calliecwrites

[calliecwrites]

Reposting a poem this time - with some inspiration from an old classic. Will Santa make it, or is Christmas doomed?

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Crisis at Christmas

’Twas the night before Christmas, And up on the hill, Rudolph the reindeer Was feeling quite ill. His nose had turned green, He forgot how to fly; The elves, all a-panic, Said, “The end is nigh!” And Santa came running, All a-huff and a-puff, Cried, “All of my planning Is never enough! Oh what will we do? What a terrible sight! How will we deliver Our presents tonight?”

They called the Avengers, But they were all out; The X-Men were missing And Spidey had gout; No help for them there. They called Starfleet instead, But Captain Picard Was already in bed. Batman was busy, The Joker was drunk; “Oh what will we do?!” Santa cried in a funk, And the elves all around him Gave out a great sigh: “It’s just like we told you— The end is nigh!”

Back he ran, forth he ran, Up on the hill; All in a panic, Santa couldn’t stay still, Till, “I’ve got it!” he cried; “They won’t think it’s nice, But we can save Christmas With the help of the mice!” Mice came by the millions, Took the presents away, Put them all in the houses Before break of day, Till not a creature was stirring; And in each cosy house, There would still be Christmas, Thanks to a helpful little mouse.

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[calliecwrites]

Reposting an old Christmas story, one of my favourites.

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All I Want for Christmas

‘Deer Satan, all I wunt fr Crismas is a poaniee…’

Children are really bad at spelling. Have you ever noticed that? They aren’t born with the skills they need for life, but have to learn. That doesn’t seem fair. Their lives are so short anyway, and they have to waste years learning that the order of the letters matters, that ‘Santa’ and ‘Satan’ are not the same thing, even though they have the same letters in them. Not like us demons; we’re the personification of abstract concepts, we’re born with all the skills we need; and we’re immortal, so it wouldn’t matter even if we did have to spend a few years learning.

So I know just fine that when we get a letter addressed ‘Satan Claws’, that’s not what the child had in mind. But the address on an envelope is a sacred contract, and even when you know it’s wrong, you have to act as if it isn’t.

I’m one of the sorters in the mailroom in Hell. We don’t get much mail here – most people don’t know you can write to Hell. But it’s a comfortable life. It’s a bit smoky, and sometimes the brimstone smell gets a bit overwhelming, but give me that any day over the freezing North Pole. Then Christmas comes, and we’re overrun. I read the letters, and forward them on to the best department. The easiest ones go on to Curses & Jinxes. The demons over there love concocting cruel twists on what the children asked for. Want a pony? You’ll get one, but it’ll die within a week. Or maybe it’ll be a literal nightmare that haunts your dreams for the rest of your days. As for the juiciest letters, the soppiest ones, they get passed on up to the old Boss himself. No one thinks up a twist like him.

And me? The closest thing I have to a soul is the love of order, efficiency, and a job well done. The others say I’m barely demonic at all. They say I’m nowhere near nasty enough. Maybe they’re right. So I keep my head down, do a good job, and hope they don’t look too closely.

Because there’s a special letter, you see. One I wait for every year. This kid knows what she’s doing. She was eight the first time it happened – I have no idea how she learned what she knew, so young. But she was good. Not ‘good’ as in ‘who’s been a good girl this year’, but ‘good’ as in, I’m impressed. More than that, I’m caught.

Every year her letter’s the same. ‘Dear Satan’, it starts, and that’s no spelling mistake, ‘all I want for Christmas is you’. Except – that’s no ordinary writing. The ink is made from the blood of a dozen pitiful creatures – mice, usually. The paper is stitched together from the confessions of a dozen broken hearts. And the writing is surrounded by eldritch sigils so powerful that it hurts just to think about them. Like I said, the kid’s good.

What demon could possibly resist?

Being eight, I don’t think she quite understood that Satan wouldn’t be opening all his mail personally. Instead, her spell of binding fell on the first demon to read it.

That would be me.

I had to do what she asked. I couldn’t not. Fortunately, we get time off at Christmas. We’re supposed to go attack Santa and his elves, to stop them delivering presents, or at least swap the real ones for our cruel tricks. I was never much of one for that, myself – it was too inefficient, too disorderly. So I slipped away when the others were occupied, and went down to the ramshackle old house where the girl lived. I slipped down the chimney, and hid myself in a present under her Christmas tree, just as she had asked.

