Animals

Sorry for the late post. I am lame and forgot today was Tuesday so here is one for Wednesday! It will be going somewhere in the universe. Probably close on the heels of The cure. So please enjoy a bit of my rant.

            Humans are interesting animals. Homo sapiens, as we call ourselves, are a paradox wrapped in an enigma.  We spent half of our evolutionary existence learning about our selves and are no closer to understanding it than we are to the hunk of rock we stand on. A blink of an eye in comparison to the universe surrounding us and yet science has yet to have answers to some of the fundamental questions. We have put us above other animals that we share so much with. All life on this planet is connected from simple insects to the mighty beasts of the wild. We have conquered and domesticated some of our most ferocious predators to nothing more than slaves instead of friends.

            We consider ourselves rational. Although time and again we have proved we are not so. We call ourselves individuals and masters of our fate when we abide by a few simple rules. I see it more clearly than ever; all of it basic primal instinct. We seek safety and hate for their peace to be disturbed. Siting on the top of this pyramid of power we say what happens to everything we say what lives or dies. Yet we are the crazy ones. Augmenting our abilities with our ingenuity to become even bigger monsters. Example: we pile ourselves in to large metal encasing and move faster than our bodies were meant to. We lose our identities, moving behind masks yelling and berating each other for things beyond our control.

“Everyone is insane and yet scream their innocence.”  Came from my mouth.

In reality I was still driving. I cannot excuse the simplicity of my own thoughts being shaped by the world around me. I was twenty-five hours into my journey. Everything I owned was behind me in the back of the small moving truck I rented. At this point music was useless and the static was my only solitude. I would hear murmurs through it like a distant signal wanting to be found. It never was and why should I care?

I had left my beautiful home city of Peoria, Illinois for Newport Beach, California. It was not a very rational choice by me however I decided I needed a change of pace, something totally different. I sold my house and plan to find something as soon as possible. Energy drink cans littered the floor of the truck. The only way that could keep me going. I wanted to get there yesterday.

“Hotels? Who needs sleep?” slipped out of my mouth.

I had to fill the void, the darkness that stretched in my vision only interrupted by shining beacons that accelerate past. The words echoed through my thoughtless head. Goes to prove how tired I am. I lost the feeling in my legs 100 miles back. A boner could only hold back pee for so long. I needed something fast. Mercy smiles upon me for an early morning donut shop. My stomach argues with me. I finally relented to my body needs. It was time for a coffee and donut treat. The truck swayed as I pulled in but I was apathetic.

Struggling with the pins and needles, working the blood to my tired muscles. The lights blinded me and the smell of coffee smacked me in the face. I nodded to the old lad at the counter before heading back to the toilet. I ignored the filth and made sure to wash my hands extra well. I made idle conversation as woman took my order.  I ignored her mostly it was the same drivel everyone says. Behind my mask I was guilt for the amount of donuts but it would last me for the next 150 miles at least. That was later this is now, stalling to for some human contact and more coffee to keep me going. Eventually I had to leave her too back to the darkness.

The thoughts started once again.

STAG Case #1: The Harrison Family

Imagine you can become anybody in the the world, one day you can be your normal self one day, then the next you can rearrange your cells to look just a movie star, the president, or even your boss. You could get away with anything, or frame anybody. There's a reason why we're only given one body. Now imagine a world where a small percentage of people have that ability, they can alter their appearance in any way they want, it would be chaos. I've read stories and seen TV shows that use shapeshifters as a plot device for suspense on "whose the real one?" X-men's mystique is a great example.

In today's story I imagine a world where somewhere down the line a mutation occurred allowing a small percentage of people to alter their form in any which way the please. But there has always been one thing in fiction dealing with shapeshifters that has always bothered me: conservation of mass. Mystique for instance can change her form from a little girl to an overweight politician but where does all that mass go? It has to go somewhere. So I made a few alterations as if shapeshifters existed in our world with working physics.

Seriously, where does it all go?

This story is about a STAG unit's everyday case with these shifters. STAG , which stands for Shifter Tracing & Administration Group is a UN Initiative to control and detain any shifter deemed a menace. Here is their story:

    A shifter’s value is determined by the amount of shit they leave behind, or take in. No matter how many cells you rearrange to take on the form you want, you’re always going to shit out pieces of yourself into woman’s restroom of a local Goody Mart for an hour just to become that trophy wife with double D breast and a slim midriff; or maybe you’ll make a trip to Lil’ Kim’s chinese super buffet spending only upwards to thirty bucks over the course of three days to assume the form of an NFL player. It’s physics one-oh-one, conservation of mass.

