt Susie pull away but Tom grabbed her. He could literally feel the sexual energy between them as he glanced at the men's room,

“When's your break? There's time.”

She looked at the empty diner then shouted, “Andre! I'm taking my break!”

Her top was off before they made it to the stall. She pulled him tight as he tried to hang up his clothes.

She said, “We need to hurry!”

Tom couldn't agree more.

She unbuckled his pants and he pressed against her stomach. She grabbed him and Tom smiled as her eyes grew wide. He'd chosen this one well. Too bad he had to leave, but it was safer to keep moving.

Susie was a diamond in the rough. All she needed was a little confidence and a few changes.

Tom heard a moan as he entered, “I'm sorry,” he said.

She kissed back as they began to move in rhythm, “What for?”

Tom knew he couldn't explain. She'd know soon enough.

Tom held it as long as possible. This woman deserved that. He felt the climax but instead of absorbing her sexual energy he fell into it. The rush felt incredible. A high pitched scream escaped his lips as a series of contractions shook everything. It was nice to be a woman again.

He pulled up his panties then the skirt that reached mid-thigh. These were the legs that drew his attention in the first place but he laughed at that thought. Who was he kidding? He'd always been a breast man.

The bra read 36D which was smaller than he expected but it felt tight as he fastened the clasp. Were changes happening already? Aftershocks struck him senseless as he pulled up the top. He never understood why they only happened to females but it probably had something to do with orgasms. He took everything from the wallet, but left the driver's license. He took a last look at the 'Tom' that sat on the toilet. He wouldn't remember the last few months but certainly wouldn't mind losing twenty pounds or being twice as endowed.

He read the nametag on his chest.

“My name is Susie.”

Susie slipped on her heels then grabbed her purse while she checked her makeup. The woman looking back was definitely looking better. Once Susie absorbed enough sexual energy she'd make changes so no man could resist her.

But tonight she had a train to catch.

Sara is a long time reader of TG fiction. Some of Sara’s other stories include “Small Town Journey”, “A Brother's Request”, and “Mystic Godfather” which you can find at Fictionmania and Big Closet.

The Trick’s Not Won until the Last Card is Played

Charles wiped the pistol clean with his hankie and dropped it in the dumpster. Turning, he saw himself in the storefront window. Ten minutes from now, he’d be unrecognizable. And home free. Everyone would think his step-sister had shot her father Wallace. They’d been fighting over money. Rhonda had a temper. It was her gun. People would see “Rhonda” leaving the scene. Rhonda would rot in prison and he’d inherit everything.

So much time preparing. Dieting, mastering makeup, putting the perfect outfit together. One that matched what people saw Rhonda wear. The right wig. Up close, maybe not, but from a distance, it worked. Just to be sure, tonight wasn't the first night he had gone out dressed. There was video of him walking, standing still, climbing stairs, everything he might have to do - just to make sure he passed. Charles had been pleased with how good he looked. People would see Rhonda, not him.

Charles glanced back to see if he was being followed. Tailored black suit, taupe hose, low black heels with a modest gold buckle at the toe. A paisley shoulder wrap in subdued tones. Soft black beret. A well-to-do suburbanite on the town. That’s what got him in. Wallace used video security at his office. “Rhonda” arrived, dressed up and on her best behavior. Charles knew Wallace would drop his guard and let “her” in. Before he realized who was there, Charles shot him.

A young couple came around the corner, arm in arm, half a block back. Charles let the hankie fall and moved on. Rhonda’s initials were on it. By the time, the young people caught up, Charles was gone and they had Rhonda’s hankie. Another nail in the coffin.

Relief. It had gone so well. Charles found himself enjoying the sensations that came with dressing up. The swish of walking in nylons and a satin-lined skirt. The scent of perfume, the feel of makeup. It was a one-time thing, but why not enjoy it while it lasted. His mind went back to the money. All that money. Maybe he’d spend some of it dressing up. Why not? It was surprisingly pleasurable.

The parking lot was across the street. As he stepped out to cross, a car, headlights on high, pulled up, making him hesitate. Then another, then cars raced the wrong way up a one-way street, hemming him in. “Rhonda” was being arrested. How could they know? And so fast!

Charles tried to run but his skirt and dress shoes stopped that. From the backseat of the cruiser, he could overhear them. Dressed like this, he was on his way to the transgender detention center where he wouldn’t be bullied. But when he got to prison, he would have a TG jacket. He’d be a prison TG girl for years, maybe life. There was a crowd as they pulled out. In the back, a girl, her face buried in her hoodie, smiled. Rhonda.

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

Bikini Bank Robbers

John looked up at the clock, an hour and fifteen minutes until the bank closed, he nodded to a middle aged woman waiting her turn.

“How can I help you?”

“I need to make a deposit,” she replied setting her purse on the counter.

Just then the doors burst open and three beautiful women rushed in wearing nothing but skimpy bikinis, and holding guns!

“Get down on the ground, now!” The blonde shouted storming into the middle of the lobby waving her shotgun around menacingly. At the same time the African American woman butt stroked, Sam, the security guard.

“Anyone else want to be a hero?”

The silence was broken by a soft whimper from the woman John had been helping. “You, what’s your name?” The melodic alto caused John to look up. Standing over him was the third member of group, a tall, leggy, red-head with what John considered a great set of hooters.

“J. . .J-John.”

“Okay, John, here’s the deal. You’re going to help me empty out all of the registers, and we’re going to do it real quick. Understand?”

John stared up at her uncomprehendingly until she poked him in the stomach with her shotgun, refocusing his attention.

“Hey, big boy, are you listening?”

“Uhm . . . yeah, sure, I don’t want any trouble.” In short order the cash was collected and the women were racing out of the bank.

“How long before the cops are on us?” The black woman asked, jumping into the car.

“Not long, you and Bill should get started.” The blonde said, smoking the tires. She raced north until the bank disappeared before slowing down to avoid further attention. After ten minutes she pulled into a rundown parking garage stopping next to a cargo van with darkened windows.

“Steve, here you go.” The voice dropped an octave mid-sentence, as the black woman handed the blonde a cheap looking medallion. Steve put it on and reached down under the driver’s seat pulling out a pair of boxers. She touched the boxers to the medallion and shivered as a shock, like static electricity, went through her. Then she glanced back at her companions. They already looked quite different.

“We need to keep moving,” the red-head said, dark roots already showing amongst her fiery-locks. All three women left the sedan juggling bags of cash and guns as they climbed into the van. Once inside the women changed into loose fitting jeans and sweatshirts.

“I’ll drive,” Bill, the former redhead, announced sliding into the driver’s seat. She slowly pulled the van out of its parking spot and drove around to the exit. By the time the van reached the street Bill’s broad shoulders had filled the sweatshirt.

He drove south spotting a police car, lights on, heading the opposite way. “How are you ladies doing?” Bill asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

“Fuck you,” Phil the former African American woman said.

“Only if you change back.” Bill said laughing.

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 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” and can be found on Fictionmania.

Iressistible, Kissable

In the Australian outback a solitary traveller stops at strange roadside store. They leave with more questions than answers and a CD labelled "A TG Mixed Tape". Hit play on this collection of short, short tales if you dare and let 11 different voices in TG-Fiction take you to worlds both far flung and almost but not quite like our own; introduce you to Rock Star Vampires, Shape-shifters and the even the Devil herself; and spin stories of remembrance, sex and second chances.

My headlights drained the colour out of everything they lit. The darkness recoiled from them and grew deeper around. The broken white lines in the middle of the road gleamed blinding and flickered hypnotically as the bitumen tread-milled beneath my Volks. The speedo read 100 kilometres an hour but at that moment I didn’t feel I was moving at all.

I couldn’t see the horizon but I imagined the small speck of light far ahead and to my left marked it. I imagined it was a fallen star. And as I drove on I imagined that it was searching for a break in the unseen doona of clouds above for its brothers and sisters.

I pressed down on the accelerator and my car beeped a Going Too Fast warning at me. I ignored it. I was moving again. Termite mounds, gravestone shaped when glimpsed out of the corners of my eyes, rose from the roadsides before me, then fell behind. A rabbit loped out my way. I only just missed it. Take your time Fiver. A wallaby glowered at me from beside a rusty fuel drum letterbox.

I drove on. The radio started to crackle up. A pity since I liked the song. I began to belt out the lyrics when the static drowned them out.

The light ahead was closer now and the road was curving towards it. It wasn’t long before I could make out the shape of a building. I past a sign that had seen better days. Spell-R-Us, it read. Transformative Wonders and Delights! Open 24 hours! Turn off 500 meters.

On a whim I decided to stop at this bargain basement new age joint in the middle of nowhere.

The car park was dirt, smattered with gravel. I pulled up right in front and got out. Dream-catchers and unoccupied birdhouses and wind chimes hung from the veranda roof. The flyscreen door was locked and someone had post-ited a “back in five” note on it. A small wicker basket hung from the handle filled with CD’s and cassettes. I examined the card stuck to it. It was black specked; there had been ants on the paper when it had been laminated. Mixed Tapes. Complimentary. Take One, it read.

I looked through a dusty and limescaled window, past a display of gothic looking dribbly candles at the benches and shelves stocked with jewels and jewellery, snow-globes, aerosols, age-yellowed Playboys, cacti in cracked, dirt-leaking pots, and creatures squished into jars so tight that in several instances their skins had split and the clear preserving liquid was stained rosy. A stuffed alligator hung from the ceiling. A gimp suited mannequin rested against a drinks cabinet filled with Crystal Pepsi.

I hung around for half an hour but no one showed up. I took some photographs and a CD and hit the road.

I arrived, the next morning, at my destination, changed.

After doing my daily ten-mile run, I returned to the base, exhausted. With sweat dripping down my face, my clothes soaked, I crashed down at the feet of my master. “It’s done sir.” I said still breathing heavily. “Permission to take a break?”

“Permission denied. Today we have something different scheduled. I need you to take a shower, and report back here in ten human minutes. Understood?”

I put my hand to my forehead, “Yes sir!” I said and began the long run back to my quarters. That bug didn’t even give me time to rest. I know I owe him for saving my life two years ago, but come on! I don’t know what their kids do at this age, but they certainly don’t train their asses off to become soldiers.

I reported back exactly ten minutes later. With a new set of clothes, ill-fitting, since they don’t have any clothing for my kind. There were three other bugs there. They don’t look quite as strong as my master, I wonder…

“There you are! Come, we don’t have your time.” My master said turning around. Moments later, we arrived at what seemed to be a research center.

We moved into a separate chamber, with a massive operating slab in its center. “Is everything ready?” My master said to one of the scientists.

“Affirmative.”

“Great, human remove your clothes and lie down. We have things we need to talk about.”

“I want you to relax young human.” My master said to me after they energy cuffed me to the slab. “All that you have done in the past years have come to this. This is the most important step to remove the human weakness out of you. Chief! Explain what will happen.”

“Yes, commander.” Answered a voice from a speaker as the slab moved to a vertical position. In front of me a cluster of needles appeared. “Human, we are going to make some modifications to your DNA in order to make your bones nearly unbreakable, to make you stronger, faster, to change your appearance..." He sighed. "Commander, should I tell him the possible consequences?"

"Yes, I think we should let him know what might happen to him. But be quick, the prophets want results."

“Yes commander." He said. "Kid, we've tried this serum before, and there's a chance that it will turn you into a female…"

"You mean it’ll turn me into a girl!"

"Human! We don't have time for your nonsense!" My master shouts at me. "If that comes to that, then you'll have to bear with it! Understand!" He grabbed my face. "We've already done too much for you, and we aren't stopping the experiment if you throw a tantrum. Now, I want you to use those little balls of yours, and suck it up! If not, whenever you wake up your training will be ten times more intense, and you'll beg that I didn't save you that day." He stepped back. "Chief! Continue the procedure!"

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.

I was just laying down for the night when my bed erupted into flames and I screamed backing away from them as the voluptuous form of a dark-haired beauty appeared out of thin air. She was the epitome of the perfect woman, a real bombshell, who was a flawless stand-in for my wife.

“Hello honey, I’m home. Did you miss me?” She winked then smiled coyly.

“You’re not Jenny!” I screamed staring at her with wide eyes.

“On the contrary.” She smirked leaning over, giving me an amazing view of her cleavage. “I’ve been Jenny since the first moment we met.”

Twenty years ago to the day I sold my soul for a life of money and fame. I met Jenny just a few weeks afterward, but she was just a kid then. It wasn’t until she matured into a woman that our relationship took a romantic turn. After a whirlwind courtship we got married, but if what she said was true, it was a sham and had been all along. I couldn’t help but feel manipulated and betrayed.

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? So that I could watch over you and guide you, but really that’s beside the point. Let’s not delay this any longer.”

“Just make it fast, please.” I pleaded, tears stinging my cheeks as I fought down my fear and panic. What would happen to me? Would she drain my soul away and leave me an empty husk or would I be doomed to spend eternity in hell? It had never been clear and somehow I’d never thought to ask. Until that moment it hadn’t mattered. How could I have been so stupid?

Lucifer cackled as the flames blazed across the mattress quickly climbing up my frame and started to consume me. I thought I was going to burn to death, but then the pain settled on my chest and different parts of my body, until it eventually faded away. I gasped running my hand over my torso, discovering as I did so that it had been transformed. Two luscious breasts had swelled on my chest but that was only one of many changes.

“I-I’m a woman,” I said with a loud gasp. “But why?”

“Your soul is mine. That means you are bound to serve me for all of eternity. I don’t waste resources, but sometimes they need a prettier wrapper to really bring out their true potential. I happen to think you’ll make a lovely succubus, don’t you?”

“I refuse!”

“What makes you think you have a choice? The night is still young. There are plenty of souls roving about for you to lead into temptation.”

She snapped her fingers and my clothes shifted becoming a form fitting outfit that left little to the imagination. I bit my lip, looked down at my breasts, which looked like they were about ready to pop out of the dress and felt a smile stretch across my face.

“As you wish, Lady Satan.”

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”).

I stand at the old gate, and, not for the first time on this trip, I wonder what I am doing here.

But the memories behind the gate call to me...

In a way, I had grown up behind this gate.

My grandparents owned this place, it was sort of a hobby farm, and just about the best place a kid could go. I mean, it had horses you could ride, and a dog you could play with, and a little mini forest you could have adventures in.

I wonder what my grandparents would have thought if they had known that most of my “adventures” involved me becoming a girl...

I open the gate, and return to my car to drive inside.

The place has changed as much as I have...

Only in the opposite direction.

While the place is like a ghost town, slowly returning to the grass it sits on, I went from being a wounded child struggling with their gender to a woman who is whole, and healed, and mostly healthy.

I drive up to the remains of the old house, and I smile at the good memories - my grandfather teaching me how to ride a horse, my grandmother making amazing meals, the wonderfully warm sense of being loved I had always gotten when I came here.