In the morning, she unwrapped me, and she was delighted. This terrifyingly-powerful eight year old, who’d be able to twist the world to her whim once she had a mind to, just wanted a friend. She was lonely. She’s never had much luck with other humans, so instead she turned to the one thing she was good at: the dark magic she’d been learning from all the books her parents left lying around, ever since she’d been old enough to walk. Her parents weren’t even there, poor thing. They’d gone off on their own, like they did every Christmas, leaving her all alone. Except this time, she had me.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I wasn’t actually Satan, that I was just a lowly mail-sorter. I didn’t have a heart at all. But I could see that she was sad, and that I could make her happy, that I could do it efficiently, and call it a job well done.

At the end of the day, she cried, and hugged me, and said it was the best Christmas ever. I’d made her a cake, and told her stories (hellish ones, though that seemed to delight her even more), and played games. She asked me to stay, but I couldn’t. I had a job to do, and the others would notice if I was gone too long. So she said I’d hear from her again next year, and she’d miss me until then.

She kept her word. The next year, the same letter arrived again. I opened it, and I was bound. We spent Christmas together, and I made her happy however I could.

Each year, she sent the same letter. I waited for it to arrive, and made sure I was the one to open it. Each year, her writing was steadier, and the spell was more elegant, and more powerful. She was growing up. Such a human thing to do.

But when she was fourteen, her letter was different. The paper and the ink were ordinary. There were no sigils, and no magic in it at all. Just the words, the same as always: ‘Dear Satan…’. The other letters had been commands; this one was a request. I wasn’t bound by it. But why the change? Was something wrong? I didn’t have to go, but I went anyway.

On Christmas morning, she unwrapped me, and hugged me even tighter than usual. She was crying. “You came,” she said. “I had to know.” She had grown a lot this year – she was almost as tall as me, now. “You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not a person,” I said.

“Technicality.”

She pulled back and studied me.

“I’m not actually Satan, you know,” I said, and she giggled.

“I know. I figured that out years ago.”

“But the letters—”

“That’s just a game. It isn’t Satan I want, it’s you. The last few years I tweaked the spell so it wouldn’t work on anyone else.”

“And this year?” I said.

Her smile dropped.

“Things are bad. My parents are fighting. They’ll take it out on me. I’m worried I might have to hurt them.” With all the magic she had, that would be easy. “I can’t stay here – I’ve got to go, somewhere.” Then she looked me in the eye: “Will you come with me?”

She had woven magic into everything she wore. But there was no magic in her words, no compulsion. Like the letter, this was a request. I could say no.

I didn’t.

What did I feel towards her? Love? Demons can’t experience love. I could list off all the typical human behaviours that go with it, but I don’t understand why they do those things. Friendship, then? I’m not too sure on that one, either. But I could make her happy, and it was satisfying when I did. Any demon could do my job in the mailroom, but only I could do this one, so of course I’d go with her. I’d stay with her the whole of her life, if that’s what it took, and never mind the punishments the other demons would line up for abandoning my post. And when she’d eventually die, as all humans must, happy with the life I’d given her, I’d go back to Hell knowing I’d been orderly, and efficient, and with the satisfaction of a job well done.

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[calliecwrites]

Understanding

From the prompt 'make me understand', for writemas day 2 by @agirlandherquill.

I was human. She wasn’t.

The loneliness was on her again, as bad as I’d ever seen it.

“How long is it since you saw another of your own kind?” I said.

She didn’t say anything. It was years, at least. Maybe a lot longer.

“You’re not meant to be alone,” I said. “And you don’t have to be.”

This wasn’t the first time I’d brought this up.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she said.

“Because I don’t understand?”

“No one does—”

“We’ve been together for years. I’ve seen more of you than anyone.” Then, quietly, “You’ll never be understood if you’re surrounded by humans.”

I held her hand, doing what I could to comfort her. It wasn’t enough. It never was.

“You don’t want to be what I am,” she whispered.

“You learned that trick from humans – ‘don’t’ and ‘shouldn’t’ are different. You wouldn’t have switched them round before.”

She flinched a little at that. You don’t have to pretend with me, I’d told her so many times – but she’d trained herself so well to mask that it was hard to let it go, sometimes.

“You know what’s in my dreams,” I said, “even if you pretend not to. I know this is within your power.”

She looked at me. I could only imagine what was going on in her mind. But I thought I could see something shifting.

“You wouldn’t be human anymore,” she said at last.