    It’s a dangerous life to get involved in, too. Back in the old days con-men would have to fake professions to take money from the naive. Easy work: pretend to be a confident businessman, sell a product or property that doesn’t exist, and presto, to the persuasive goes the spoils! Faking a profession is easy, faking an entirely new life is difficult. Try pretending to be another human being with their own imperfections, their own emotions, and personalities for more than a minute; it’s fuckin’ difficult unless your address is in Hollywood, California. As a kid I could pretend to be any profession I wanted to be, sometimes a police officer, other times a maritan cowboy, easy as cake especially with the right clothes, but once I joined theater in middle school the role of Sherlock was beyond me.

Everyday since the dawn of the mutation spawned its way into the human gene pool years ago we’ve arrested hundreds of shifters throughout the globe. Mostly it’s the petty criminals who impersonate their acquaintances to rob a bank or frame their boss by sleeping with their secretary in with their boss’ skin. We’ve gotten everything from white middle aged women living on the edge of poverty taking the form of their slightly more fortunate neighbors to rob a bank all the way to pigs on Wall Street taking the forms of other CEOs to eliminate competition. Then there’s the most pathetic, celebrity impersonators. Oh god they are the scum of scum.

Which reminds me that just three weeks ago we brought in a family of shifters, mom, pa, teenaged son and daughter into STAG. We found them leaving their hotel room at the Freeside Resort wearing the skins of the Marilyn Girls, and boy their act was pathetic. The Harrison’s that is, not the Girls, I love their song “We Live or We Die,” I even jammed to it with Martin on the way to arrest.

The father, Jim Harrison, wore the skin of Michelle Ohmer, being the leader of the house I guess it came naturally to him to take the form of a tall and dark amazonian woman, she is the front woman after all so it makes sense I guess. I don’t know why he didn’t shape himself into Car Malla, she’s the one who everybody cares about. Maybe his wife didn’t let him become the essence of sex.

His wife, Harriet, showed her lack of creativity by wearing the skin of Harriet Reeds, shows for a lack of skill if you were to ask me. Taking the one member with the same pale white skin as yourself and name is like an actor playing himself, an easy roll to fill. Avery disagreed, naturally. He reminded me once again of his early days where he would only take the form of people who resembled him, like his brother to get with his girlfriend. Avery’s too damn forgiving, I mean I get a noob shifter taking the form of somebody close to them but Harriet Harrison is forty-one.

Their daughter, Jamie, a larger girl in her birth-skin, must of shat out the most of her organs since she wore the face of Franni, the fuckin icon of anorexia skin was worn by a fuckin heavy weight. If I were to guess how long a two-hundred-and-eighteen pound sixteen year old girl spent on the toilet to become a ninety-eight pound asian woman I’d put a hundred bucks on a week at least. That’s more patience and dedication than turning a cinder block into a feather. Why she didn’t shed all that weight before their little get away beats me, most shifters like to keep on a little extra weight just incase its needed, but she was a good seventy pounds over the average.

And finally there was Matt, the youngest at the age of thirteen. Like a typical thirteen year old he took the form North America’s sexiest woman for two years straight, that’s right Sandra Regalado, or more commonly known as Car Malla. A woman with more looks than talent if you ask me, a body any woman would kill for (any plenty of self conscious shifters out there have worn it), and any man would instantly drop their pants if they were to even be touched by her. What most didn’t realize during their stay at the Freeside Hotel was that Car Malla’s skin worn by a thirteen year old boy. To Jim and Harriet, you two are disgusting parents allowing a boy whose balls just dropped a few months ago and just discovered the strange feelings between his legs whenever he spies the slightest hint of cleavage the fact that you allowed him to wear the body of a modern day sex symbol is atrocious. I hope the judge sentences those two to a long stay in prison.