Both my grandparents are gone, but neither has a grave, so this place is probably as close to one as I can get. I know that if they can hear me at all, they could hear me in the city just as well, but some instinct brought me out here so I could say to them what I always wanted to say.

“Thank you, I love you both. I hope you’re looking down from heaven, and I hope you’re proud of the woman I became, even if I was a boy when I was here.”

“I wouldn’t be here without you, which you must know. You gave me a safe place to be while I tried to figure out who I was, and what I needed to do.”

“Goodbye.”

I get back in my car, drive to the gate, and let myself out.

I close the gate behind me, knowing I will never open it again, and I climb back in my car, but pause for one last look at my past.

“See you when my time comes...”

On the wind, I could almost hear a whispered reply.

“See you ...”

“Granddaughter...”

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.

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

Rachel drums her fingers on the wheel.

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

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

Rachel ah-hums agreement.

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

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

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

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

“She’s very quiet.”

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

“Baby steps?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

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

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

The mattress molds itself to their bodies.

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

T-minus 00:00:02.

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

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

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

T-minus 00:00:01.

A pause. To taste. To savor.

Ten seconds.

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

Two.

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

T-minus 29:22:15.

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

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

Casey fondles his well filled tiny whities.

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

This feels better.

She gently pushes him away.

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 guy at table three had eyed me for over an hour. I couldn’t blame him. If I were still a guy, I’d be eyeing me too. At 5’2”, blonde hair, and a tight little body, I looked good.

I finished adjusting the mike stand, giving my ass a provocative wiggle before turning to check out my not-so-secret admirer. He looked back unabashed. His curly brown hair needed a trim and his lips were puffy but he was cute. We exchanged smiles.

I started to walk over to say hi, when someone grabbed my shoulder. I spun around. Mouth open, lips pulled back exposing the tips of my retracted fangs. I was ready to strike. A low hiss escaped my throat.

“Easy, Tiger,” said Lucas Pool snatching his hand back. “Nice girls don’t bite.” He scowled at the dude with whom I’d exchanged looks, and then shoved me to the side. “Forget lover boy, Faith. The only dick you taste is mine.”

I glared at my agent turned captor. He countered with a chuckle, knowing he had the upper hand. We faced off, his finger playing with the razor-thin scar that zigzagged from his right eye to his jaw. Whoever gave it to him had my heartfelt thanks. I wished it had been his throat.

“Eventually, she’ll get bored with the sun and want her body back,” I said. “When she does, she’s not going to like what’s going on.”

He shrugged. “I’ll deal with that when it happens. But for now, if you got to piss, do it. Your next set is in ten minutes.”

Vampires only pee if they drink something besides blood. From the time I awoke to find myself in her body, Lucas mixed things into the blood he fed me. It kept me weak and my fangs retracted. Unable to hunt, I was dependent on him for sustenance. He provided it for a price. Sex. Worse, Lucas liked it kinky. He dressed me in little girl clothes and made me beg, taking a perverse pleasure in my lost manhood.

As the bastard shuffled away, Gary Winters, my bassist, caught my eye. Tugging back his sleeve, he exposed the adhesive tape circling his wrist where I’d fed. He raised his eyebrows, questioning when.

“Tonight,” I said.

I was strong enough now to turn Gary. Together, we’d take care of Lucas, then separate. Gary had some scores he could settle only as a vampire. I wanted my body back and a chance at the bitch that stole it. I’d miss the band. “The Bloody Faithful” was growing in popularity not just here, in New Orleans, but across the U.S.

My drummer and guitarist finished their beers then made their way to the stage. The lights dimmed. A hush fell over the crowd as the band took its place. I snatched up my mike as the drummer counted off with his sticks. It was show time.

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.

“Straighten your back, wench!”

You feel a hand pressed into the small of your back, and immediately straighten, pulling your shoulders back, your breasts thrust forward. You kneel back on your heels, with your arms resting on each thigh, and keep your knees spread wide apart, displaying the slit in your groin. That slit which for your first twenty five years you didn’t have.

You kneel and gaze forward, proud to be a slave owned by your glorious, your divine Master.

“Highly satisfactory. You’ve done an excellent job with her, Travis. She’s superb.”

“Thank you, sir. She’s a natural, just as you said.”

Travis is never brutal. He’s not unnecessarily harsh; unless he’s training you he can even be gentle. Unless he’s disciplining you.

You believe he’s an Alpha male exactly like Master, but he prefers to be employed by someone else. It’s his own choice that he’s the suave butler rather than the Master of the House.

About your Master there are no doubts. He’s like a Greek God, this man who has fixed a collar round your throat and a ring through your nose, like a young Apollo in splendour, and you adore him.

He comes and stands behind you, and cups your breasts in his strong hands, as if testing the weight of them. He raises his fingers to pinch your nipples, and you shudder slightly, leaning back into him.

“Very good.”

He releases you and goes round to the front as you straighten again. He places a finger under your chin, and raises it, so that you’re looking up at him. You can’t read the expression on his face.

“Do you know why I’ve done this? Think now!”

You are silent for several seconds, and then something occurs to you. Timidly you ask

“B-b-because you love me, Master?”

The back-hander across your face is swift and hard, so that you topple over and lie on your side whimpering. .Then you feel Travis’s hands on your arms, firm and gentle, raising you upright again.

“Never say anything like that again, slave wench! Love is a beautiful thing that can only happen between two equals. Travis will punish you for that tonight.”

Punish? Oh god!

“You were always too intellectual, so you don’t see yet, but you will. When you’ve learned how to think with your emotions and your body as well as your mind, then you’ll see. We were friends, and friendship is an eternal bond.”

And suddenly it all comes together. You do see, as you recall being at school when you were boys, and shared everything, and did everything together, except that you learned Greek as well as Latin, and he played Rugby.

And now you’re his slave wench.

He’s standing with his manhood out in front of your face. It’s longer and twice as thick as yours was when you had one. You gaze at him joyously, lean forward and take it in your mouth....

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. In the 'Real World''he' retired a few months ago, so should now have plenty of time to write more.

"Good morning." The words pushed themselves out of lips that were the only things moving on my stubbled face.

"It's an excellent morning!" Her face moved enough for both of us: eyebrows rising, cheeks filling, even her nose wrinkling to emphasize just how much she meant every word that launched past her cash register.

"I'll have a black strong coffee." I leaned on the counter, a green portrait of Abraham Lincoln positioned between my old fraternity ring and my wedding band.

"Don't you mean a Black Thong Coffee?" She pointed at a chalkboard drawing of an umbrella and a beach ball. I never understood the need for theme days in this cafe.

I looked at her for a moment, not saying anything. Her expression faltered, but then she perked back up, took the five from between my fingers, and came back with a coffee and my change. The former approached my lips and the latter made its way into the pocket of my tailored, if faded, suit.

I sat down and took a sip. My eyes, for the first time that morning, began to look in directions that were not straight ahead. I began to listen to things that didn't directly pertain to me.

"Jim, whitecap-puccino!" Why was everyone behind the bar so perky? They must drink too much coffee. "Whitecap-puccino for Jim!"

I turned to look at the pick-up counter just as some guy, Jim I assumed, grabbed the cup. He looked like just a normal guy. Probably the only other one in the cafe at the moment. People had sunglasses, straw hats, towels. "I'd like to order another iced tea-kini," I heard from a girl in a bikini. Who goes out for coffee like this?

I sighed and took another sip of my coffee. Jim sat down within my field of vision. Did he have a surfboard before? Maybe he wasn't as normal as I'd thought.

I brought the cup back to my lips and sucked the black liquid in, slow and long, savouring the warmth before I swallowed. Warm, like the sun at the beach.

I pulled at the heel of one of my flip-flops with my other toe. Something dawned on me and I smiled: black thong coffee and I was wearing black thong sandals.

I took another long sip, and my thumb grazed against my smooth chin on the way down. I looked at the cup in my hand, my smooth, toned arm extending out to meet it.

Theme days are dumb in general, but I suppose beach day is okay.

One last sip, and the cup was empty.

I looked over at Jim. He'd been wearing a shirt before, hadn't he? Well, I wasn't one to talk, sitting there in nothing but my black thong bikini. I left my paper cup behind and stood up from my table, stepping towards Jim, confident in the curves I was putting on display.

Someone was about to have a sex on the beach.

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!

I flip off the television as the clock strikes midnight. Sighing, I get up and walk to the bathroom.

I stand in front of the mirror, staring at the balding and overweight man looking back at me. I mindlessly pick up the toothbrush and put oddly pink looking toothpaste on it. I don't even remember the last time a woman was here. Must have been at least 2 years ago, maybe more.

As I look in the mirror and brush my teeth, my hand went on autopilot. I briefly wonder why, but I chalk it up to this being routine by now.

The brown hair on my head elongates as I get shorter. My face feels softer, looks daintier, and looks much, much younger. The walls around me change to a light pink hue. My eyes widen in response to the change, but my hand keeps on brushing.

My chest starts to itch. I want to scratch it- oh how I want to scratch it!- but my hand keeps brushing.

My rib cage gets smaller with a sickening crunch. My stomach recedes, leaving me hungry for a brief moment. My vision fuzzes.

My eyes, the ones I was staring at, my eyes of 48 faithful years, turn a brilliant blue. My face an image of femininity, I get lost in my own eyes.

I don’t even notice my hips get wider. I don't notice the slight pulling sensation from my groin and stronger one where my hips expanded. I don't notice the rest of my hair falling out. I don't notice my whole situation change. I don’t even notice the modest breasts making themselves known. I rinse the now-feminine toothbrush off before I try to take everything in. A new life is presenting itself to me! But what am I supposed to do? After all, I'm just a teenager, now.

How did I know that? Do I really care? I may be a child now, but another chance at life… this kind of thing only happens once every few lifetimes! I mean, I've heard rumors of this type of thing happening...

"School tomorrow! Go to bed!" A woman's voice calls. I instantly place it, though I don't know how.

"Okay, Mom!" I yell back. Smiling, I walk, instinctively, to a room that happens to be mine now.

A new life. The life a teenage girl. I’m an only child now. But who will miss me?

Nobody. That’s who. Because this who I have always been. And I’m going to make the best of it this time. From overweight to skinny. From unattractive to cute. From debt to boyfriends. My life sure has changed.

It’s not every day that you get a new shot at life. Even if it means being a girl. So I'm glad this happened to me! Even if I don't quite know how.

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.

Everyone sat on folding chairs in a big circle with the probation department’s psychologist leading the session seated facing the door. “Okay, who wants to start?” A thin girl just to the psychologist’s right shifted nervously and got picked on. “Alright, Beth, how did your blind date go?"

Kim half-listened because she had to. When it was Kim’s turn, they might ask what he thought about what Beth said. Like he could care. The public defender had warned him this might happen but what choice did he have? He was drunk when the girl got raped at the party. He came to when the police arrested him. No one listened when he said he never touched that girl but the PD had cut a deal he couldn’t say no to. Probation. 36 months. And no jail time. The PD made clear what would happen to a guy as small and slim as he was in jail and Kim took the deal, even though he was innocent.

Dr. Jones, the psychologist, put all her “clients” in a special group – if they were male but not manly. According to her, everything was about gender and body dysphonia. Anti-social males were in rebellion against a gender and body role model that was contradicted by their true internalized identity. If you wanted to stay in her group and out of jail, you needed to play along. Kim was no exception; indeed, Dr. Jones had become fixated on him as if she was testing how far she could go with him.

He looked at the clock and they were 15 minutes into the session. Time to check hair and make-up. He slipped a mirror out of his purse for a quick look, pouffed his hair a little in back and freshened his lip gloss. Donna was droning on about whether she should go blond. Donna used to be Doug, a computer guy from the suburbs. Across the way, Kim could see his reflection in the big “Affirmations” mirror. Dr. Jones liked to ask her clients to stand in front of the mirror and say something affirming bout their transitions to sissy and girlhood. Didn’t have to be true. Just say something and get past it.

Kim was wearing a short pink jacket that showed off his too-tight and tiny tee shirt over black spandex capris. Cork-soled wedgies, 4” heels and black straps. Big black plastic hoops in his ears, a matching clunky necklace and lots of noisy black plastic bangles. He crossed his right leg over his left and his hands holding his knee just so Dr. Jones would see his new mani-pedi. He wasn’t a girl even if he was about that tall and just as slim. No boobs, no hips. And this was how it was going to be for 33 more months?

“And so, Kim, how much thought have you been giving to breast implants and hormones?”

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

"'Sup, bro," said Rob as he sat down beside Andrew, who was gazing towards the far off distance that was the other side of his small backyard pool, his legs in the water.

"Hey, man," Andrew said in a quiet, dull monotone, making no attempt at turning to greet his friend.

"You alright? I heard some shit about you shapeshifting into a mermaid or something,"

Andrew cringed. The subject was something that he wished everyone, himself included, would forget.

Rob punched his friend lightly on the shoulder. "You're one of the few people that can shapeshift into something and you're fuckin' whinging about it?"

"You wouldn't understand."

Rob wouldn't relent. He was constantly trying to motivate Andrew to be more active with his life, and he saw the current situation as Andrew once again settling for nothing.

"Ok, tell me what I'm missing. You can change back and forth between this shithead in front of me and a bangin' mermaid at will, you can outswim sharks now, let's not forget that you might be the first shapeshifter in this state."

"It isn't that simple," Andrew replied.

"Fuckin' hell. Bro. Pull your head out of your arse. It's not the end of the world." Sometimes Andrew really tested his patience.

"My dad said that."

Of course he did, thought Rob.

"Well good on him. He knows what he's talking about. You've got a great opportunity here and there's no reason to let it waste away," Rob said, exasperated with Andrew's lack of enthusiasm for what had to be the millionth time.

"He said that, too."

"And you should listen to him."

"It's not so black and white, man... Of all the... Shit... I'd rather not be able to shapeshift at all."

"I respect that, but there's no point moping if you're never gonna shapeshift, anyway. So since you want to keep moping, just this once, ok?"

Once again Andrew cringed.

"Look, bro. We've known each other since primary. I won't laugh at you, I won't see anything I'm not supposed to. Wear whatever makes you comfortable."

"Just this once," said Andrew, resigned to the fact that Rob would get him to do it eventually. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

He didn't bother changing out of his board shorts nor did he make any effort to find something to cover his chest for when he transformed. Before Rob could say anything, Andrew jumped into the pool.

He then moved over towards the deep end until the water blurred Rob's vision and the shadow beneath the surface shifting shape was barely visible.

Rob picked himself up off of the edge of the pool in an attempt to get a better look, Andrew finally rose to the surface.

Oh...

He wasn't lying when he said he could transform into a mermaid.

Rob just didn't expect Andrew to have the upper body of a fish and the legs of a woman.