“I know. I’m counting on that.”

“It’ll hurt,” she said.

“I want this.”

I could see the longing in her eyes – how desperate she was not to be alone. How scared she was of letting go.

“I’m ready,” I said. “Make me your equal. Make me understand.”

There was a very long pause.

Then she put her hand on my head, closed her eyes, and everything changed.

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[calliecwrites]

It's that time of year again!

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[calliecwrites]

The Ferryman

The water was sluggish and smelly. Tyres and shopping trolleys were snagged on the weeds. I’d read enough to recognise where I was – the river Styx, boundary of the underworld – but this wasn’t the afterlife I’d been expecting. And certainly not looking like this.

I picked my way across the rubbish on the shore to where the ferry waited. It was a rusted old skiff, patched and listing. A microwave had been strapped where the motor should have been, doorless cavity pointing down at the water.

The skeleton at the tiller had seen better days. Eye sockets followed me as I climbed onboard.

“Charon?” I said. He nodded. “What happened here?”

He made the motion of spitting over the side. “Capitalism fucks us all, my man.”

“I’m not a man.”

He shrugged. “It’s all the same to me. Give me your battery.”

“Is that what this is?” I took the metal disk out from under my tongue. A coin cell. I’d known it was there since I’d arrived, but I’d felt no need to remove it. It wasn’t like I could swallow it and die. “Isn’t this supposed to be a coin?” I said.

“Times change.” He took it and weighed it in his hand. “That’s all you’ve got? Well, it’s better than nothing.”

He adjusted a receptacle until it was the right size for the battery, and popped it in. The microwave came on. The platter turned. The water behind the boat began to boil, and pushed the boat forwards.

Which was ridiculous. A tiny battery can’t power a microwave. A microwave can’t propel a boat. But this was the liminal space between life and death, so who was I to say what was possible?

Then the microwave dinged, and we stopped. He pulled out the battery and tossed it over the side.

“All done,” he said. “That’s as far as we go.”

“But we’re not even halfway there!” I said. “Can’t you paddle?”

“See anything to paddle with? You’re going to have to swim the rest of the way.”

I took a long look at the murky water, and the tyres, and the trolleys.

“Is that safe?”

I was only seeing what poked above the surface.

“You’re already dead,” he said. “What’s the worst that can happen?” Somehow that wasn’t reassuring. “Just don’t look back, or you’ll turn into a pillar of salt.”

“Isn’t that from a different mythology?”

He gave me a look – or would have if he’d had any eyes.

“You’re talking to a blind skeleton driving a boat powered by a microwave. Mythological consistency is the least of your problems.”

And then a minute later: “Are you going or not? Can’t stay here forever.”

The far shore was hazy. Was it any better than the shore I’d left? Hard to say. But Charon was right.

So I braced myself, took a deep breath, and jumped in.

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[calliecwrites]

The Void

From the prompt 'utter darkness', for writemas day 1 by @agirlandherquill.

It was dark. Not just the absence of light, but the absence of the possibility of light. Light couldn’t exist here. I had no eyes, because matter couldn’t exist here. I had nothing, was nothing, except me.

I didn’t know how long I had been here. There was nothing outside myself to measure time by. There was nothing outside myself at all.

But I still had my memories. I still had my imagination. I imagined touching wood. A table. I imagined the shape of the edges. I imagined the texture under my fingers. I imagined so hard I could almost feel it. I reached out – when had I started having hands? – and imagined harder still – and it was real.

I imagined sounds and smells – a bird outside the window, bread baking in the oven. I imagined the carpet under my feet, the clothes on my back, the heart beating in my body. I had a body now. Each of these I held in my mind, and pushed beyond, and made real. These things implied other things, and everything cascaded out from there. I was starting to understand where I was, and what I was.

But something was still missing. I knew, now, that all I had to do was open my eyes.

And there was light.

There's a state in dreams that I call the void, that's exactly like this.

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[calliecwrites]

"But you look human most of the time!"

So? 'Most common form' isn't the same as 'true form'. Neither is 'default form'. I'm a blob of goo that can turn into anything - but what makes you think 'blob of goo' is any truer than 'turn into anything'?

Haven't you heard what we say about ourselves? That we're as fluid as the ocean, wild as the wind, and cannot be contained? That we are the people of change? - no true nature, no true name, never stay the same.