They were a clever bunch though, doing way more homework than most impersonators ever do. They certainly did their homework, fake ID chips implanted with up to date information on the Girls. Down to the very last meal each member ate the day before the Harrisons arrived at Freeside. Jim and Harriet’s vocalization was perfect, fooling the sonic sensors, Jamie’s was alright but could be altered, a prodigy Avery called her. Avoiding their car from being scanned the Harrisons took a limo instead, the Marilyn Girl’s very own chauffeur service too. Online data was planted two months in advance across smaller forums in the net to announce the Girl’s secret vacation to the Freeside. Why go through all this trouble? Well if you were to ask Jim and Harriet themselves they’d say it was too take a harmless family vacation for free. Bullshit, I know something else is up, I just don’t know what yet.

After all their homework and decoys planted, all that attention to detail and the Harrisons failed where every goddamn shifter fails: playing the part. It doesn’t matter if you have every detail down from the color of their eyes to their hair follicles on your form's ass, if you can’t play the part, it’s over. Jim did alright, he radiated Michelle’s confidence like a lightbulb filling up an empty room, which was good for all the small talk he had to make with her lips. But like the light bulb, once it’s brought from a confined space to the outside the light is blinded by the sun that is the real Michelle. Michelle has a thing for looking content in no matter what context she could be held over a pit of broken glass by a deranged fan and still look like she was in control of the situation. Jim couldn’t walk like her or sit the way she sits without looking a bit akward.

The rest of the family did even worse: Harriet drank the drinks that only Harriet Harrison likes, not the Harriet she was pretending to be. Reeds’, the face of Kissinger Light, only drank Kissinger when she was out in public because her contract said so, Harrison would always go for the margaritas. Jamie ate more than Franni does, even hitting up the hotel buffet once. And finally there’s Matt.

Matt, oh man I feel so sorry for that poor kid, he never spoke when they family left the room; when he did he would whisper to his family and no one else. Sure he could dress himself up in the way any way a teenaged boy dreamed all girls dressed: high heels and a  bikini on all the time, push-up bras for every other occasion, but if a man ever looked at his breast or directly in the eyes he would shy away behind a towel covering up himself. There are even accounts of Car Malla hiding behind Michelle and Harriet whenever the quartet walked down the beach holding their hands.

At the scene I spoke to a witness who told me the funnies thing. After a few drinks he went to break the sea when he had his mind blown: Car Malla walked straight into the mens room, and stood directly up to the urinal next to the one he was using.

“My heart stopped pumping all my blood to my brain,” the witness said, “and diverted directly between my legs. I didn’t know what to do, right next to me was the woman that every man would kill to even touch, I didn’t even find it weird she was attempting to use a urinal. I’ve had dreams about this, Car Malla walking into a room with just me and her, not her using a urinal though, that’s some fucked up shit. Anyways, I nearly lost control of my legs because they were trembling so much. Once Car Malla, well I guess the shifter, realized he no longer had a penis though is when she - he - gave me a look of embarrassment and dashed out the door. I had no idea just happend, so I did what every man does when he gets close to a dream girl: I told all my buds at the bar.”

Poor, poor Matt. If it wasn’t for that simple mistake the Harrisons might have spent at least another night or two at Freeside before my unit at STAG caught them.

As I mentioned earlier, Matt never spoke a single word. Initially I thought it was because he was shy and self conscious. Most teenaged boys aren’t used to having breast perkier than a cheerleader’s personality, and an absurd amount of attention twenty-four-seven. It was the bartender who called us in that night, and in thirty minutes the family was in cuffs in the back of a STAG van. Matt broke down, whining and throwing a fit, apologizing to us and his parents all with the voice of a prepubescent boy. I won’t lie and say I kept a straight face during their apprehension. I tried my best, but like remembering a joke in the middle of a church service it was impossible to contain, the voice of a boy going through puberty was coming out of America’s biggest sex symbol, completed with the crackling from low to high. The irony was so much, once Martin and me hopped into the van’s cab we let it all out between Freeside and dispatch, even Avery chuckled a bit too.

Necrosia

 Oh man life is getting busy right now, and I love it! Call me a bit of a workaholic but if I'm not doing something I will go crazy. When I'm not at work a lot of my time is spent with outside organizations, such as two running clubs, and a Toastmasters branch down here. I even took up the leadership role as Vice President of Public Relations which is going to be fun! Now on to the blog.