WhoIAm is a beginner writer who mainly reads sci-fi and fantasy fiction, TG or otherwise. WhoIAm is currently practising writing before attempting to post anything of length.

The wind and rain lashed down out of the dreary evening sky causing the young man to lean forward, stumbling slightly, as he headed toward the welcoming shelter of Shamus’s Pub. The pub was situated between the St. Louis Magic-User’s Guild Hall and the St. Louis Academy of Magic-Users, and was within walking distance of the former, which made it a popular stop for the Guild’s Special Agents and Inspectors after work.

The pub was famous for its microbrew, but Rob wasn’t here for the beer. Warm golden light spilled into the darkness as the front door of Shamus’s Pub banged open and a pair of rough looking men, with several days’ worth of scraggly beard, pitched forward drunkenly into the night. A third even scruffier guy flew out hitting his companions and knocking them into a large puddle.

“If I see any of you back here causing trouble I’ll dump you in a Guild cell for forty-eight hours on a public intoxication charge!” A short blonde woman in a wrinkled pants suit shouted.

Rob looked at the men, very conscious of the fact that he was a “mundane” and nearly everyone in this pub would be a Magic-User, while wondering how such a small woman had managed to toss three large men out of the bar. Pushing his way in Rob felt a slight tingle as he crossed the threshold. He paused to look around, and listened to the soft cacophony of conversation that filled the taproom, before making his way to the bar.

“Colby, can I get a beer?” Rob said, reading the bartender’s nametag.

“Sure, what kind?”

“What’s the house special?”

With a grunt Colby reached under the bar and brought up a bottle, and with a twist he popped the top and slid the beer to Rob. Rob moved to pick up the bottle and locked gazes with Colby, for a second Rob couldn’t move, it was like a spell had been cast on him, and then it was over. He picked up his beer and took a sip. The amber liquid was rich and refreshing, and for a second Rob wondered if it was the product of an Alchemist.

“Why are you here?”

The bluntness of Colby’s question caught Rob by surprise. “You’re a mundane, hanging out at a bar full of semi-drunk Magic-Users might not be the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”

“I’m a reporter. I’m here to interview Inspector Alan Lee.”

Colby grinned, “Another story on the terrorist, Master Sorcerer Silas and his attack on the Guild?”

“Yes, and no. I’m covering the victims. I understand that Inspector Lee was in the Hall when Silas attacked. My editor spoke to Grand Master Donegal, who set up this interview with Inspector Lee. Do you know if he’s here?”

Colby grunted and nodded toward the end of the bar where the petite blonde in the wrinkled suit sat nursing a whisky. “A word of advice, friend, Al’s feeling a bit hormonal tonight.”

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 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

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 thankyou to all the authors who contributed; the newbies and the veterans of the first Mixed Tape (if you liked this collection look that one up – the name to search for is “Miniskirts”). 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 June’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. However, I do want the Mixed Tapes to showcase a wide variety of the stories – from the serious, to the silly, to the erotic – and because of this, this time around, I’m especially interested in stories focusing on female to male transformations and realistic pieces dealing with gender dysphoria and the day to day lives of LGBT protagonists. I feel that there haven’t been enough of these types of stories in these collections so far.

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

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

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

Until then, or until I hear from you.

Cheers

PersnicketyBitch (editor)

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

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

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

Rachel drums her fingers on the wheel.

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

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

Rachel ah-hums agreement.

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

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

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

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

“She’s very quiet.”

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

“Baby steps?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

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

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

The mattress molds itself to their bodies.

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

T-minus 00:00:02.

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

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

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

T-minus 00:00:01.

A pause. To taste. To savor.

Ten seconds.

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

Two.

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

T-minus 29:22:15.

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

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

Casey fondles his well filled tiny whities.

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

This feels better.

She gently pushes him away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stephanie drums her fingers on the wheel.

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

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

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

Stephanie ah-hums agreement.

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

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

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

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

“She’s very quiet.”

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

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

“Baby steps?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

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

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

The mattress molds itself to their bodies.

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

T-minus 00:00:02.

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

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

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

T-minus 00:00:01.

A pause. To taste. To savor.

Ten seconds.

(Yet another clue re. how the countdown works)

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

Two.

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

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

T-minus 29:22:15.

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

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

Virgil fondles his well filled tiny whities.

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

She gently pushes him away.

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

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

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

I’m putting another Mixed Tape collection together (you can read Irresistible, Kissable here and the first collection, Miniskirts, here). If you want to be part of it e-mail me at hutch0@hotmail.com.au. Let me know if you’re interested in the comments.

The guidelines are:

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

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

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

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

Until then, or until I hear from you.

Cheers

PersnicketyBitch

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 DAW

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."

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”).

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)

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

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.

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”).

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 anddo 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

Everyone’s favorite magical cassette is back! This month featuring 12 short, short stories that will transport you from the exclusive and dangerous worlds of royals and aristocrats, to slices of contemporary life, to the last days of Planet Earth, and an interview with Minikisa the author of “Of Heroes and Villains”.

The busker was adjusting the strings on his guitar and yarning:

They called it the Hobo Jungle, though you probably don’t remember it. It’s long gone now, that shopping trolley graveyard under the old bridge. There were cars too, car skeletons rather. The panels and engines were missing and when the river dried to a tinkle – which it does from time to time, mark my words, even though it don’t look like it ever could now – they’d emerge all rusty and gunked over. Cars, and all kinds of other shit you wouldn’t believe. There was a Red Cross donation bin up next to the highway, but the Red Cross never put it there. That was Jin, who queened it over the bums and vagrants back then. And how herself and Trev – who claimed he’d been an enforcer for Bullhead Joe and his mob, but’d got kicked out for being too tough (and who’s to say he weren’t telling the truth; Trev was always less full of it than everyone else) – boosted it from the Alderman Street depo is quite a story.

Oh, the things people dumped in that bin. The things people left beside it. Garage sale cast offs. Some with the slips of paper with the too optimistic prices printed on in texta or permimarker still stuck to ‘em. Fiberboard kit desk, with Jodie ❤’s Anton and a palm tree carved into the bottom, and a cock and balls and clit white-outed on: $60. Clock and chronometer, set into a strip of bark: $80. Cane couch, marbles – catseyes, pearlies, turtleshells, tigerstripes – jammed into the weave: $130. Bin bags, stretched tight by knickknacks or toys – Maddonas, virgins, saviours, saints, plastic tourist kitsch and glass, wood and wool trinkets for the knit your own yogurt crowd; supersoakers, building-blocks, trucks that turned into robots and sexless, sexed up dolls – or kitchen crap – saucepans, wobble handled fryers, cutlery and such on. All crap, but dammit if it weren’t just a little bit like Christmas every second day or two.

So that’s how the tape came to the Jungle. Its insides were mostly outsides when I found it in a box of dog-eared Clancy’s, Koontz’s and Cussler’s, but I untangled them and spooled them back in with a ballpoint, and tossed it into my collection, which filled the crate next to my sheet pile. I used to be a record store wallflower way back, and even though I had next to nothing I still clung to the rocker, good time girl dream. At night I’d pop one of my tapes into my broken boom-box and sing and dance myself till exhaustion. But the night of the tape there was… not music, not at first. And it filled me. With my lips I gave it lyrics. With my hands a melody on air guitar. And I see them; Jin, Trev, the others, the first to crowd around. And the cars, stopped on the bridge, backed up. The strangers sliding down the embankment to join us.

“Well what do we have here? Is it a pilgrim from the prophecy?” I said turning around. “You’re not the first one tho step on my lair, what makes you think you’re able to defeat me?”

I waited for his answer.

He said nothing. He looked tired which was understandable. He had not had a pleasant journey.

“So,” I said, “You’re a silent one. I will make sure that your pleadings echo through the walls of my castle.”

He approached me. The creaks and shrieks of his armour pierced my ears. He was unprepared for my magic, and judging from at the way he almost stumbled with every step he took, his armour was a burden to him. This will be easy, I think, this will be fun. And I do need a body for my research.

The knight charged and put all his strength into his first blow. I dodged. He lost his balance and fell. As he tried to get back to his feet, I struck him down using a thunderbolt. It pierced his armour and burned his skin.

I laughed at his attempts to stand again. “So the puny human still has some spirit.” And using my scythe I stabbed him in the chest, and lifted him up with the blade.

“It looks like you’re in the need of a new blacksmith,” I told him as I wrenched the blade free. Blood Sprayed. He collapsed to the ground. “And a surgeon. And a priest to pray for your soul.”

I dragged his almost dead body through the halls of my castle, painting the floor with a bright red smear. I entered my chambers, and I hefted him up and onto on my wooden table. “I better do this while your insignificant body is still alive.” I dissolved his armour with a flick of the wrist, slid my hand into the slit in his chest, and pulled it wide open. The Knight spasmed in agony.

I grabbed was left of my sister from a nearby shelf. “I’ve had in mind what would happen if I introduce a goddess’ soul into the body of a human.” I said, “And what a better way to find out! Will your body burn? Explode? Will it be able to contain such power? Let’s find out!”

And find out I did.

As I sat in front of this human, his wounds rapidly healed, and his body began to emit an eerie yellow glow, that grew so bright that I wasn’t able to see through it. Soon the glow grew so intense that I to avert my gaze.

And when it finally faded, I was amazed at my results.

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.

The thing is, I never paid much attention to who I was. Life sort of carried me along. I had a job and that was okay. I had friends but I liked them more than they liked me. No serious girlfriends. No big ambitions. Looking back, if I had died, people would have said that’s too bad, but I don’t think many of them would have made the viewing. I was okay with that but I had the growing sense that nothing mattered. I didn’t matter and that eventually it would catch up with me.

I've never done open mike stand-up before so here goes. Last Halloween, I’m walking into a drag bar called The Birdcage. There are two girls in front of me. One dressed like a 50’s Hollywood starlet, all lipstick and teased hair. The other in a motorcycle jacket and jeans, bigger, maybe even husky. I figured I was behind a lipstick lesbian and her partner. No big deal. I was there to see the holiday drag show. Do I have change for a fifty, the starlet wants to know. I give her two twenties and a ten, and then pay my own way in. Costume’s optional but I’m the only one not wearing one, making me the one that sticks out. Great. I don’t see anyone I know so I say hello to the pair I met at the door. And the joke’s on me. See, the starlet is a guy named Bryce and the lesbian also is a guy, Dana, who tells me he’s in marketing. They’re Marilyn and James Dean and seriously pissed off because Toby called and said he isn’t gonna’ make it, and he was supposed to be Madonna. I say that’s too bad, which they ignore because they’re arguing whether I can do the Madonna thing and keep the act together. Get up on stage and lip sync to Like a Virgin. I’m begging off but there’s a $500 prize and I keep half. Before I know it, I’m in back and they’re scouring piles of costume parts, wigs, shoes, whatever. And then, bamm, in no time, I’m back out front. Dressed in a pink satin corset, the cone bra thing, a frizzy blonde wig, hose, heels, lots of makeup and junk jewelry. Our turn, we get up there and prance around. It’s Fosse Fosse. Twyla Twyla. Martha Graham. Michael Kidd. Madonna Madonna. It’s, you know, fun. The crowd, which was blasted drunk, goes insane. And we win! I won’t say it changed my life but Dana and Bryce called. We’re going shopping on Saturday. So joke’s on me twice.

(And Robin… rest in joy and save us a seat.)

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.

Prismatic rays of ever-shifting colors whirl and twist in the hollow carved into the headpiece, illuminating the winding wood from within. The eerie light spills into the hallowed hall, the only source of light in this darkened tomb.

The staff waits.

Hungry eyes sweep along its length, coveting, needing. And yet, the gangly boy hesitates, wiping sweaty palms on dirty trousers. He is tall, as tall as the staff and almost as thin, reedy in the way of those whose bodies have not yet caught up with a growth spurt.

He swallows heavily and takes a step forward, only to retreat a moment later.

And still the staff waits.

It is a witch’s staff, a weapon, powerful beyond measure. Only a worthy witch may wield it. Those who touch it and are found wanting pay a heavy price.

He licks his cracked lips, long fingers twitching.

It’s his.

He knows it’s his.

He feels it in his bones, his heart, his entire being. It calls to him.

I’m yours, it sings. You’re mine.

The boy is not a witch. Cannot be a witch, for only women are witches. The power of creation is theirs alone. But gods, he longs to be. If he were to claim that he does not crave the power, it would be a lie, for who does not want to be powerful? But no, it is not power that compels him to stand in this room, shivering and alone, staring at a weapon that might kill him if he were to touch it.

“Please,” he whispers to any god who cares to listen and steps forward again, his ascent up the stairs unsteady and uncertain.

He is a fool to be doing this. Clearly his senses took their leave a long time ago and never bothered to return to their proper place. He was told as much that one time when he got too deep in his cups and drunkenly tried to explain to his best friend why he should henceforth be called by a woman’s name.

Perhaps he drank a little too much tonight as well.

Before reason can triumph over liquid courage he gives himself a final push, stumbling over the last step.

His fingers close around the gnarled wood.

It’s warm to the touch.

And then the darkness of the hall is swallowed by a terrible burning light.

When the guards finally succeed in prying apart the half-fused doors, they are greeted by the sight of a naked body curled up on the dais, wrapped in the tattered remains of smoldering cloth.

She is crying, sobbing even, inhaling great heaving gulps of happiness.

All her life they told her she was a boy.

As she cradles the softly glowing staff to her chest, she knows at last that they were wrong.

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”. She also wrote the short story “Dragonslayer”, a twisted fairytale she considers one of her best works.

The slender hands of a child, age eleven, danced across the keys as they navigated the trickier passages of the “Rondo Alla Turca.” On the best days, the piano and the child were one, fellow travelers through the world of Mozart, Beethoven, and Strauss, each taking the other to heretofore unexplored realms of musical complexity.

Today, however, was not one of those days.

Within a minute, the blistering arpeggios disintegrated into a cacophonous cluster of notes, ending with a frustrated swat at the keys. There would be no communing with Mozart today.

Where is she?

Adjusting a recalcitrant hair bow, the child blew a stray curl aside as the metronome ticked away, each second louder than the last.

Suppose something happened to her?

“I’m not hearing any music in there. You know you have another ten minutes to practice, Abigail….”

The child identified as “Abigail” smiled a wicked grin.

If it’s music she wants….

The slender fingers launched into something marvelous, overheard on the midway of the St. Louis fair the year before. Something called “ragtime.”

Soon the air filled with the lively strains of “The Easy Winners,” Aunt Hattie and Mozart be hanged. By the middle of the trio the hands moved of their own will, the child a prisoner of the steady syncopation. Fingers straining to span the treacherous octaves, our young friend’s excitement built until—

“—Emory! What in Sam Hill are you doing?”