We are not like you.

people will really go up to shapeshifters like "oh what's your true form? oh but what do you really look like?" are u hearing yourself. do u hear how insane u sound

[calliecwrites]

I had a dream where one of my relatives was the Cult Leader of the Goddess of Strawberries - and the Cult was clearly up to something. She kidnapped me and tried to recruit me, not knowing that I was secretly the most powerful being on the planet - the one who stops the alien invasions, cures the plagues, and generally stops people wrecking the place. In most worlds I'm open about that, but apparently not in this one. And so there I am, casually passing all the hard tests she gives me, she's thinking she's found the perfect recruit, and meanwhile I'm giving her goddess a Significant Look: try anything, little fruit deity, and you'll have me to deal with.

I have no idea how she was going to use strawberries to try taking over the world, and I kinda wish I'd let her, just to find out.

[calliecwrites]

Rage

They put me in the cell because they say my kind are monsters. I tried talking to them, I tried reasoning with them, but they wouldn’t listen.

The cell is empty. It’s freezing. They barely feed me. I hold onto my human form, naked, hoping that might win me some sympathy. I don’t resist. Nothing here to fear, nothing to hate. But they’ve seen that when they beat me I don’t flinch, that when they cut me I don’t bleed. They throw my words back in my face.

I lie on the floor. Where my skin touches the stone, I form tendrils and start to burrow into the rock. It’s slow, almost imperceptibly slow, but I am as fluid as the ocean, and as patient. I have all the time in the world. I carve myself into the stone, while keeping the part of me they can see completely still. I draw some nutrients from the stone I absorb, but that’s not why I do this. I spread until I am a web of roots all through the floor and the walls. I can feel where the stone is weak, and follow those lines, and weaken it further.

Days, maybe weeks, pass before they next come to my cell. I speak again, give them one last chance to see reason. They beat me. This time I laugh. I clench all my tendrils at once, and the cell comes crashing down. The stone crushes them. I tear into their meat and lap up their blood. I feel my strength returning.

Did they really think this would hold me?

While the rubble still falls, I stand up, and I change. No more soft human form. Now I’m all razor spikes and teeth and claws. I’m tendrils and fluid, ready to pierce and devour whatever I touch. Those outside see me, and they run.

They think they know what fear is? They have no idea.

I can burrow into flesh as easily as stone. I can empty out their skin and use them as a puppet. I can take their memories and destroy every last thing they care about, one by one.

Maybe I am a monster. It’s time to show them what that means.

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[calliecwrites]

Flying Lesson

It’s difficult, I get it, Though it’s pretty clear to see, That no matter how you practise, You’ll never be as good as me; But there’s mastery and there’s basics, And some things just aren’t that tough, And all your clawing at the air Won’t ever be enough; So before your crash and clatter Sets off all of the alarms, You’re supposed to be flying with your mind, Not flying with your arms.

In straight lines you’ve got it, I’ll give you that, you do, But sometimes a corner’s handy, Or going up a little too; Not everything’s as spry as me, Can’t rely on that to stay— Rocks and trees and houses Won’t be jumping out your way; So clear your mind and focus, Where you will, you’ll go, Up and down, it’s all the same, That’s it, take it slow— Oh I pity any passengers You might decide to take— Watch out! Don’t you see it? Stop! Stop! Brake!

All that wild flapping Won’t get you anywhere; It’s magic, not aerodynamics, That keeps you in the air— You’re a witch and not a pilot, And it wouldn’t do you any harms, To remember you’re flying with your mind And not your goddamn arms!

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[calliecwrites]

Breakthrough

In the morning, everyone in my building is dead.

It takes me a while to notice. I live alone, and don’t see my neighbours often. But there are always little noises through the walls – doors closing, toilets flushing, voices – and now there aren’t any. By lunchtime, the shutters are still all closed. I knock on the doors, get no response, and call the police.

My neighbours have all died in their sleep.

Now I’m at the police station, waiting to be seen. My friend Ellen sits with me, holding my hand. As the only survivor, the police want to know if I heard or saw anything. Maybe I’m even a suspect. But they’re still rushing around, bringing in the bodies, contacting the families, doing autopsies – it could be a while before they’re ready for me.

And yet: I’m happy. I feel great. And my mind is going a hundred miles an hour because this is absolutely not how I should be feeling right now.

Ellen can tell something’s up. She always can. Well of course something’s up – we’re sitting in a police station and all my neighbours are dead. But there’s more than that, and she sees it. What do I tell her?

She leans in close. “What is it?”