As you know we are on a new format now, something I'm really excited about. So as my debut story upon this new format is a sequel to Swamp Eyes, a side story within the greater story I'm working on outside of this blog known as Project Fields. This edition she is arriving at Hetrago, a misogynistic civilization located within the valley.This is why happens when you piss off a demi-goddess who wonders upon your civilization.

Part 1: Swamp Eyes

“Hetrago, the land of the riches,” she says as she walks into the valley, the stone wall encasing the city is still a few miles west of her. “Hetrago, the only place upon this godforsaken wasteland who have some sense of civility, except for the misogyny. Fuckin’ fuckbags.” She speaks to the dry air as if she were delivering a sermon; the only life sentient enough to pick up on her speech lied within a guard post a few meters upwards on the valley slope. She is uninvited here, like everywhere else upon this world. What were they going to do? Tell a demi-god she couldn’t stay a few nights? That would be like telling Zeus he could no longer throw lightning because it was a ‘danger’ to the Earth, or more so like begging God to never unleash the great flood. You can’t argue with nature. A small squadron of guards advances from the outpost, a routine inspection of travelers. A routine until they notice how her hair dances in the wind like the wildfire fed with the spirits of the damned; and her stare bright as emeralds gleaming beneath a supernova.

That is when they stop, and draw their rifles. The commanding officer readies his handheld transceiver, along with his .75.

The air is filled with the soft humming static of the transceiver, a comforting white noise in the silence of death. The occasional panting is heard as tiny red misquotes take turns tangoing across her torso moving at the rhythm of their hearts. A glare of a sniper strobes across her line of sight as if to add flare to the light show. They’re trying to scare her, she finds it cute.

Before any of the guards say anything she scrambles across her memory banks to recall which nickname she collected here, it’s been a while, a seventy-five years long while. Is it Malicious Mallory? Nah, they’re smarter than that. The Risin’ Demon? Hmm, maybe. Or -

“Necrosia, what is your business here?” A the commanding officer speaks up, his fingers more tense around the transceiver than his pistol. His face is aged both by time and the sun, given his age he must have been just a boy the last time she came by.

“Necrosia, I love it!” She says with the grace of a hyena. “How could I forget a beautiful name? Say it again!”

They say nothing, the older guard retreats a step back. The static on the transceiver dissipates.

“You,” she says pointing to a younger guard, probably no older than thirty and no less than a year on the force based on the fairness of his skin, “what do the people call me here?”

“Ne- Ne - Necrosia,” he says withdrawing his gun away from her. Such terror in his voice, she finds it adorable. This must be his first time he has been intimated by somebody without an extra limb between their legs.

“Again!” She says her hands rais into the air like a conductor.

“Necorsia.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“NECROSIA,” she can almost hear him shit his pants this time, her name is the fucking brown note to these people. Adding more to the irony of the situation this young guard is nearly the prefect solider based on appearance. His is clean shaven, his shoulders wide like a brick wall, chest accentuated by the armor she bets his pecks could withstand the blow of a .22 easily, and whatever muscles his body couldn’t fit within his torso extended to his neck. His body was ideal for both picking up any woman he chose in Hetrago, and beating them into submission if they didn’t do a simple chore like cooking or sucking his dick. And yet here he was panicking before a hundred-and-thirty-two pound girl. She finds it arousing.

She soaks in the moment like a sponge, then calls out to the crowd.

“Now all of you!”

“NECROSIA,” they obey like all god-fearing church choirs should.

“Ahhh, I like the sound of that, way better than Swamp Eyes. Now you were going to say something child?” She locks eyes with the commander.

At first he says nothing, he wants to go back home to his mommy whom she may or may not have spared on her last visit, she feels it in the air and by the way he hugs the transceiver. Either way she would be dead by now given his age. Finally he speaks up.

“W-what brings you to Hetrago, Necrosia?”

“Oh you know,” she says her green eyes locked upon his browns irises, “I’m sure your legends say something about me being a roving beast of the wildlands who comes here every so often to wreck terror upon your precious society, maybe because it will get your wives and children to behave, or maybe because that’s the way things are. Both of which I feel flattered you think of me that way, but I assure you, you can withdraw your weapons. I am not here for death and destruction, honestly I’ve become quite bored of it.”

She pauses waiting for them to respect her wish, and none obey.