Emory jumped at the sound of his twin sister, so startled his hair bow drooped down over one eye.

“Abby! Where have you been?” the boy hissed.

Clouds of dust arose from Abby’s pinafore front as she brushed away the remnants of right field. “The game, where else?” She threw down her glove. “Never mind me! You know Aunt Hattie hates that music. You’re gonna give us away!”

“But Abby,” the boy complained, trying unsuccessfully not to whine. “You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago!”

“So the game went into extra innings,” Abby said with a shrug, releasing another cloud of dust. “You better get those clothes off before—“

“—ahem!”

The children felt their aunt’s glare before they saw her.

Aunt Hattie didn’t wait for explanations. “Don’t. I suspected this little charade.”

Tightening Emory’s drooping hair bow, she ruffled his curls. “Your ‘sister’ here is quite the musician, Abigail. As you might be, had you not spent your Sundays sliding into second. Did you really think I wouldn’t know?”

Abby remained silent.

“Get changed, Abigail, then sweep second base off my parlor floor. And as for you, young ‘lady’”, she added, indicating Emory, “I’ve chosen a dress for you for Abigail’s recital. She needs a duet partner.”

Emory did a double-take. “Ma’am?”

“You heard me, ‘Emily.’ And until then, you will dress as you are.”

‘Emily’ could have sworn ‘her’ aunt winked.

“Oh, and Emily, you may play that dreadful ragtime, but tell no one. The ladies’ club would have apoplexy!”

“Emily” winked back, grinning. Mozart could surely wait.

Rachel currently has only one completed story online, the SRU tale "A Box Full Of Dreams" (published under the name, Rachel Newstead), 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."

The deepening shadow took on a three dimensional quality just before the Bloodknife stepped into the royal bedchamber. The assassin’s senses expanded until he KNEW the room. Then he attacked.

The silk bed-curtain parted as he drove his knife toward the recumbent form of the Princess. Impossibly fast, the princess rolled toward the assassin catching the descended knife in an x-block while driving the heel of a dainty foot into his ribs with explosive force. Bodyshields flared, red against blue, then the assassin flew into the far wall. Saved from a crushing impact by his bodyshield, the assassin looked up in time to see the princess move toward him. She held a naked glowing Gladius in her delicate right hand and it matched the impossible blue glow of a Knight’s Energy Shield on her left arm.

‘This cannot be,’ the assassin thought, and made his decision. In a move too fast to stop the Bloodknife drove his own blade into his eye. There was a flash of magic, the smell of burnt tissue, and the man’s body slumped to the floor.

The doors to Princess Aglarwen’s bedchamber flew open as an alarm sounded within the palace. The guards rushed to the princess, making sure she was safe, before looking at the body. Aglarwen waved them off and moved to a small couch where she sat down, legs spread in an unladylike fashion, sword resting over her knees. The Sergeant of the King’s Watch gulped at the display of creamy royal flesh, flesh clad only in a diaphanous gown and clingy undergarments.

In minutes the King reached his daughter’s chamber and ordered everyone out except the princess.

“Alright, Sir Garth, what happened?”

At this the ‘Princess’ stood up and saluted. “Your majesty was right. As you can see the Emperor didn’t take your refusal well. I’d say this attempt, on Princess Aglarwen’s life, amounts to a declaration of war.”

King Roderick nodded and then looked at Garth, “For god’s sake, man, cover yourself. That’s my daughter’s body you’re showing the entire court!”

Just then the doors to the chamber burst open and Sir Garth, Knight Captain of the King’s Watch sashayed into the chamber slamming the door shut. There was a wild look on his face, until he saw the princess, and then relief.

“Thank the Gods, you’re safe. I was told an Imperial Bloodknife had attacked!”

“Yes, Aglarwen, but Sir Garth took care of it.”

At this the big man grimaced, “So, father, you were right. But now that the assassin has been defeated, can we swap back? This body is very uncomfortable!”

“Your majesty, as much as I’d like to return to my body, I feel it is my DUTY to say, that the threat from the Empire has just begun.”

The King looked from his finest fighter, wearing his daughter’s flesh, to the rough skin housing the soul of his spoiled, indolent, heir.

“I’m sorry dear, but until this unpleasantness is concluded, Sir Garth must keep your body safe.”

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."

I tucked my nightdress under me as I sat down in front of the dressing table, my eyes travelling across the familiar array of cosmetics and past the smoke drifting up lazily from the cigarette in the ashtray, before coming to rest on the wedding photo. I smiled wistfully. Had it really been six months since the wedding? It seemed like only yesterday. But then it also seemed like only yesterday that my husband Joe and I were standing in that office on an Earth facing imminent destruction, being briefed on our one chance of survival.

"We can send you back in time," explained the Major, "but only your minds. You'll take over the bodies of people who were days away from dying in accidents, and live out the lives they never did."

"Do we get to choose our new lives?" I asked.

"I'm afraid not. The process is random."

"Can we at least stay together?" asked Joe. "Carol and I only just got married and the thought of never seeing each other again is unbearable."

He squeezed my hand and gave me a hopeful smile.

"That much we can do," said the Major. "It's not a lot, but we can arrange things so you arrive in the past together, so that you're still family. But remember, you must do nothing to change the past. You have to quietly live out your lives in whatever situation you find yourselves in."

Staring into the mirror, studying my pretty face, I remembered his words, how forceful he had been. We'd agreed, of course. The alternative was staying where we were and facing a fiery death alongside all those billions whose number hadn't come up in the lottery.

Joe had gone downstairs to let our visitor in. The sound of them climbing the stairs pulled me from my reverie. I turned on the stool as the door opened and there they were.

"Hello, Emily," said Kelly, coming over and lifting me off the stool, "and how's my favourite girl today?"

"Don't let her stay up past her bedtime," said my husband Joe, now my mother Alice, retrieving her cigarette and taking a final drag before stubbing it out, still as beautiful as in that wedding photo where she was the bride and I was the prettiest flower girl you ever saw.

"Come on, darling, we're going to be late!" came a man's voice from downstairs.

"Mommy has to go now, sweetie," said Alice, kissing me on the forehead.

She gave my baby sitter a quick smile, then swept out, looking amazing in her evening dress and five inch heels. This may not be the life together we'd hoped for, but we're alive, we love each other, and at least we're still family. That's got to count for something.

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. Recently he has written several Star Trek fanfics riffing on the Original Series episode "Turnabout Intruder".

There had been a time when I'd thought magic was nothing more than a bunch of silly tricks, but that was before he had come into my life. He was just beginning his transformation and it would be over in a matter of minutes. It was the least he deserved for what he put me and so many others through. My only regret was that it wouldn’t last longer. I took consolation in the fact that while the changes would be brief, they’d also be excruciating.

I could feel it starting, the pure luminescent and elemental energy of the Earth wrapping around him like a cocoon. Lucian let out a scream as his body started to contort and twist. Breasts pushed out from his chest. A scar, which had disfigured one of his nipples smoothed out almost as if it had never existed. Muscles faded away and his tall frame, shrunk draining away like water from a broken vase.

Another scar, this one in his thigh, paled then disappeared and I let out a sigh of regret. I would have like for him to keep that one. I’d been the one to give it to him. His hips expanded just about the same time as a mass of brilliant red curls cascaded from the back of his once brunette head. He let out a scream and clenched his brown eyes shut and when he opened them again they were a brilliant blue. His chiseled jaw, softened and his nose, broken long ago, popped back into place and shortened to match the rest of his now beautiful feminine face. Hell, even his teeth, crooked and stained from years of smoking, straightened and whitened.

Hands shrunk, bunions disappeared, legs went on for miles, arms took on just the right amount of tone, they all changed to match his new body, but the final transformation was the most traumatic, at least for Lucian. He let out another scream and reached out to grab his crotch where his cock and balls, his pride and joy, became a perfectly formed vagina.

“Oh god,” he said with that high feminine voice and I slammed my fist into the new woman’s jaw as the rest of the spell took effect.

The fierce intelligence once mirrored in her eyes faded away replaced by a vacant withdrawn look. Lucian was still there, but he wasn’t exactly holding the reins to his body any more. Kitty however was, and Lucian would be forced to experience everything she did, a prostitute who had a taste for some particularly distasteful and painful things. Finally, he’d gotten what was coming to him. Karma was a bitch even if it occasionally needed a little push.

Eventually, Lucian might find a way to reverse the spell I’d put on his mind, but somehow I doubted he’d ever find a way to reverse the sex change. I know I hadn’t.

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”).

Elyot’s hand was shaking. He couldn’t pick up his coffee. Trisha was way out of his league. In truth any girl was; who’d be interested in a shambling, 17 year old nerd? But Trisha was special. Gorgeous honey-blonde hair; a heart-shaped face that was flawless yet full of character, with blue eyes that seemed to laugh and to dance; a gently curvaceous body; and legs up to her armpits. And he was having coffee with her!

She leaned towards him, and her human warmth was so intense he felt himself almost knocked over.

“Nervous? There’s no need to be. This is something I think you’re going to like.”

She smiled at him, and the whole café seemed doused in a heady, feminine perfume.

“Don’t you recognise me, Ellie?”

Elyot hated his name, but he hated being called ‘Ellie’ even more. Girls used it to tease, bullies to humiliate. Only one person could ever call him ‘Ellie’ and get away with it. Darren, his almost-friend, who’d shared his love of fantasy, who’d been killed in an accident two years ago. A month before Trisha had transferred into their school…

No, surely not…

No…

“D-darren?”

Trisha laughed. “Not anymore. Not since I signed the contract.”

“And that’s where I come in,”

The girl sitting beside her opened her folder. She was half Trisha’s height, with a pudding-basin haircut and glasses so thick Elyot could hardly make out her eyes behind them. She wore a faded gingham summer dress. Marcie. Only afterwards did he realise he’d never seen her before.

“I want you to have the same chance I had. It’s everything Marcie promised, and more. I’ve never regretted it.”

“It’s a standard contract,” said Marcie, “but customised to your own requirements. Here, have a look through the brochure.”

‘The Hottest Girl in the School’ was embossed in gold leaf on the cover. ‘A body to die for by Diabolique Designs. Because you’re worth it’.

There were pictures of girls in different poses, each in school uniform, swimsuit and prom dress, but all stunning enough to be models or idol singers.

“Of course they’ll move you to a new school and a new family. If you stay here you could only be my sidekick.”

“Don’t worry, our after-sales service is guaranteed,” Marcie added.

Elyot’s heart began to race. Could this really be true? Natasha, the dream he’d kept locked in the deepest and darkest recesses of his mind began to emerge into the sunlight.

“Um, customised?”

“Anything you like. Popularity is standard, naturally. How about a bimbo? That’s a frequent choice.”

“No thanks. Could you make me a few degrees more intelligent? And entry to an elite university with a first class degree?”

Beauty with brains had always been the killer for him.

“I’m not asking too much, am I?”

“Not at all.” Marcie was generous. “You only get what you pay for.”

“Where do I sign?”

“Ah, there’s a little ritual to go through first. Unzip your pants…”

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.

I cursed under my breath as a knock on the door caused me to smear the ink across my parchment, I'd have to rewrite the whole letter now. “Enter!” I snapped.

Lord Roberts stepped into my chambers and bowed. As always he cut quite the dashing figure in his navy blue doublet and sky blue stockings. He was followed by a furious looking Lady Wilhelma. She wore an elegant and demure green flowing dress, her blonde hair covered by her two peaked bonnet. Despite her red face, she curtsied.

“My Lord, I must speak to you about a scandal before it becomes public knowledge,” Lord Roberts said.

From the lady's face I knew what the scandal was, yet appearances had to be kept. I allowed my eyes to widen slightly, “And what would this scandal be, might I ask?”

He thrust out his chest, “The Lady Wilhelma is a man!”

At this point the Lady drew herself up, raising her rather prominent chin, “My Lord I object to this slander. If I were a man I'd demand satisfaction. However since I am not I'm sure some of my admirers in court will be more than happy to step forward to protect my honour.”

I motioned for her to sit down. “What proof do you have that Lady Wilhelma is a man?”

“I have spoken to a former handmaiden of her's and she assures me that Lady Wilhelma is of the male sex,” he stated. “Once you look at her face, it is quite obvious, despite the soft skin, that that chin, those cheekbones and that nose, that she is truly a he.”

Well this rumour needed to be ended quickly. I stood up, setting my lips into a thin line and made my eyes hard. “Lord Roberts, I'm quite certain you've heard of some of my exploits in my youth, have you not?”

He nodded.

“Well then in strictest confidence, I have been intimately familiar with her Lady Wilhelma, and I assure you that if she is a man, then by all rights I must be a woman. And I would consider any suggestions in that regards to be a grave insult, which must be challenged in the field of honour,” I said, keeping my voice soft, yet hard as steel.

Roberts paled, apologized profusely to myself and the lady and almost ran out of the room.

As soon as I was sure he was out of earshot I turned to the 'lady'. “You must be more careful, my 'Lady'. You don't want anyone to discover what's under your skirts.”

She was trying hard not to laugh. “I loved how you put that sop in his place, my 'Lord'. Would you care to come to my chambers later this evening, to see who is the lady and who is the lord?”

I shivered as she reached into my specially padded tights and fondled my smooth crotch. “I'd be delighted.”

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.

Thursday nights are guy nights. Just the four of us. Mario Kart in the machine, music blasting from the computer, some beers, some bros, just hanging out.

Not that it never goes off without a hitch. For example when Pandora decides to play some bubble gum pop on our metal station out of the blue and Jared shoves my arm and goes "Hey, you want to dance?" and I go "No, I'm not that kind of girl," and he goes "Then what kind of girl are you?" and the words sort of fly their way around the room, in front of the TV, past the blades of the ceiling fan, into the fish tank, over the sofa and straight into my skull.

What kind of girl am I?

Well, I'm not the kind of girl who wants to dance. That's pretty established. What does that mean, what do I like to do instead? I like to play Mario Kart. Am I a gamer girl? Do I like to play other games? I have a decent computer. It's got Assassin's Creed on it. Minecraft. Goat Simulator. Yeah, that sounds like me. Not too athletic, into games, likes computers.

And I hang out with three guys on Thursdays. Why would a girl hang out with three guys every week? Is one of them my boyfriend? Jared asked me to dance, didn't he? But I said I'm not that kind of girl, so I don't think he's my boyfriend. I'm wearing boys clothes, though. Where did I get them from if I'm a girl? Did I sleep with someone?

What if I slept with all three of them? I mean, not all at once, I'm not that kind of girl either, but what if they take turns. I'm not out of shape, so I must get my exercise somewhere. Jared, Anders, Wesley, they're all decent guys. I could see myself with any of them. Maybe I just haven't decided which one.