“I dreamt I ate their souls,” I say eventually, and glance at her. We talk about my dreams all the time, and have a good laugh at how weird they are. But this time, she’s looking at me like, you want to talk about dreams, now?

“Were you lucid?” she says eventually. I nod.

“Because it’s Halloween,” I say, as if that explains it. “I wanted to do something spooky. For fun.” So I’d thought, let’s try eating souls. It’s all just pretend, of course, it’s all just a game in my head – but it’s in all the stories, so why not? All kinds of monsters and demons eat them, but what’s that like? What do they taste like? I’d always wondered. I thought it would be fun to see what my dreams came up with. Something surprising, for sure, something we could laugh about afterwards – but when I’d summoned some characters in the dream, it was my neighbours who’d turned up, and that made me pause. I don’t ever dream about them. But I’d gone through with it anyway – I’d phased my hands into their chests, pulled out the glowing masses of their souls, and slurped them down. I can’t even begin to describe the taste.

And in the morning, my neighbours were all dead.

I do weird stuff like this in my dreams all the time. That’s half the fun of being a lucid dreamer, right? I can do anything I like in there – or, well, anything I can persuade the dream to let me do; I’m not good enough yet to do anything anything – but I’m getting there. I can try out powers I’ve seen in films, play a part in stories I like, fight monsters, destroy planets – and all with zero consequences, because:

“And, what, you think you actually ate their souls? It’s a dream, Sue, it’s not real. You tell me that all the time.”

I nod. “Then how am I still alive? If it was something in the water, or a gas leak, or I don’t know – I’d be dead too. How can I be the only one still alive?”

“Maybe it was something they all ate?” she says.

“And this morning,” I go on, “I felt great, like really great. Full of energy, full of ideas – like I could do anything. I still do. Even here.” In fact I’ve been trying to stop myself grinning the whole time. This is not the place for that.

Ellen gives me a long, hard look, and squeezes my hand. “Stop tormenting yourself. Survivors’ guilt is a thing, you know that. You didn’t eat their souls. You don’t even believe in souls.”

I nod again. She’s right, of course.

A policewoman comes over. She’s wearing a black coat.

“Ms Tanner?” she says. “Come with me, please.”

Ellen gives me another look, gentler this time, and then we’re apart. The policewoman takes me to the far corner of the room.

“That was quite a feast you had,” she says.

This is so not what I’m expecting, it takes me a moment to respond.

“You mean my dreams? Did you hear us?”

She gives me a grim smile. “No – but you dream so loudly, half the city would know if I wasn’t shielding you.”

“Is this a joke?” I say. That conversation was between me and Ellen! “What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Everything,” she says. “There’s power in your dreams.”

“Look, I know I’m weird,” I say, “but… it’s just lucid dreaming. It’s all in my head.”

“For most people that’s true. But you aren’t most people, are you? You’ve made quite the mess. We knew you’d break through on your own sooner or later, but we didn’t expect it to happen like this…”

But I’m not listening. The people around me have caught my attention. There’s something moving inside them. I can’t see it, but I can tell it’s there. When I focus, it starts moving towards me—

She snaps her fingers in my face. “Stop that! What, do you want to kill everyone here, too?” She glares, and almost to herself, “You’ve broken through hard if you can already do that awake.”

I stare at her, and at the people. “Were those souls?” She nods. “But I don’t even believe in souls,” I say, weakly, while in my head is: oh shit. Worse, knowing they’re there is making me hungry. Susan Tanner, devourer of souls – that has quite the ring to it.

But I glance around, and say, quietly, “You’re saying I did kill them? What if someone hears—”

She shakes her head. “No one will. I’m taking care of that.”

No one is looking at us. In fact, no one has looked our way the whole time, like they’ve forgotten we’re even here.

“You’ve broken through the barriers,” she says. “Everything you can do in the dream, you’ll eventually be able to do out here – and you’re nowhere near your full potential, even in the dream.”

I’m still at: I killed them? Eventually I catch up. “That’s impossible,” I say. All of this is impossible. Those can’t have been souls, I just imagined it. But I can still feel them there, and if I just focus—

“Hey, stay with me,” she says. Oh. Right. “You don’t believe me? Change something.”

“What?”

“Change something, like you would in the dream.”

I stare at her black coat, and will it to be green – and it is. For a moment I wonder if I’m still dreaming. I do half a dozen reality checks, and they all fail. Which means either I’m still in the dream, and my mind is really messing with me – or I’m awake. Something people often don’t understand about learning to lucid dream is that the whole practice is based on being able to tell dreams from reality. We get really good at telling which state we’re in. And everything here is telling me this is not a dream.