“You call yourself soliders? You can’t even take a fucking command, go ahead open fire upon me, I’m pretty sure your friends in Gel did ohhh so much with killing off Swamp Eyes. I’m sure you heard the stories. If not here’s an abridged version: they didn’t! I was going to spare them, afterall they were oh so kind to let me have a few drinks, but they should of stopped me after my first bar. You know me and alcohol.”

The guards silently consult each other then lay their weapons. A sniper is still focused upon her, she decides to let them have their false safety. She gives the young guard her signature wink test after he lays his arms down, he only flinches a little. She gives him a C+.

“So what do you come here for?” The commander speaks again for the squad.

“Business, mostly.” She says then catches the young guard’s eyes with hers and waves, “And maybe a little bit of pleasure.” He looks towards both sides like he was trying to avoid an awkward wave when one waves at somebody nears them, always leading to an awkward returned wave. His legs almost give when he realizes the truth.

“Now tell me, commander?”

“Collenwhealth,” the old guard says.

“Mister Collenwhealth,” she speaks flamboyantly. “Would you kindly please escorte a woman my stature to the city gates? I hear you have Rickshaws for women such as myself who simply cannot walk on their own for just a few feet, I don’t think my thin and weak legs can handle a few more miles upon my journey.”

“Why would I ever-”

“I’m helpless can’t you see?” Nacrosia’s legs begin to tremble. “I need a big strong man to protect me, as your culture says clearly within its doctrine, ‘A woman is incapable of going anywhere by herself outside of her master’s property, due to her weaker physique and valuable ability to produce heirs.’ Now how my uterus affects my ability maneuver on my own I don’t understand, but I didn’t write the doctrine. I just believe in respecting other culture’s customs.

“Now fetch me a rickshaw please, my legs are about to give-way under my empty womb’s weight.”

Collenwhealth points at one of his men then the outpost. The guard begins to leave when Necrosia interrupts. “No, not him. I want you.” She says pointing at the young guard. Like a fly being swatted at he dashes away towards the outpost, his rifle thudding on the soil stirring a cloud of burnt orange dust behind his pace. She watches him the entire way, not to make sure he obeys her, she knows he will, but to admire his rear.

“Yep,” she says to no one but herself, “just a little bit of pleasure.”

Royal Interrogation

Hey everyone, sorry for not posting for a bit Kyle and I have been busy and we have an announcement. Recently we 'met' our goal of developing this blog through the summer with our little prompts and short stories. Now we want to change things up and focus on writing the things we want instead of forcing prompts on each other. So expect to see a lot more of continuos stories. Also we might be playing around with posting schedule and other things to bring a new life to the blog not like it was that old anyways. Anyways here is a continuation of Royalty, previous post here: http://nakedlysane.blogspot.com/2014/07/royalty-continued.html. I really should learn to embed things....

The now brooding Mr. Fields sat across the aluminum table from me. I had successfully gotten myself handcuffed to the chair I was sitting in, the restraints were tight and uncomfortable cues of Fields passive aggressive nature at the moment. He was flipping through a file, my file, trying to find something he can use. To bad I have more on him than he has on me, besides the whole he can sentence me for murder bit. It would be a grave error in putting someone in jail for something they didn’t commit. However it is not like it hasn’t happened before. I just need to make sure it doesn’t happen to me. Amber just has to prove that there is serious doubt to the accusation, not that hard I think.

“This seems like a pretty open and shut case.” Fields finally spoke up, not exactly what I wanted to hear. “You killed Mr. Connor with a syringe using your party as a cover up. What is better than having fifty other people as your alibies? To bad that is where you messed up. He was found dead not to far from your home and you even stated that you were the last one to see him alive. Now is the time to come clean and stop wasting police time and resources.”

“Why would I do that when I am innocent?” I reply, knowing full well he was lying out his ass on this. Why else would it take him so long to figure out what he was going to say?

“Come on Mr. Royal, you look like a reasonable guy even if you have made it very difficult for me and my other police officers. Everyone says they are innocent, we couldn’t convict anyone if we believed every lie we are told.” Mr. Fields struggled to reason with me.

“First of all it is doctor. I have said it so many times since I have been here. How hard is it to say? Second it’s funny that you mention lying when you are lying to me right now. Since you said I had fifty other alibies because of the party it stand to say that there are also fifty other suspects anyone at the part could have seen him recognized him and killed him. Not me.”