Or maybe I won't pick any of them. Have I ever thought about settling down before? About kids? Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean that I have to want a family. I'm my own woman, and I don't have to conform to the image society gives me. I keep my hair short but neat, I look after myself, I plan for my own future, but I'm okay with where I am. Just experiencing life for a while.

That's the kind of girl I am. I'm a girl who knows what she likes, knows what she doesn't, and is comfortable in her own skin. Maybe I don't know what the future holds, and maybe that's okay for now. I'm just hanging out with my guys on a Thursday night.

And Jared shoves my arm again and goes "start the next race," and I go "alright, alright," and I take a sip from my beer and press A on the controller and it's four guys playing Mario Kart on a Thursday night.

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!

Horace Livingstone was livid, cursing and stomping around the interior of his lab. “Frigging people can't recognize genius when it rears up and bites their noses.”

Once again, one of his inventions had been passed over in favor of something flashier at the IIAC (Inventors International Awards Ceremony). “My automated can opener would have revolutionized life in the kitchen all over the world! But nooo! So what if a little glitch caused it to try opening one of the judges? The idiot shouldn't have pulled out that pocket watch.”

The can opener had interpreted the flash of metal as a can just waiting to be opened so had tried getting the job done with commendable zeal, in Horace's opinion. But the judge in question, once the EMTs finished patching him up had disqualified the invention rather loudly before he was taken to the ambulance. The other judges, sheep that they were, vocally agreed with that decision. The judge who had received the rather impromptu appendectomy had been screaming about legal action as he was wheeled out on the gurney.

“He would probably had to have some kind of surgery done soon, anyway. You'd think he'd have appreciated the freebie.” Horace grumbled.

That had been a month ago and he'd already received a formal letter from The International Inventors Union telling him he was banned from further competition and could expect word from the organization's lawyers soon. Not to mention more than a few restraining orders and notifications from the court regarding several law suits.

“All because my can opener got away from the restraining fields and got into the audience,” he let out a put upon sigh, “as if anything is perfect.”

He patted a small black box with a cord ending in a headset. “This little beauty will fix it all, though. It'll put me back to before all these little annoyances so I can fix them and get the recognition I deserve.”

He took the headset attached to the machine and placed it on his head. “Here I come for the fame and fortune,” he grinned as he pressed the start button on his newest invention.

“Now things will be better!” he cackled, blissfully unaware of just how insane that laugh sounded, “I'll finally get recognition for things I've...

“Done!” he finished after a period of disorientation. But the voice that finished the declaration didn't sound right. He didn't feel right either as an amplified voice boomed out from beside him.

“And now I proudly present to all of you,” the voice announced, “1954's Mother of the Year, Natalie Hawkins!”

“Oh, shit,” Horace, now Natalie breathed as she became aware of the different sensations from body and clothing while slowly getting off the chair and moving towards the podium set center stage of the platform she was on.

Maggie Finson has been around for some time by now. Stories she’s done range from the comedic to very serious and dark depending on her mood and muse. She created the Heaven and Hell universe, is one of the original creators of the Whateley universe, and has diverse stand alone stories and series including Maiden by Decree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Needless to say I self-service checkout.

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

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.

You can find out more about MtF gender reassignment surgery here.

Birgit Kappel’s boyfriend broke up with her the day after he proposed. He called it off over the phone to a mutual friend who passed the buck to someone who passed the buck to someone who passed the buck to someone else, and so on, etcetera, and as is the tragic, comic way of these things, Birgit was the last person in her social circle to find out.

She was, at first, a textbook broken heart. Look at her finger, see where she’s wound the phone cord tighter and tighter? And, phwoar, that breath, eh? Better hand over a coffee and steer clear. Albums rewound and replayed, repeat. And what was the one she returned to most you ask: Nena’s self-titled. A love/hate affair with old haunts? Of course.

The Wall was the hardest to keep away from. She walked by it almost every day. Looking for new works by the artists she knew, and revisiting the old ones. Say, that Dieter, he sure does a great Andropov, doesn’t he? But what’s this she’s written over it? Fick Dich. Fick Dick. Arschloch.

After spraying those words Birgit returned home subdued. Her minds ears filled her head with the pick-pocking synths of Nur geträumt. She stripped off and tied a length of twine around her waist, there was plenty left over and it trailed behind her as she made her way to the garage, to her car, and began to syphon. Ich bin so allein. Ich will bei dir sein. When the bucket was full, she took it out into her garden and upended it over her head. She held up an arm, and inspected the now-you-see-them-now-you-don’t rainbows in the oily wet film on her skin. Ich seh' deine Hand. Hab' sie gleich erkannt. She breathed in deeply the reek and the drops forming at the end of her nose. The fumes filled her, took the edge off her hangover, seemed to buoy a part of her up and out of her body. Mein Kopf tut weh, mach' die Augen zu. Ich lieg' im grünen Gras und erzähl' mir was. Then carefully, carefully, Birgit lit a match and held it to the frayed hemp fuse, stepped back, watched and waited, and then, screaming, blazed.

Fast forward thirty-one years. Chernenko comes and goes. Gorbachev presides over twilight of the Soviet Union. The Maastricht Treaty. Gorbachev sells his soul to Pizza Hut, Dieter Hahn skewers him in the last cartoon he draws for Süddeutsche Zeitung. The Euro. As the markets crash so does Deiter’s fourth marriage. Die Deutsche Fußballnationalmannschaft win the world cup.

This is where I come in.

Where Birgit’s house was in 1983 there is an apartment block. Without it her Shade would’ve wasted away to nothing. As is, it’s emaciated. The block’s inhabitants aren’t leaving enough impressions. I find it drawing the memory of a fight between a father and son – only a year old, barely aged – from a mirror that reflected the worst of it.

I offer up a fraction of my past to it, and as it gorges itself I bind it.

Will it, with its new awareness, regard what I’ve done as a kindness, or like The Pilot, further punishment?

The Shade examines the receptacle I have given to it. It mashes buttons. Play, rewind, play, rewind, record, rewind, fast forward, play.

Es ist gebrochen, it says.

No, it is not broken, the, I suppose you’d think of it as a Tape, is blank, and this, I imprint a person, a place, and some enquiries into its consciousness, is what I want you to do.

For anyone who hasn’t read them, pitch us your stories.

That’s a tough one.

I have a number of short stories but, being short, I think they are encompassed well by their tagline. So here’s the pitch for my first story set in the Paragon Verse, Of Heroes And Villains:

When Shade, Vigilante With An Advanced Degree In Brooding, meets Dionaea, Aspiring Femme Fatale, he expects nothing more than an easy battle and a swift arrest. Unfortunately for him, she ends up discovering a secret that could ruin him. Yet Dionaea is far too intrigued by her newfound lacey leverage to use it against him and soon Shade finds his black and white world crumbling. No matter how hard he tries to fight the growing attraction between them, he cannot resist the allure of the secret identity she tempts him with: his own.

Your Paragon stories took off in a big way. Was there any particular moment when it just clicked and you realised that “Oh, wow, people are really responding to this.” What was that like for you?

I can actually pinpoint when the story really took off. Chapter 17 saw an influx of new reviewers, coinciding with my first serious cliffhanger as one of the main characters was put in mortal peril, and the audience grew with each following chapter. Thus my addiction to cliffhangers was born. Clearly, they get results! (I later found out that the story got linked on another site and reached a new audience that way.)

Back when I started writing my first Paragon story, there was only one story on all of TG storytime that had more than a hundred reviews. Even getting to twenty reviews was an accomplishment. The community has changed since then, growing bigger and more vocal – there’s now half a dozen stories with 100+ reviews – but when I passed that milestone, I couldn’t believe it. When people started talking about spin-offs inspired by my writing, I was ecstatic. And when I got fanart, I made a squealing sound so high-pitched it’s outside the range of human hearing.

I’ve always been a daydreamer, creating worlds and people and adventures in my head. My writing was the first time I shared those elaborate daydreams with others. I really can’t describe the joy it brought me to see that complete strangers genuinely cared for these people living in my imagination.

Fanart (By Ian C Sampson)

How did you juggle writing and RL while you’re were serializing Of Heroes and Villains and the Ties that Bind? You were writing like a motherfucker during that period.

I was fortunate in that I was on holiday, but looking back, I honestly don’t know how I wrote so much. I just sat down every day and forced myself to write 1000 words minimum, but often ended up with 2k-3k, if not more. The muse was good to me.

I know it sounds trite, but forcing yourself to write when you have the time is really all there is to it. Yes, even when the muse is being uncooperative and everything you write seems horrible. Editing a crappy piece of writing to perfection is much easier than starting with a blank page. Even if it turns out you have to rewrite the scene from scratch later on, at least the hurdle is cleared for now, and the next scene might lure your muse out of hiding.

One of the things that impressed me the most about OHAV is how believably Trans your protagonist is. Can you tell us a bit about Shade and how you approach topics like gender dysphoria in your work?

Shade was born out of my frustration with how poorly MtF characters in forced femme fiction were often written. So I envisioned a character who would not become a humiliated frilly caricature. She would be a badass whose submissive nature did not mean she was weak, and who had motivations and flaws unconnected to her femininity or lack thereof.

In short, I set out to create a rounded character. Who happened to be a transgender superhero.

For the portrayal of her dysphoria I wanted to be both accurate and respectful, so I threw myself into research. I ended up drawing heavily on my own experiences with depression. I think looking into the mirror and not liking what you see is a very human experience. I also consulted with my lovely beta reader Andrea who has personal experience with dysphoria to make sure it all rang true. She patiently answered all my embarrassingly intrusive questions, and had the final say on whether a scene depicting dysphoria worked or not.

You write one seriously hot sex scene. Can you give us some dos and don’ts of smutwriting?

I think the key to writing a good sex scene is to not focus on the mechanics. If you just describe the act itself, you’ll end up with a generic sex scene. Who gets licked where is not that important. There’s only so many ways that Tab A fits into Slot B. What’s important is how it feels.

Your characters are the heart of the story, and they should be at the heart of a sex scene as well. If you write a sex scene where a character’s name could be swapped for someone else’s, then that’s not an intimate moment, that’s IKEA assembly instructions.

Are the characters involved the kind of people who laugh when something gets wedged where no things were meant to be wedged, or does it mortify them? Do they banter with each other in between their kisses? Is it casual sex that means nothing to either of them or is it an expression of love? All of that should be reflected in the narration.

The mechanics of sex do not vary much, but your characters and their relationship with each other do. They are the key to writing a memorable sex scene.

How do you think you’ve changed as a writer since you’ve been publishing stories?

This is a very difficult question for me to judge since I haven’t been writing for long and even my oldest work is less than a year old. It’s all still very near and dear to me, lacking the distance to impartially say what’s good and what’s bad.

However I do feel that I have improved in some small ways. I’ve started relying less on adverbs and superfluous adjectives, and my descriptions have grown to be more vivid and detailed. The pacing of my scenes has also improved.

Most useful piece of writing advice you’ve ever received?

Exposition is a spice. Too much spoils the story.

I know it’s tempting to explain the setting you have created to your reader up front, to describe the character’s looks in detail and to summarize their personality and backstory. Resist this temptation. Let the readers discover your world for themselves, bit by tantalizing bit. Don’t tell them what your characters are like, let them experience it with word and deed. And if you simply must convey information to the reader, space it far apart and without breaking the narrative flow.

What book has influenced you the most as a writer?

I honestly can’t point to a singular book. My writing is a Smörgåsbord shaped by way too many books to list. I suppose if I really had to narrow it down, I’d point to the works of Terry Pratchett.

English isn’t your first language. Tell us a bit about that.

English is my third language, following my bilingual German/Russian upbringing. My parents like to travel a lot, so I spent most of my childhood and adolescence outside my home country – and thus removed from my native language. I loved to read, but books I could read were hard to come by, so I resorted to buying books in English, slowly improving what I had learned at school to the point that I was able to devour novels in a matter of days.

Consequently, I have a far better grasp on English prose – though it’s a different story when it comes to the spoken word – and it just seemed natural to start writing in English, especially in a very American genre like superhero fiction.

German doesn’t even have a word for superstrength. I mean, come on.

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. I’m looking forward to working with some of you again on future collections.

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

The guidelines are:

• Write a short piece no longer than 1000 words.

• The prompt for the month is Halloween. Just the one word. Interpret it however 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 19th of October 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 26th.

Until then, or until I hear from you.

Cheers

PersnicketyBitch

Shivering With Antici... pation

It’s Halloween. While on assignment a warlock finds himself observed by strange man with tape recorder. At a music festival for monsters, two security guards set out to apprehend an intruder. As darkness falls across the land, and the midnight hour draws near, hit play on this collection of spooky, sentimental and surprising seasonal short stories. [Includes an interview with Zapper (creator of the Consultant Universe).]

Igor and the Hounds are beginning their set on the main stage with a cover of Tubular Bells, just the bit everyone knows, the bit that sounds all easy-listening, and kinda almost forgettable, but at the same time’s a total earworm, and has this undercurrent of menace which for a moment’ll get all in your face with these ear piercing-screeching Krangs. But like I said, you probably know it.

It wafts, tinkling-tingling, charging the air, and maybe it’s the acoustics, some clever arrangement of speakers, or our collective imagination, or magic, but it seems not to originate from the performers, but to flow in, down from the mountains; down the craggy slopes, here a pine, there a pine, everywhere a pine-pine, ginormous looming motherfuckers, not a dinky-cutesy Chrissy-postcard plant in sight, weaving, weaving, out of the forest, low to the ground, skimming the grass, between the elephantine legs of a patrolling golem, up and over a chain fence of combination silver and iron mesh, up and over mounds busted open from the inside, toppled cairns, perking the ears of a group of shamblers roasting plucked out eyes by a bonfire and who stand on buckling legs, and trailing guts, lurch, arms outstretched, after it, weaving, weaving, through the graves, and the tent city amongst the graves, in the footsteps, hoof prints, claw and slither marks of the exquisite and exquisite corpse forms of a multitude of named and nameless undead, the mythic, the divine and the diabolical, weaving, weaving, and watched, on and off, by a group of Goyles putting the finishing touches on their We Love You Leon (of Crypt Kicker Five fame) banner, weres and vamps, spooks and spirits, Children of the Damned in Silver Shamrock masks, an old fart with a psychedelic aura flogging compilation albums from some vanity label, glimpsing, weaving, weaving, against the current, in our fluoro festival security jackets: one effortlessly butch cyclops (that’s Trouser Snake), one try-hard butch surface normal (that’s me), and three golems (two terracotta guards and one great galumpher).

Sorry ‘bout that, I can get a bit omniscient at times. It’s in my genes. More than a touch of Delphi on my mother’s side. And my father’s. But you’ll have to ask my niece about that in, say, a four decades or so. She’ll be our family tree maven then. Me, I can barely make it past the first chapter of The Lord of the Rings without my brain glagging up.