I still feel completely, unreasonably great, despite everything, even though she’s just told me I’m, what? A murderer? Or at the very least, that I killed a bunch of people by accident.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” she says. “Soul euphoria’s quite the thing. There’s nothing quite like digesting the essence of another person to cheer you up. Just don’t go making a habit of it, OK?”

Has she just read my mind?

“I’ve been reading your mind for years, Ms Tanner, watching you learn in your dreams. It’s lucky I found you first – you’d have made a tasty morsel for someone, with potential like that.”

I flip the colour of the lights on the roof from white to red to blue. I make a potted plant on the other side of the room rise a few centimetres off the ground. It’s easy. Telekinesis, too? Shit. That grin has broken through, now, and I can’t help it.

“You’re not with the police, are you?” I say at last.

“Smart one.”

“So what happens now?”

“You come with me,” she says. “It’s time for your training to really begin.”

“But what about the police? The… deaths? What about Ellen?”

“Don’t worry,” she says, “I’ve taken care of that. They won’t remember you were ever here.”

There’s something in the way she says it: she doesn’t mean here, in the police station, she means here, at all. That I ever existed. I glance at Ellen. This woman has just taken away my best friend. She’s taken away my whole life. But because of those souls I ate, I still feel totally, overwhelmingly great. I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Turns out you can feel wonderful and horrified at the same time – but the horror is such a small part of it that I can’t keep my mind on it for long. I just feel too damn good.

How long will this euphoria last? And how hard will I crash when it goes away?

But I can’t think about that now – literally can’t, my soul-drunk emotions are too overpowering – can’t think about what I’ve lost, or the implications of what I’ve done. All I can think about is power, and dreams, and adventure. So when she gestures and opens a portal, I grin harder, and don’t look back, and follow her through.

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@zzzestyy

[calliecwrites]

Pretending

Sometimes pretending to be a person is easy. Sometimes it isn’t. On the bad days, numbers start crawling on the page, straight lines curl, and I’ve got to remind myself to keep my face on. I want to stretch my other limbs, but the world down here is so thin, and so easy to tear. I have to be careful not to think too hard about anything, or it might start seeping through. You have no idea how much power you have, someone told me once, being able to create with a thought. And the children of my mind look too much like madness to humans.

Cases of madness worldwide are 1.3% higher on days like that.

But I don’t want to drive them mad. I’m here to protect them, not devour them. Not this time. So I have to pretend. Though with some of them practically throwing themselves at me, that isn’t always easy.

Writers are the worst. I let my ‘pretending to be a person is hard’ line slip into the coffee I’m nursing while my head pounds with the effort of keeping it all together, and her only response is, “Yeah, I know.”

“‘A writer is a world pretending to be a person’,” she quotes at me, and then, “That’s a deliberate misquote of something Victor Hugo said: ‘A writer is a world trapped in a person’. But I like my version better. If my soul wasn’t in a human-shaped body, sometimes I think I’d turn into a galaxy or something. Or maybe more than that. A multiverse.”

Humans are famously good at detecting things that don’t quite look human. I’m not doing a particularly good job of staying out of the uncanny valley today, but she doesn’t seem to have noticed. Or, worse, she’s noticed and likes it. Writers are like that sometimes. But I’ve been deliberately staying out of her mind. I can tell it’s twisty and complex, and I’m afraid the slightest touch from me would tip her over into madness. Or, who knows, maybe she’s right, and it would trigger her transformation into some kind of eldritch goddess that would put even me to shame. I don’t want to think about what that would do to the paper-thin world down here.

I’ve been so focused on my coffee, I’ve accidentally created another one. She hasn’t noticed.

“I do wonder what being a person is actually like, though,” she goes on. “You know, actually fitting in with all the weird rules humans have. Actually feeling at home here. And most of them only get to live one life, not all the fragments of all the lives we get to. Imagine that. They’ll never know what it’s like, being able to create with a thought.”

That last part hits too close to home, and I can’t resist taking just one quick peek into her mind.

“Oh, hello,” she says, and looks me in the eye.

I withdraw. No way she should have been able to feel that. And what I saw there – she’s practically a multiverse already, all jammed up there somehow into that tiny human brain.