True surprise crossed Mr. Fields face. How could I know that? How could I not know that? I can read his face like a book. I just hope he actually believes me.

“No, I think you killed him. Why else would we have found the evidence in your house?” The detective obviously ignored my statement.

“Haven’t you heard of planted evidence? If you were a killer wouldn’t it be better to pin it on someone else than just having an alibi? Why would I just leave the evidence in my house for someone to find?”

“I don’t know doctor maybe you don’t really deserve that title anymore. For someone claiming to be so smart you obviously are messed up enough to commit murder.” Fields stuck to his story like glue.

“Maybe you don’t deserve to be a detective Mr. Fields. You go with the obvious and easy answers instead of the truth. Maybe you should do some thinking of your own. You want this to be easy, it isn’t. Do your job and find the real killer.” I said at almost wits end. I would have said more but the door opened silencing the detective and I. It was Amber; she took one look at me and closed the door. I could hear her laugh from the other side. I almost forgot that I was still just wearing a robe.  She is never going to let me down for this. Damn it.

Announcement: Rest Week & Drumming Cats

There comes a point in time in every hobby that the hobby itself begins to feel more like a chore than something you really enjoy. In my experience the best solution is to go on a mental vacation and take a rest week, just to unwind and have the brain and body rest itself. Since Sean and I are a bit busy with things outside of this blog this week we decided to take the week off from writing to focus on other aspects of our lives all the while relieving ourselves of the dreaded writer's block.


We will be back next week with more of your daily short stories! In the mean time here's a video of a cat rockin' out on a drum set:

Her Name was Sophie

Ever see those anime fangirls or fanboys (I don't discriminate, so shall we call them fanhumans or fanpeople now?) who are just obsessed with Japanese culture and would do anything to move to Japan without even going past the stereotypical behavior or culture? They always tend to be American too (of course this is just coming from my own personal experience in which most the people I know are American) well I wanted to write a story about someone with those fanhuman characteristics and turn it up to eleven! Sophie is a woman from France who can't afford to move to America, but she will do anything to make it seem like she's from there.


Her name was Sophie, her belt said Steve. It was her favorite buckle. She made sure
everyone knew of her American boyfriend Steve, how much he loved her, and that the Atlantic
between them could never separate their eternal souls. He made it especially for her between his
shifts in the oil fields, going behind his boss’ back to use the tool shop. She was forever his.
She said she was American, and she sure as hell made sure her appearance vouched for
her. The belt snuggly held her Wrangler jeans to her tall frame. Half tucked into beltline was an
orange-and-red plaid shirt. Brown boots clacked after every step she took as she anxiously
strutted down the Paris streets towards her apartment.

She had recently moved to Paris into a small apartment overlooking an equally small
park. After moving in she made sure to tell anything with a pulse that she was from America,
Chicago specifically. When they questioned her about her perfect French, she would respond
saying that she was pressured to learn French at a young age by her parents. If they interrogated
further about her authentic accent she said she was a theater prodigy who was training for a
leading role of Les Miserables, never saying which one.

A cardboard package greeted her in front of her apartment door. “To Sophie, from
America with Love,” the package read, surrounded in a giant heart. She never received packages,
save the belt buckle, only letters. Typically upon receiving postage from her American lover she
would launch a crusade across her floor, reading aloud in an odd mixture of English and French
to each and every tenant whether they opened their doors or not. But today she didn’t bother
sharing the precious package. Instead she dashed into her apartment, slamming the door behind
her.

She chunked Steve’s belt buckle aside as if it were an old toy she didn’t care for anymore,
she didn’t care if her pants fell to the floor. Within the contents of the small brown box was her
long awaited gift. Like a child on Christmas morning too eager to wait for her parents, her hands
clawed their way into the heart of the box, producing brown confetti within their wake. When the
content had revealed itself to her, her heart stopped: it was love at first sight, again.
Within the heart laid belt buckle with a different name, a name she found quite charming,
the perfect American name. Each letter was cut from brass, their precision impeccable, perhaps
too precise. An easy fix. She took a hammer to its face in an act to prove the buckle was
handmade. Afterwards she inspected the back. On the backend was the serial number 839, she
doubted anyone would notice it, but to be on the safe side shaved away the number with her
fingernail file. Her work was complete. She held the buckle up into the ceiling light above,
grinning at her masterpiece.