A pumpkin patterned beach ball skims, propelled by slaps and punches, quick grabs and jerky flick-of-the-wrist throws, atop the crowd.

Trouser Snake’s walkie-talkie statics and she gunslingers it from her hip. There’s a one way conversation. Snake punctuates the other guy’s talk with yuh’s and huh’s, nuh’s and uh-huh’s and ah-hmm’s.

“Hey Morg,” she’ll say after she returns the walkie-talkie to her belt.

And I’ll say, “Yeah?”

And she’ll reply, “Security circle can’t pin our guy down. Now’d be a good time to roll your eyes so the whites show or do whatever it is you do.”

And I’ll roll my eyes, but not in the way she’s talking about. Zombie glaze gaze is a total load.

Beyond that it’s hard to predetermine. Occasionally I’ll get a whole week laid out for me, but mostly what I get isn’t much more than what you’d be able to deduce with a bit of common sense.

So, if I’m to be any help I’ll have to back n’ sideways. Which isn’t a guarantee of anything. Alternatives within alternatives, parallels within multi’s; all that quantum fruityloopery glags my brain worse than family trees.

But the alters are kinda like pink elephants. When you start thinking of them, you can’t not.

This is the kind of mindfuck I’m talking about: I know that nothing has gotten past the wards since Mash 85, and, I mean, I’ve always known that a chaos titan had materialised above stage one year ‘cause folk talk about that kind of thing, but I think when I heard the story the year’d chinese-whispered back a few, but now I know it right, just like how I know that a few alts over that the intruderless streak was broken last Mash; and how it’d rained heavily then, off and on, and how in-between downpours you could look up and see the most fantastic, broiling-crackling re-animator’s sky which near everybody with a working olfactory agreed was worth the festival funk for the ages; and how Trouser was working campsite allocation, pushing ‘bout everything with four wheels out of and off the muckier, growing muckier still, parts of the thoroughfares. An old guy bumps into her. He’s got a real neat aura. It’s a forking moment.

To get him to piss off Trouser takes what he’s hocking. Later, after her shift’s over, she relaxes with a coven of witches, round a ding, getting high off the incense, and someone shoves it into their CD player. It’s a forking moment.

To get him to piss off Trouser tells him straight out. Which he does, ‘cause there are always others. As she debates the merits of Thriller and Backstreet’s Back with a pair neck-bolts rocking black with white jig-jag Bride Of frizzes, nearby something, part man, part woman, part dog-wolf, part bitch howls. It’s a forking moment.

And the forks fork–

–again.

–and again.

–with every transformation.

Some moments recur. I latch onto them.

The neck-bolts split at their scars and pieces grow into whole bodies.

The change brings out the more monstrous side of a slip of a witch’s bull-dancer heritage: horns, hair, a serious pair of stones.

Trouser Snake…

“Hey Morg,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Security circle can’t pin our guy down...”

I could say something. But I don’t. A song – you don’t know it yet, but you will – wafts through the elsewheres and whens in my mind, pricking at all that is mythic and divine and diabolical within me, making me more. My body tinkle-tingles with possibilities. I let them reshape my flesh.

The girl wandered through the mountain meadow searching for red flowers. Her basket was already half full of roses, ceibos', pevonia's, argentina's and more. Her worn brown skirt caught on some thorns which pulled the loose garment down far enough to show the top of her new green underwear. It was the day before the new year and she was going to be ready for it.

The day was hot and dry. Looking at what she’d collected so far she was almost ready to say it was enough, but she wanted to make sure there was no chance of the good luck failing. She remembered there was a big wild rose bush up ahead. That should give her enough petals to fill the basket.

She walked into a copse of trees and jumped as she saw a man leaning against a trunk. His skin was white, far whiter than anyone in her village. His clothes were green and stitched with diamonds. Not even the rich people in the magazines wore clothes like that. He smiled at her. His teeth glinted like jewels in the sun.

“Hello, Alejandra. You've been busy today, haven't you?” his voice was like a flock of songbirds.

Her mind seemed to be trapped in molasses. She couldn't take her eyes off of the jewels. “Yes,” she said.

“Let's see if I remember how it goes. Red for love and green for money. I see the red flowers you're preparing for your bath.” His blazing blue eyes glinted with mirth, “And I saw your green underwear earlier. You are an ambitious girl aren't you?”

Alejandra raised her head, looked him in the eyes and brushed her dark, crinkly, black hair from her face. “I'm not going to live in this village all my life.”

“Of course, someone with a spirit like yours is stifled in this backwater town. I have watched you for a while and I think you're ready for a deal,” he said.

She stepped back, suddenly aware of just how strange the situation was. “Are you the devil?”

A thousand silver bells filled the air as he laughed. “Hardly. I have no dealings with heaven or hell. And I will not take your soul. I simply want your services for a while.”

She turned to run. She'd heard of men like him, they came to the villages looking for young girls. Offering them money, love, presents, and after a bit of fun left them despoiled, or worse brought them to the cities and sold them on the street. She stopped as he appeared in front of her.

“Wait,” he said. “I swear to you I have no desire in your virginity and will not allow anyone to take it from you unless you are willing.”

Something in his voice reached into her soul and she knew he was telling the truth. “What do you want me to do?”

“I am a traveller, and I believe you have potential. I will train you to perform in front of the greatest audiences and when you are done in my services you will be loved and have more riches than you can dream of. To prove it, here is a trifle of what I can offer you.” His hand flicked across his clothes, and a diamond went from his shirt to his fingertips. It floated through the air to her hands. She stared at it in amazement. It looked like it was worth more than anything her family could earn in a lifetime.

“I swear, if you come with me you will never be hungry, you can find love, you will never go to bed shivering from cold, and you will find a fortune. Simply take my hand and you can leave this poverty behind you,” he told her. His long fingers, tipped with golden nails waited for her own black, calloused hand.

She took it.

There was a flash of light, and they were somewhere else.

Alejandra looked around, terrified as a woman larger than a mountain loomed over her. She growled, “What have you brought for me, Gold Man?”

“A fighter. I promised her, her virginity would not be touched. So lets make sure it won't,” he said with a smile.

The mountain woman pulled a life size clay figure from a shelf, it snapped open in her hand. The girl tried to run, but the enormous hand encircled her body. Her clothes were ripped from her back by it's calloused skin. With a scream she was shoved roughly into the clay coffin like figure. It closed on her, leaving her in blackness except for a small hole just above her head.

Warm and oily wax poured in through the hole. It filled the clay sarcophagus, pressing against her flesh. She screamed and began choking as it filled her mouth.

Her insides bloated. Bones stretched and thickened. She pressed against the clay walls. Her lungs burned. Her skin felt raw, stretched taut over a body that was too large. There was a crack from the clay. She pushed again, and the coffin crumbled around her.

Falling to her knees, she vomited up a seemingly never ending stream of black wax. Finally it ended, wiping her mouth she stopped and stared at her hand. She'd been proud of her small hands, even with the callouses they had always been complimented on by the boys of her village. But the hand before her was huge, larger than the largest hand she had ever seen.

Sitting up she looked down at her flat muscular chest. She trembled feeling something between her legs. Praying to God that it wasn't real she looked down. At the sight that greeted her, she shrieked.

A long fingered hand touched her muscular shoulder. “I promised you, no one would take your virginity. I always keep my promises. Now come we must train, your audience awaits.”

Kent writes a wide variety of stories ranging from comedy to horror, with an emphasis on the dark side. This story is a prequel of sorts for his young adult series, Slave Of The Fae, the first part Fire Bird can be found on TG Storytime. There is a more mainstream version on Kindle by the same name.

Every Halloween night, I put out candles for those who have passed on, and I remember how they impacted my life.

Especially the girl who would become my guardian angel, my cousin, Sara.

As I light the candle, I remember the last time I saw her - I was only five, she was almost seventeen, and in my eyes the most beautiful girl I knew. We were staying in my aunt and uncle’s house, which gave me many opportunities to watch her, hoping to learn the secret of her beauty, hoping to imitate it myself someday.

Which I might have been forgiven for more if I had not been a boy.

I struggled with incontinence, so I started to set my alarm to wake me up at around midnight so I could go to the bathroom and avoid peeing the bed, which is why I was up when she came home from a date.

After I did my business and was headed back to the room I had been given. I noticed she hadn’t closed her door yet, but was sitting on her bed pulling her hair out from the hairdo she must have had for the date.

Suddenly, I had a feeling that if I ever wanted to talk to anybody about what I was feeling, now might be the only chance I’d get.

I knocked on her door, and after exchanging some pleasantries I said, “I think something’s wrong with me, Sara. I look at you, and I’m so jealous of how pretty you are, and all I want is to be as pretty as you.”

“But you’re a boy?”

“Am I? I don’t feel like one. Or think like one, since I don’t know any boys who want to grow up to be pretty girls.”

“That sounds like something serious.”

“It is. I just don’t know what to do.”

She hugged me, and said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to help you.”

I hugged her back, and said, “You just did. You listened, and didn’t freak out.”

“No freak-outs here. Just remember that boy or girl, you’re loved.”

She gave me a hug, and I went back to bed.

Back in the present, I stroked the side of the candle I had lit for her. Not long after that conversation, she graduated high school and went to the States to go to university. I would never see her again, and she died less than ten years afterward of cancer, so she never knew that one day I’d find the courage to let my girl self out, or that I would never forget the first person to ever accept me no matter what.

And she would never know I would always re-hear her words whenever I struggled,

“Boy or girl, you’re loved.”

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.

“We should do this.” Jacqui pointed to the Halloween contest promo in the window. “Only couples can enter. We’re a couple. We just have get to the casino by noon on Wednesday, attend a meeting, get the entry form and do it.”

Rob could see that she was getting into this. Maybe it was the competition thing from college sports. “See, the judges pick someone from each couple. They get made over by professional special effects people. The other one just gets a costume to wear.” Here we go, Rob thought, no stopping her now.

“And really, Rob, what’s the big deal? You know I support your dressing. I’ve even done “girl’s night out” dates with you. You look so great dressed; they’ll pick you and we’ll win.”

She had a point. The casino’s hook was simple. Bet on which contestant is the boy and the girl. Guests would bet online. The couple that bettors got wrong most would win. Even if word got out, Rob would have an easy explanation. It was just that – what if something went really wrong? Still Jacqui wanted to do this; it was hard to say no.

“All right, folks, settle down.” Jacqui looked around. There lots of people in the casino ballroom. “You’ve all got the contest rules. I’m happy to announce that the winner gets $25,000. The top four couples become paid cast members of a new reality show that’s based their contest looks. There’s lots of money to win. Who wants to enter?”

Everybody started to cheer. Jacqui was jumping in her seat. They filled out the form but Rob was hesitant. What if things went wrong? Before he could stop her, Jacqui was running up the aisle to turn their form in.

“I think they’re ready to announce the names.” Jacqui was up on tiptoe. Amazing, she’s as big as I am.Maybe bigger through the shoulders. Their feet were the same size. And Jacqui was in better shape. Here she was, manhandling him through the crowd to get up front. All for a Halloween party. They were calling out names. With each one, Jacqui would look to see who was left, then a little nod to herself, next time for sure. As couples were picked, they were taken to another room. Maybe they won’t pick us; Rob thought and started to relax.

“Jacqui and Rob.” Jacqui leaped on Rob, hugging him. They were escorted out of the ballroom, away from the remaining crowd. “Congratulations, you two. Let me tell you what happens now. Jacqui, you’re going to go with Marsha.” An attractive young woman in jeans waved. “Rob, here is your contest “comp” card. You can spend up to $500 per day on anything in the casino you want. And be back here on Friday at 2PM to get ready.” Jacqui stared back, stunned. They were supposed to pick Rob! He was the one getting dressed up. The last Rob saw of her, Jacqui was getting red faced, trying to tell Marsha that they were making a mistake. And then she was gone.

Rob checked his watch. It was Friday afternoon and he needed to head back and get ready. A small group of people were chatting, next to a sign that read “Rob.” That was easy; he went over to introduce himself. “Rob, we’re going to work with you today to create a new image. You, but not you. First some skin and hair care, some styling, then into wardrobe, finally accessories and you’ll be ready.” He was impressed by how nice they seemed. And competent; clearly, they did this a lot. Casinos put on shows, lots of them and, no surprise, a private dressing room/hair salon awaited him. The facial was relaxing, followed by some clean up. Trimming eyebrows, cutting away sideburns. When they started bleaching his hair, Rob started to protest but they ignored him. His hair was being cut, above his left ear and curving down to follow his jaw line on the right. A headband held his hair back while they did his face. Foundation, mascara, blush. Hair back down, fluffed and combed. Fitted white shirt with a Peter Pan collar, thin white slacks with a skinny fit, white hose and patent flats. Next a bubble gum pink cashmere sweater. Thin gold necklace with a charm. Last, a diamond ring on his left hand. He might as well be cross-dressed. No boobs but the girl in the mirror was a too-cute updated version of Sixties teen dream.

“Next, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce Jack and Bobbie.” The curtain that separated them began to rise. Engineer boots, then weightlifter thighs in tight jeans. A leather jacket, and fingerless gloves. Skin tight white T-shirt over six-pack abs and rock hard pecs. Muscular shoulders and arms. White blonde hair cut high and tight, mirrored aviators and a deep bronze tan. Rob was speechless. How did they get Jacqui so pumped up? She looked like a Tom of Finland model. That’s when he saw the bulge running down her right leg. Smiling, almost cocky, Jacqui now Jack closed the distance between them and took Rob in her arms. “Hi cupcake, did you miss me? We’re going to be the “same sex marriage” couple on the new show. Isn’t that cool? I already signed the contract.”

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.

This story is set in the same town as my other works Facades and Good Deeds, as with the other two tales this one is intended as a standalone. Like Facades, it hits particularly close to home as it covers the topic of abuse. This time however, it's written from the perspective of the abuser. I like to think that I covered the topic delicately, but if you are particularly sensitive to the subject you may wish to abstain from reading.

Allen was trembling, can't say I could blame him the kid had every right to be scared. I mean I would be too if my father had found me all dolled up like that. Of course, as his father I was kind of at loss for words. I dropped my beer and just let the bottle shatter on the floor as I stared at the kid. He would have made a pretty convincing girl if he'd been able to cover up his stubble a little better and done a little more work with his breasts. They looked a little lopsided and the full length dress helped hide his figure, but it didn't quite hide all of his stocky frame.

"Dad, I can explain." He held his hands up and flinched probably expecting me to hit him, but I wasn't drunk enough for that. Not yet.

I looked down at the broken bottle and the former contents which had been soaked up by the carpet and shuddered. "Go, Allen."

"W-what?" the boy asked staring back at me his lips quivering.