“I always wondered if telepathy’s real,” she’s saying, “and now you’ve gone and proven it. Do that again, so I can see how you did it.”

No way, I’m not risking that – but she fumbles around and somehow does it anyway.

“There you are!” she says. I twitch back into my defences – why does this have to be happening on a day like this, when I’m barely holding it together anyway? The writing on the menu twists and curls, and customers start walking in circles. This time she notices.

“Ooh, eldritch abomination, is it?” she says. “Here, let me try.”

She squints, and now she’s holding another coffee, too. She takes a sip. “Mmm, just like in my dreams.”

Then she’s looking at me. Not just at my rapidly-slipping human disguise, but really looking at me, all the parts that no human should ever be able to see. But I don’t think she’s human anymore – I think she’s been right at that boundary for a while.

“You know, you really should pay more attention to that,” she says. “I find pretending is much easier if I do something like this—” and she does something, and my own human form snaps back into clarity. “There you go. Get those few things right and most people won’t even notice.”

Meanwhile, her own form is becoming more solid. That’s the only way I can describe it. Soon she’ll be so solid that her slightest movement will tear right through reality like tissue paper.

“Be careful,” I say, “you’re new to this, and this world is fragile—”

But it’s too late. She twitches in just the wrong way, and something tears.

Now everything is inverting. Everything that was packed up tightly inside her brain is becoming outside. The whole world is reforming around us, into one she considers home. I’m unaffected, but the humans are being completely rewritten.

“Hmm,” she muses, observing all the worlds at once. “Looks like I was right about myself.”

And she sees my dismayed expression. Avoiding something like this is exactly why I was being so careful down here. So much for that.

“Don’t worry,” she says, and gives me a reassuring pat somewhere in the fourth dimension. “There’s more than enough room in me for everyone.”

I really like that quote she uses, and use it myself. This story came from thinking - what if it was literally true, and not just a metaphor?

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@zzzestyy

[calliecwrites]

Writing Shifter HRT has been a bit of an experiment. I'd never serialised a story before, so I decided to post weekly, with a two-week backlog, to see what it's like writing that way. I did it for six weeks.

The hardest part was not getting distracted - either by other story ideas, or other things altogether. I'm used to writing when I feel like it - sticking to a schedule was very different. I had a few weeks where I didn't feel like writing at all, and that used up the backlog. Part 6 took longer to write, because it was going deep into old pain and dysphoria - which I felt was important to get right, even if it hurt - and left me not wanting to write for another few weeks, which broke the schedule completely. Staying on track is hard.

I've been taking a break since then, but I'm glad I tried it - I've often wanted to see if this kind of writing would suit me. I'm not sure if I'd want to do it for longer. I was already impressed by people who write long serials with consistent schedules - presumably they're facing similar obstacles on a bigger scale - and now I'm even more impressed.

And my story? Let's say we're at the end of an arc. Sad chapter with a hopeful ending feels like a good place to pause. Maybe I'll start the next arc soon - but probably not on the same schedule 😅.

[calliecwrites]

Shifter HRT, part 6 – The Other City (7 Months)

Of course I’d heard of Hyper City. It’s where almost everyone gets their species HRT. The clinic there has versions for almost every species (though not for shifters). But I’d always assumed Hyper City was a codename, to hide the real location of the clinic, for security or something. And the things people say about it are pretty unbelievable. If you know about the city and want to find it, you will – go twenty minutes outside town, wherever you are in the world, and it’ll be there. That sounds like magic – or a convoluted way of saying ‘if you know, you know – and if you don’t, tough’.

Except everyone talks about it like it’s real. Enough people are on species HRT that someone would leak the real location if it was just a codename. People report following the weird instructions, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Though when changing species is a thing I’m actually doing, who am I to say this is any less believable?

Well, it turns out it is real. I’ve been there now.

* * *

I find a bus stop the right distance out of town, and go for a ride. I hold my intention in mind the whole way. Then there I am, in some faded little village I’ve only ever known as a name on a map. I wander around, and sure enough, there’s a path between two houses that doesn’t fit in. It’s paved and clean, while everything else here is dusty and overgrown. And it’s somehow hard to look at, like my fixed intent is the only thing letting me see it at all.

I’m used to being in a mind-responsive world in my dreams. Intent is one of the tools in a lucid dreamer’s toolkit – expecting things to change, knowing they’ll change, making them change. But it isn’t something I ever expected to use in the real world. I do a quick reality check – try to push my finger through my palm, and can’t – and that, along with everything else, tells me I’m awake. I don’t think I could be wrong about that when I’m paying this much attention. I shake my head. This is weird.