Steve no longer existed anymore, she hadn’t worked out the details. Perhaps she would
tell her friends that Steve cheated on her; or that the distance drove them apart; or that he died in
a tornado of fire as oil erupted beneath his feet blowing him sky high as he took a casually
smoked a cigarette a tad close to the drill, she liked that one. She had a new American man now,
who sweetly took her into his arms, and gave her his own special buckle to comfort her after
Steve had betrayed her/ emotionally abandoned her/ died/ whatever. Anxiously she fiddled with
the new buckle until it finally gave a satisfying snap. Taking a heel-face turn to the mirror behind
her, she dazed at her reflection. Her grin lifted like a stage curtain revealing an ensemble of teeth.
She couldn’t wait to show everyone her new handmade buckle. Within the frame of the mirror,
was a white strip of paper laying onto of the mutilated box, was a receipt with her name on it.
Her name was Sophie, her belt said John.

Everything has changed pt.2 the shower scene

Today is a sequel to one of my earlier posts "Waking up and everything has changed. Which you can find here if you need to read it: http://nakedlysane.blogspot.com/2014/08/waking-up-and-everything-has-changed.html . Please enjoy I know I did writing it. This is about the part where I had figured everything up to. So from now on I am flying blind. So we will see what happens next time!

            I didn’t know what to do. Most girls are so secretive of what happens during this time, they hide it under undirected animosity to anyone trying to help. I figured I had to find some sort of pads or tampon, where could they be? I flung open the cabinets under the sink and tore apart everything I saw for what ever looked like it could help me. It took me a bit to realize I found what I needed because I was so unfamiliar with the products. It took me three tries to put a tampon where it needed to be; it felt so awkward to have something inside me like that and wondered what a dick felt like. Just to be sure I added a pad to the panties I was already wearing, could never be too sure, it ended up just adding to the comfortableness.

            In my rush I almost forgot about the shower I so desperately needed. I could feel the stickiness of sweat all over my skin; I must have had a long night. So I started the shower almost immediately although it took some finagling, a little to fancy for my experience. I quickly found some towels, stripped and jumped in the shower once it got hot. The shower was amazing like something out of a magazine, water flowed from the showerhead like rain in the Amazon, I certainly didn’t want to leave. I was astounded by the number of products that lined the shelf in the back of the shower from shaving material and face wash to shampoo and conditioner; the things these girls do to look good frightened me.

            The shower gave me time to think. This certainly couldn’t be a dream if it is this vivid and real, how could my mind make up everything that is happening? If it weren’t a dream what happened that would cause all of this? I am clearly in some other woman’s body a very beautiful body at that. I felt my boobs just to check if they were real. Certainly enough and apparently ‘my’ uterus decided it didn’t want to feel left out and had to express the anger it had for me, is this what girls feel every month? This felt like some sci-fi B movie. I could only imagine how much worse it was going to get. If I had changed bodies someone else must have, so I must not be alone. The only problem is did everyone else switch as well? If they did chaos would soon ensue, as people figured out no one knows where to go to work, schools, government, public systems, groceries all closed. People would take advantage of the situation: stealing, rioting, and impersonating someone they are not. Who knows what would happen to your own body: sex trafficking, drugs, violence. This had to be the end of the world as we know it if it doesn’t get fixed some how. What happens when we get stuck like this? I am a man in a woman’s body; I can’t handle a period every month, sex with a man or having a baby. I don’t know what to do. Everything was just so overwhelming; I had to stop thinking about it so I brushed it to the back of my mind. I turned off the shower and toweled off.

            The thoughts plagued me so I concentrated on finding clothes. I guess panties and a bra are up first but I didn’t know where to look. I stumbled around the flat again, plenty of clothes on the floor but those are not clean; I am at least decent enough for that. The closet was full of clothes, dresses, suits and sexy outfits even some costumes but no underwear. What does this girl do? I am pretty sure I don’t even want to know. The only place left was the chest of drawers. Trying each one I finally hit it, “Jackpot!” I said out loud and dropped the towel to start putting on what would hide my shame. No sooner that I did when a voice came from behind the sheets of the bed, “Good morning, sweet thang.” I watched in horror as a large black man raised his head into view of all my glory. I screamed and he joined me.