"Go to your party"

His eyebrows shot up and he gasped and went running out of the room as fast as his footwear allowed. I heard his high-heels clacking against the floor just before the door creaked open and thundered shut behind him. I stared down at my fists, flexing my hand and collapsed onto the couch.

I thought about grabbing another beer, but it just didn't seem like there was any damn point. For years now I'd been looking for some clarity by guzzling the stuff, but all I ever found was another empty bottle.

The doorbell rang and I closed my eyes and just sat there hoping whoever was on the other side would just go away, but I knew that wasn't going to happen. It was Halloween after all. "Damn, trick or treaters,"I cursed under my breath and staggered to the door.

I swung the door open and felt cold air blast me in the face. "Huh? That's weird," I muttered craning my neck out the door hoping to catch sight of the culprit. No one showed themselves so I slammed the door.

"It's hard isn't it?"

I jumped and spun around to find myself facing probably the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. I probably should have freaked out, I mean here there was this strange woman in my house, but for some reason all I could do was smile like some big dope. She was wearing a toga, had a halo over her head and a set of feathered wings to finish the whole look off. I wasn't sure how she kept the halo in place. I couldn't see any wires or anything.

"Damn good costume," I said my jaw dropping to the floor as she started to chuckle.

"It's not a costume, but I think you already know that. I usually don't show myself like this, but I figured what the heck, it's Halloween. If anyone were to see me I wouldn’t look out of place."

"Look lady, aren't you a little old to be trick or treating?"

Her hand reached out to caress my face and I stiffened at her touch. It felt so warm.

"Why did you let Allen go, Jim? I know why, but the question is can you admit it to yourself?"

Something damp touched my cheek and I reached up to wipe the tears away. I tried to tell the woman to go away, but the words just wouldn't come. Instead I said exactly what I didn't want to. "Because I'm just like him."

"I can help you, but first you must make a promise. I can give you what you’ve always desired, but you have to be willing to change.Tell me, what I want to hear. Tell me what you're going to do to make this happen."

I stood there blubbering staring at the woman in disbelief. I didn't doubt who she was and I didn't doubt that her power was real. I didn't need her to tell me what she intended, I already knew. My hands started to shake and I looked down at them as I spoke the words I thought I’d never hear myself say.

"That's the first step, and it's exactly what I wanted to hear. I can see you sincerely want to quit, but it’s difficult when you’re drowning in despair. Just remember, the gift I’m about to bestow on you won’t make you a better person. That sort of change has to come from the inside.”

The most brilliant, blinding white light filled my vision and I collapsed to the ground as I felt the world shift and turn.

I trembled and stood up, Allen, now Cassie clasped her hand around mine and gave me a smile of encouragement. I had been given a gift greater than anything I could have imagined. The angel had worked a miracle as she had for my daughter. The encounter had sparked a deep revelation in me and I realized that things had to change. It was a tribute to Cassie that she was being so supportive after the way I’d mistreated her for so many years.

I stood up and felt all the eyes on the room turn to me. There was no judgment or harshness in their eyes as I had feared, merely encouragement. I swallowed, bit my lip and brushed the hair out of my face before finally speaking. "My name's Rebecca and I'm an alcoholic."

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”).

Justin climbed out of his tiny little car and looked up at the house. The trees in the garden were red and gold now, the leaves starting to pile up on the neatly manicured lawn at their roots. The house itself was spotlessly white, big and expansive, three cars on the driveway. In truth, Justin always felt a little out of place when he came here.

He steeled himself before continuing, adjusting the oversize glasses on the end of his nose just so and pulling the ratty tee shirt that clung to his thin frame down till it covered his shallow stomach fully. The little shoulder bag he wore was digging in under ribcage so he took a moment to adjust it, suddenly very aware of the inflexible shape within.

Justin took a deep breath and walked up the path.

He could hear a dog barking within once he pressed the doorbell. Then a rapid pattering of paws as it raced to the door, followed by a more stately clacking of shoes as one of the occupants approached on the inside. Justin forced his brightest smile onto his face as the door swung slowly open to reveal his friend's mother on the other side.

"Hiya Mrs. Wilson," he said.

The woman stared at him for a brief moment, her expression neutral. Then she dusted her hands down on her apron and smiled a smile that was even brighter and more cheerful than Justin's one. "Oh Justin honey," replied the woman, brushing a lock of blonde hair that had somehow come loose from her ponytail behind her ear. "How many times do I have to tell you, call me Betty."

"Ok Mrs Wilson,"

Betty Wilson laughed throatily. "Oh aren't you the sweetest thing sometimes Justin," she told him, one hand on his shoulder and pulling him inside the house. "Hayley is up in her room. Hayley," she shouted. "Justin's here. Go on up," she added quietly for Justin's benefit, not caring about sending the young man up into her daughters room unescorted.

Well why would she, thought Justin with just a tinge of bitterness as he climbed the stairs.

"Hiya Hayls," drawled Justin as he entered his friend's room.

Hayley was lying on her bed, slender feet kicking up in the air as she played with her little pink notebook computer. She barely glanced up to look at Justin. "Give me a minute Justin. I need to post this on my wall." She kept tapping away at the tiny keyboard as Justin invited himself in and sat down on the stool by the dressing table.

The table was cluttered with knick-knacks and mementos: Photos of Hayley and her teammates in their red and gold uniforms all pulling faces and waving at the camera, little trophies she'd won dancing, a picture of Hayley and her boyfriend Chad - him looking enormous beside her thanks to the shoulder pads under his football shirt. Justin watched Hayley in the mirror as she closed her notebook and climbed off the bed. He couldn't stop his hand reaching involuntarily for his shoulder bag as Hayley wrapped her arms round his shoulders and leaned over them.

"Stupid homework," she explained before sticking her tongue out. "How does such a cute teacher give out such stupid homework."

"Mr Durras," guessed Justin. Hayley nodded. The substitute English Lit teacher was cute, if you liked that shaggy haired goofball sort of look. Justin preferred guys that were a little more built, that's all. "Don't let Chad hear you say that, he won't be able to cope with having to worry about a guy that he can't punch in the face."

Hayley burst into a fit of giggles, rolling away from Justin and sitting back on the bed cross-legged.. "You are terrible Justin Wright. So what's up," asked Hayley, cocking her head to the side. Her glossy brunette hair fell in waves around her shoulders.

"I decided what I wanted to go to the Halloween dance as Hayls," explained Justin

"Finally," grinned Hayley. "What?"

Now that he was finally here, finally telling her, Justin felt more than a little bashful. "A cheerleader," he answered in a quiet voice. He found his hand slipping inside his shoulder bag without meaning it to.

Hayley laughed again. "That would be hilarious. I mean the look on everyone's faces. Priceless." Her green eyes lit up with mischief. "You could borrow my uniform. That would give it a little verisimilitude."

"Well..." began Justin.

"Hey, it's no problem," she interrupted as she got up from the bed. "I'll give you my old one. It should fit." Hayley sauntered over to the large walk-in closet on the far side of her room.

Justin stumbled to his feet without realising it. His hand was inside his bag now, wrapped around the cold hard handle of the object inside. It was now or never.

"It's just in the back here," said Hayley, more to herself than to Justin.

Moving with purpose now, Justin strode over to behind Hayley. He coiled one arm round her slim torso to hold her in place as he whipped the knife out from his bag. He pressed the blade under her chin, not quite hard enough to break the skin.

"What are you doing," whimpered Hayley.

Justin didn't respond. Just one swift stroke was all it needed. He could lift the knife upwards, cutting into her, and the magic of the blade would part Hayley's face from her head. That same magic would see the face turned into a mask, one that he could press against his own face and everyone would see him as Hayley - her mother, all of her friends, her hunky boyfriend...

After all - if he was going to the Halloween dance as a cheerleader, he was going to go as the hottest one in the whole school.

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

I moved down the dark alley feeling the rush of magic on the midnight air and gripped the crystal mounted on the handle of my cane. The thrum of energy from the crystal and the solid feel of the wood was reassuring. I’d been following the girl because I knew that to the killer, she’d be irresistible.

What I hadn’t counted on was how fast the girl could run. Suddenly, a scream rang out and just as suddenly it was choked off. I ducked my head sprinting, using the magic that flowed through my crystal to give me a boost and skidded around the corner.

“Twisted, freak of nature! I will devour that which you hate, and then feed your soul to my Master!”

‘How the hell did she get so far ahead of me?!’ I thought, racing out of the alley, my lungs burning with effort, and across the empty field.

The girl was pinned to the chain-link fence that bounded the far side of the field by an invisible force. Her knee-high boots kicked several inches above the ground, uselessly. The dark figure lifted a fist holding something that glowed a malevolent red.

“Why the hell didn’t I bring my gun,” I asked, myself, as I stumbled through a low ditch at the edge of the field.

The figure pressed his glowing fist to the girl’s forehead.

“Aaarrrr . . . eeeiiiiiiii . . .”

Her scream held a strange quality. When I’d talked to ‘Amanda’ earlier, at the Halloween party, she’d had a husky, sexy, voice. Lower than normal, that clue had been enough for me to spend the rest of the night watching her. Now that innocent voice changed timbre as I ran. ‘Just a little closer and I can cast a spell,’ I thought. ‘Hang on, Amanda!’

Now it was the killer’s turn to scream. His roar echoed weirdly, becoming deeper, and more powerful.

“IMPETUS!” I shouted, swinging my cane like a bat even though I was a dozen feet away. An invisible force slammed into the killer’s side lifting him from his feet and tossing him away. I moved forward and noticed that the red glow around the girl faded as she slid to the ground.

“Guardian!” The growl was deep and very masculine. The killer stood up and I watched in awe as he grew. The guy was big, but as I watched he went from six two to six six in four heart beats. The killer put his crystal away and pulled out a wicked looking hooked knife.

“I’m gonna gut ya, drain ya, and feed both of your souls to my master!”

In two quick steps the killer was on me. I blurred to one side and as the goon went by I hooked his foot sending him tumbling to the ground.

“I’m not some mundane. Asshole.” I growled, and sent a bolt of electricity, that arched like lightning, from my crystal into the guy before he got to his feet.

“Arrghh”

This time the heavy cry of pain gave me a sense of satisfaction. Surprisingly, he managed to stand up. As he got to his feet I used my cane to strike his wrist, “CRACK,” and the knife tumbled into the darkness. With his good hand the man tried to reach for his crystal but I was ready. I touched the crystal set into the handle of my cane to the uni-brow above the killer’s craggy eyes. With a flash of bright blue light the goon tumbled to the ground, asleep.

“If you’d actually had some training you might have been dangerous.” I said, looking down at the huge man. Then I pulled out a cell phone.

“Garth, it’s me. I got him, but we’ve got a problem.” At Garth’s growled response I sighed. Garth had transferred from Louisville to the St. Louis Coven to sponsor me into the Guardians and while I was grateful, Garth could be an uptight pain in the ass.

“The guy, Anthony, was calling himself Amanda” . . . . “Yeah, I know, but he was perfect bait. Anyway, I interrupted the rite before it was finished, but Anthony is gonna need some help” . . . . . “I know, Sarah’s going to be pissed. Look Anthony’s alive and I’ve got,” I paused and pulled a wallet from the killer’s back pocket. “Mike, in stasis.” . . . . “Okay, I’ll wait for the cleanup crew.”

I pushed the end button and suddenly the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Glancing over my shoulder I spotted a guy in a khaki trench coat and hat watching from the mouth of the alley. I took a step toward him and then heard a soft feminine moan. The girl, crumpled into a heap by the fence, was now stirring.

“Whaaa . . . what happened?” she asked, putting a delicate hand to her confused eyes.

“Umm . . . you were the victim of a magical attack, I’m sorry, I should have been quicker.”

She looked up at me with the bluest eyes and then reached down to feel her now soft chest, “I’m a girl?”

I nodded, “Yeah, the guy, Mike, he was using magic to steal masculinity and then sacrifice the new virgin to his Master. I got here too late to stop the rite but I managed to stop him from killing you. I’m not sure if we can change you back.”

A smile lit her face, “Why would I want to change back?”

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."

Dear Stephanie

Hey, sis. First of all, I enjoyed your wedding very much, and I was quite thankful that you and Brad allowed me to be your maid of honor instead of your best man. I almost think I was more nervous than you!

But I do think I owe you an explanation. The reason I showed up in my pink dress with lace trim is because, well, I don't remember how it is I'm supposed to wear male clothing anymore. It's a weird thing, too, knowing that you should be wearing men's shirts and men's jeans, and yet not knowing what it feels like to wear them, not knowing how to wear them.

Doing up the buttons of a blouse with long fingernails, that's easy. Wearing a man's dress shirt? Aren't those buttons wrong? Do you know what carrying a wallet around in your back pocket feels like? I don't. I've carried a purse as long as I can remember, along with all my make-up. So many people ask me if wearing a skirt feels weird, but I can't figure out why they keep asking me this. They don't ask any other girls.

It all started last Halloween. Y'know, that one day a year that it's "okay" for men to wear women's clothes? I know I was dating Francine at the time, but I can't for the life of me remember actually being with her. I just remember her as a great girlfriend, but not as a girlfriend, if you get what I mean. Anyway, there we were. I was dressed as a very busty nurse (wearing a padded bra, as opposed to the breasts I've since grown thanks to hormones), she was dressed as an accident victim.

We went to a party at some college dorm. I think Francine's sister went to this college, I'm not sure anymore. The point is, this party is what changed me, permanently. I know that I, for one, had too many drinks. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "Sixteen year old having too many drinks? That's a big surprise!" Anyway, there we were, I was drinking too much, and eventually, I know I passed out.

I woke up in what looked like a frickin' space ship. I know you're gonna say I'm crazy, or that it was all just Halloween decorations (who decorates their place like a space ship for Halloween?), but I know I was in a space ship. I felt something metal against my head, felt a sharp electric jolt go through my skull, and then I was out cold again. I didn't even get a look at who or what was in the space ship.

I woke up the second time on a couch at the party. Francine was laughing about how I couldn't keep my liquor down, but I knew something was off. First of all, when have you ever seen a man sitting with his legs crossed one over the other at the knee the way mine were? I walked into the bathroom and sat down to pee. I tried standing up to pee, but it just felt... wrong. It felt like I was just being foolish even thinking I could stand to pee.

I returned to the party, ready to tell Francine that something was wrong with me, and then, much to my surprise, she kissed me! I immediately recoiled, ready to gag. She asked me what was wrong, and I told her. She looked at me as though I'd just shot the Pope, or something. She asked me why I was acting like a fag, but my mind at the time couldn't understand what it was she was talking about. I wanted to know why she was acting like a lesbian!

So, that was the last time we "dated". Halloween. The night my life changed in ways I simply can't describe anymore. I went home alone, and I was disgusted at the sight of all the male clothes in my closet and my dresser. I had and have absolutely no memories of ever wearing boxers or briefs. I've worn panties since I was out of diapers, and I've worn bras since a few weeks after my eleventh birthday, like a lot of other girls my age. Where were all of my clothes, I wondered.

Needless to say, Mom and Dad were pretty freaked that their sixteen year old son wanted to crossdress, even though said sixteen year old son didn't think of it as crossdressing.

I hope you understand, Stephie. I don't remember a day of my life as this boy people keep telling me I was. I simply remember being the girl that I am. Mom and Dad have since calmed down, thankfully, and have decided to just go with me on this. People at school, on the other hand, are a little different. They either hate me or don't care. Well, then there are the boys that stare at my boobs, but that's just par for the course, I assume. I wanted to try out for the cheer squad last week, but I've since been banned from any sort of school team, because of my "transgender status". I get to use the girls' restrooms and locker rooms, but other girls don't like me to change in front of them.

So, yeah. That's why I wore a dress at your wedding. I'm only writing you this letter because Mom asked me to. I didn't think I needed to, since we've been sisters forever, but I did it to please Mom. I hope you don't hate me or anything. Thanks for reading this.

Your baby sister,

Brian Mae Miller

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 looked over at the man sitting quietly, expectantly, waiting. The device that looked like a tape recorder sat between us. I ignored it and looked up in time to spot the waitress as she brought me my pie, apple, with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream.

“Mmmm . . . Thanks, Daphne,” I said, reading her name tag and picking up a fork.

Daphne nodded, reached into her apron and pulled out a small pad of paper and a pencil from behind her ear. “So, what can I get you?”

The man across from me looked up and gave Daphne a bland look. “My friend isn’t hungry, can you bring him a glass of water?” I said.

“Sure,” Daphne said flashing me a smile.

Are you ready? The question, was asked in a mild tone and the figure nodded toward the device.

“Mhmm,” I said, and then immediately cut off a piece of pie with my fork, making sure to get some of the melting ice cream on it before eating it. I looked over at him and felt bad, “What’s it like to not eat?”

The man just looked at me and then blandly said, What is it like to breathe?

“Necessary.” I said, trying to be a smart-ass.

Yes.

There was a long pause and I realized that was all the answer I was going to get. I ate more pie, taking my time, trying to regain control of the conversation. I’d been told about the mysterious Recorders, they were some kind of supernatural beings and the Coven wanted to learn more.

“Where would you like me to start?”

At the beginning.

“Okay, I remember my grandparents’ house. It had a huge staircase with a bannister. My brother and I loved sliding down it, although it drove my mother crazy.”

He let out a sigh, Not that far back.

“Oh, alright, I remember walking to the bus stop on the first day of kindergarten. I felt so big, my mother watched me from the porch of our farmhouse and waved when I looked back. We lived on a dirt road and the walk took me just out of sight. At the bus stop there was a little girl, Susie, she lived at the next closest farm. She had blonde pigtails and liked to twirl in her dress.”

The bland expression changed to a look of annoyance, Why don’t you start with how you met Meka and why you agreed to trade bodies with her?

I felt the blood drain from my face, “How do you know about that?”

This time it was his turn to look . . . well, smug.

We collect the stories.

I reached up and ran a hand through my hair, “It all started out with this weird post on the hyper-board of a website called Fictionmania.”

[Archivist's Note: see On The Run with John and Meka]

Subject: John Zaprov

Duration: 00.45.38

Date: 12/10/2014

00.28.15 - 00.41.53

For anyone who hasn't read them, pitch us your stories?

Hmmm, each story has its own synopsis, so I suppose this is more of a stylistic question. My stories tend to involve, magic, mystery, mayhem, and body-swapping set in an alternate realities, similar to our own. That is, of course, a generalization of my work.

I’ve written stories set in the middle-ages and stories where technology caused the transformation or body-swap. More than anything else I try to write a story with interesting characters, and a plot more complex than just a transformation or body swap. For me the transformation or swap has to be an intrinsic part of the larger story.

So if you’re looking for something complex with interesting characters dealing with a variety of problems then I think you’ll enjoy my stories.

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

This is a bit tough because I’ve been lucky enough to get advice from some really talented writers. I’d say there are two things that have stuck with me.

1. Characters drive plot. For a story to be really good, the character has to be relatable, realistic, and has to grow and change during the course of the story. So I try to take the time to write up a character outline. Know who he/she is before you start writing and then who he/she will be at the end of the story is very useful.

2. Show don’t tell. This is really hard to do. The story flows better, reads smoother, and is a much more enjoyable expertise if the author doesn’t just start listing things.

The transformation was complete and Mike looked in the mirror feeling stunned by his golden hair, 36D breasts, 22 inch waist, and 30 inch hips.

Ugh, . . . so boring. First of all there are better ways to describe a figure without resorting to listing a bra size. (I did this several times in early stories before I figured that out.) Second it’s much more interesting if you can figure out a way to interact with the scene and pass on the information without creating a list.

The transformation was complete and Mike ran his hands through his long golden hair and shivered in pleasure. With a sense of anticipation he explored a little lower cupping his full breasts and gasped at the sensations assaulting his male brain. Moving down from those sensitive orbs Mike was surprised by the tightly toned skin over his impossibly narrow waist. Then he laughed in delight as his hands explored the curving flair of his feminine hips.

In the second para the reader gets a lot more than a list of features. I know it’s not always possible to do that, sometimes you just have to describe but trying to minimize that creates a much more readable story.

The below link is to Mekalicious blog if you scroll down you’ll find 14 tips I review from time to time. They’ve helped me become a better writer. Thank you Meka!

http://mekasoulstorm.wordpress.com/category/writing-tips/

What books have influenced you the most as a writer?

Ah, how much time do you have? I’ve always been an avid reader. I LOVE to read. I’ve got over 80 books on my kindle right now and more books in my house than a used book store! That passion for reading led me to try my hand at writing. So a few books:

Early Zapper:

“The Scottish Chiefs” by Jane Porter

“The Fighting Prince of Donegal” by Robert T. Reilly

Everything by Piers Anthony

The Belgariad series by David and Leigh Eddings

Everything by Jack L. Chalker

Everything by J.R.R. Tolkin

Middle Zapper:

“I will fear no evil” by Robert A. Heinlein

Everything by Orson Scott Card

The Wild Cards Series Edited by George R.R. Martin

The Harry Potter Series by J.K. Rowling

Recent Zapper:

Everything by Robert Jordan

Everything by Jim Butcher

Everything by Tom Clancy

An assortment of Military History and Autobiographies

Last but not least a popular TG author with the pen-name Morpheus

There are plenty of others but I’ll stop here.

In your more recent stories you've started to focus on Female to Male Transformations. Can you tell us a bit about that?

I started out writing about men transformed into woman and that was a challenge. Then as I looked for new ways to push myself I decided to try to do something from the female POV. I quickly discovered that as a male, writing a female first person, is challenging. I’ve been lucky enough to have a couple female friends other authors offer advice, that’s helped a lot.

The second reason is that there aren’t that many (comparatively speaking) good stories on most TG story sites with female to male stories. Particularly ones that focus on the female POV. So to some extent I’m trying to fill a little of that void.

Lastly, I’ve found the idea of a woman becoming a man has sort of captured my muse. So as long as she’s being held hostage I might as well roll with it! Lol

How do you think you've changed as a writer since you started publishing stories.

This is a hard question to answer. If I really think about it I suppose there are two aspects. The first is that I’ve developed a process to help with the mechanics. Outlines, reviews, proofreading, aging a story, and editing. When I first started writing I’d get an idea rush to get the story written and then go through it once looking for mistakes. What I’ve learned since then is that the actual time spent writing out the story is about 40% of the time I require to create something worth reading. Beyond that there are creative writing concepts like the ones that Meka talks about on her blog that I’d not thought of before I started writing.

The second, and more meaningful change is that I’ve made several friends, authors, reviewers, and beta readers. Their friendship has done more to “change” me as an author than the act of writing.

Your stories are packed with fights and battles and all sorts of magical mayhem. Can you tell us a bit about how you write action scenes.

I’ve always been interested in action packed stories and movies so my writing kinda follows that interest. Part of the answer goes back to the stories and authors I talked about earlier in this interview. Most of those authors really know how to write a great action scene filled with all kinds of ideas about magic. Another part is that I’ve been studying martial arts my whole life. I started Tae Kwon Do at age ten. I wrestled in High School, earned Nidan in Aikido, and trained in Judo, Jiu Jitsu, and Arnis. Roll all of that into an active imagination about how magic could be used in a fight and well . . . that’s the main influence for most of my fight scenes. I’ve also read a bunch of military history and I try to add some of that in when I write about urban fighting and small unit tactics. I think that helps.

I’ve had several people comment that a lot of my writing has a Jim Butcher feel. I take that as high praise since he’s one of my favorite authors, but I’m not trying to copy his ideas. I think a lot of my “battle” magic concepts come from Jordan’s ideas on magic. That is drawing power into you and then using that power to do what you need. Normally I can see a fight or the use of magic in my mind’s eye and then I start writing.

Any final thoughts?

I’d like to thank PersnicketyBitch for starting his monthly anthology. It’s been a ton of fun to participate in and I’ve become friends with several of the authors I’ve met through this project.

I’d also like to encourage anyone out there who is thinking of writing and submitting a story. Give it a try. I’ve gotten to the point where I have as much fun writing a story as I do reading other peoples stories.

My last bit of advice, though, is to have thick skin. Some people will like what you write, others will hate it, and sometimes you may not get a lot of feedback. That’s okay, as long as you’re happy with a story, then it’s a success!

Hi, PersnicketyBitch here. This new segment is a simple one. Every month either myself and/or my fellow contributors will share with you five outstanding books and/or movies and/or videos and/or articles and/or games and/or anything and everything else about writing, sex or LGBT issues. So without any further faffing about, let’s begin:

Writing

Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation

In Eats, Shoots & Leaves, former editor Lynne Truss, gravely concerned about our current grammatical state, boldly defends proper punctuation. She proclaims, in her delightfully urbane, witty, and very English way, that it is time to look at our commas and semicolons and see them as the wonderful and necessary things they are. Using examples from literature, history, neighborhood signage, and her own imagination, Truss shows how meaning is shaped by commas and apostrophes, and the hilarious consequences of punctuation gone awry.

[PersnicketyBitch: I’m hopeless at retaining anything grammar and punctuation related, so I can’t tell you exactly what I learned from this. I’m pretty sure some of it sunk in though. I remember a lot of the jokes and that Lynne Truss writes great sentences]

Fiction

Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides

"I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day of January 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974. . . My birth certificate lists my name as Calliope Helen Stephanides. My most recent driver’s license...records my first name simply as Cal."

So begins the breathtaking story of Calliope Stephanides and three generations of the Greek-American Stephanides family who travel from a tiny village overlooking Mount Olympus in Asia Minor to Prohibition-era Detroit, witnessing its glory days as the Motor City, and the race riots of 1967, before they move out to the tree-lined streets of suburban Grosse Pointe, Michigan. To understand why Calliope is not like other girls, she has to uncover a guilty family secret and the astonishing genetic history that turns Callie into Cal, one of the most audacious and wondrous narrators in contemporary fiction. Lyrical and thrilling, Middlesex is an exhilarating reinvention of the American epic.

[PersnicketyBitch: Middlesex is a novel of two parts. The first is mostly about the immigrant experience. The second is Calliope/Cal’s story. A majority of the people who I know who’ve read this really like one part, and are ambivalent towards or dislike the other. I think both sections are wonderful, but a tad too disparate. The book is less than the sum of its parts, but only a little bit, and I still love it. I love this book. I really, really love this book. If you’ve read it, what do you think?]

Sex/Sexuality

The Crimson Wave (Podcast)

Comedians Natalie Norman and Jess Beaulieu co-host The Crimson Wave, a feminist podcast that explores the glorious topic of PERIODS.

[PersnicketyBitch: Here’s something to think about as you listen to the show: the hosts and their guests experience their bodies in different ways. Pay attention to how they relay their experiences as anecdotes. Use what you learn to give your “adjusting to his/her new body” scenes more verisimilitude.]

Current Events

Here’s a cardboard box talking about video games

[PersnicketyBitch: Though this is still the best summary:

]

Just For Laughs

You know, the advice in this video is actually pretty legit

If you want to be part of November’s Mixed Tape e-mail your submission to 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.

·

Submissions are due by Sunday the 16th of November 2014. All contributors will be able to read and feedback each submission as it comes in. If at any point you prior to publication decide that you don’t want your work to be represented in the collection it then you may withdraw your contribution. Publication will (hopefully) occur on Sunday the 23th.

One more thing, I’d like to extend a big thankyou to all the authors who contributed and helped critique Shivering With Antci… pation. Especially Zapper, who in addition to the contribution you’ve read, wrote the Mixed Tape Mythos segment for his interview, the answers to my stickybeaking, and a second contribution which wasn’t included in this collection, but which he has expanded on and published as a stand-alone and which you can read here.

Until next time, or until I hear from you.

PersnicketyBitch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maia, to me.”

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

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

“Into your mouth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Paul, is that you?”

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

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

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

“Do you think we’ll recognize them?”

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

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

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

“What’s going on?”

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

Then everything went bright white and they lost consciousness.

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

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

“How are you feeling, honey?”

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

“My head is killing me!”

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

“Jill?”

“Paul? Why do you look like me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two hundred to one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded.

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

She broke down and hugged me again.

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

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

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

“Will you be my Christina for me?”

“Yes, I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I... can't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who knows?

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

Care to guess who that is this year?

And boy, have I got a doozy.

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

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

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

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

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

"I..I…”

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

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

“Now? The Jets are in double overtime!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well—“

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

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

That did it.

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

Silence.

“We know,” said Ma.

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

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

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

“What? No yelling, no argument?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then things got weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A toilet flushed. A shower pitter-pattered on.

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

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

“Do you want me to come in with you?”

“No. I’ll be quick.”

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

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

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

“Like this?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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").

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re ... James Parker?”

“I go by Joanne these days.”

“I ... see.”

“But you’re out now.”

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

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

“Fine.”

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

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

I was blown away by the response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dawn said nothing. It was all true.

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

One Dawn Keeley vanished.

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

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

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

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

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

"But I didn't say anything!"

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

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

"It cannot stop."

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

"They shall be removed, then."

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

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

"You asked for it to be removed."

"No I didn't!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

Subject: Dorothy Colleen

Duration: 00.25.59

Date: 20/11/2014

00.08.03 - 00.20.32

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

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

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

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

What books have influenced you the most as a writer?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was the most unexpected part of transitioning?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trans Issues

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

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

Writing

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

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

Sex/Sexuality

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

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

Just for laughs

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

Fiction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Afterword

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

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

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

Until next time.

Cheers

PersnicketyBitch

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

Enjoy.

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 inthe 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

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

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.