On the path I catch glimpses of buildings in the distance, where there shouldn’t be any – skyscrapers glinting in the sun. They come and go, like something keeps passing between them and me – like I’m seeing them through swaying trees – but there’s nothing there. Not even heat haze – it’s a cool day. And my own city has a grand total of one skyscraper, so it definitely isn’t that I’m seeing.

Eventually I pass under an arch, and I’m there. Welcome to Hyper City, the arch says. There’s a sign listing the local laws – and one catches my eye: shapeshifters have to be registered. That’s… surprising. I’d heard this place was much more accepting than back home. It’s better than being banned, but… Well, it’s not my problem. I still can’t shapeshift at all – which is exactly why I’m here – so I decide I can ignore it.

I wander the streets. This place – it’s normal – and that’s strange. Where am I? The map on my phone works, as long as I stay zoomed in. If I zoom out, it loses track completely. Is the light here the same? Is the sky the same? Am I in another country – or another world? What would other people see, if they watched me step onto the path that led me here? Where would I end up, if I left the city by another arch, or just walked out the edge?

I stop at wondering how they get internet in a city that exists outside normal space – and possibly also outside normal time. Because, yeah, that would be what I’m thinking about, when I’ve just stepped through a possibly-literally-magic portal to a place that shouldn’t exist. But those are questions for another day. That’s not why I’m here. One impossible thing at a time, please. And today’s is me, mid-transition, and anyone else like me I can find.

My whole body aches – but still doesn’t do anything. I’m taking in so much detail, and can’t use any of it. Phantom limbs come and go all the time, at the slightest thought. Dysphoria is getting worse – it’s the worst it’s ever been. Every time I move, the solidity of my limbs, and how constrained they are, clashes in my head – then for a moment my arms are (mentally) twice as long, and I’ve got three legs and can’t tell how many I’m supposed to have, and I’m stumbling. My mind is so ready for this, but my body is still taking its own sweet time. Surely this can’t get worse. I have to be near the tipping point.

I came here because – I need to know this is real. That it isn’t just me, it isn’t just… delusions. I need to know I’m not losing it. Is that weird? I can feel the changes inside me, I know they’re happening. But I’ve been doing so much of this alone, I need something outside myself, something physical, to connect it back to reality. I need to talk to other people like me – not just online, but in person, where I can see them, see the changes. There is no one like me back home. Even just seeing them might be enough, to know I’m not the only one.

And – there they are, just walking down the street, minding their own business. Even here there aren’t many – but they exist. There’s someone partly-transformed into a bird. Across the street there’s a slime – and my heart sings at this one; surely they’re one of the shifters’ closest relatives. Around a corner, and there’s someone with blue skin and four arms. I’m smiling. I can’t help it. And every time I see someone nonhuman, the phantom limbs come on in a flash, how it might feel to be in that form.

Further into the city, and I’m standing outside the famous clinic, where all of this started. I catch a glimpse of the infamous doctor – lab coat, glasses, balding grey hair. There are more nonhumans here, more of us, than anywhere else – us! I’m trying not to stare, and suppress a wild grin.

Except – I realise – I still look completely human. And, suddenly, I feel like an idiot. The others can’t even tell what I am. I’m just another human to them. My mood plummets. The smile vanishes. A pit opens inside me.

What was I thinking, coming here? Did I really think this would help? Instead, here I am, on the outside looking in, as always. The perpetual outsider, even among my own. I’m used to that. It always hurts, but it’s not surprising, not anymore. Why did I think this would be any different?

Standing here, I’d give anything to have some visible change, something other people could see, instead of it all being on the inside. Any sign at all of what I am. I could have worn my ‘be goo, do crimes’ shirt – that so far I haven’t dared wear outside the house – since that, at least, would have been something. Instead, I’ve got nothing.

The phantom sensations are so strong. I can almost feel them – and I try, desperately, to make them real, by will alone, like I would in a dream. The fluid in me strains – but nothing happens. At last the changed patches on my skin bulge slightly. It’s the most I’ve ever managed to do, and at any other time I’d be delighted, but here, now, it feels so underwhelming. Is this all I’ve got to show for all these months? No one even looks my way.

I want to say something to them – anything – but I freeze. Will I ever have the confidence they have, wearing my inhumanity openly? Will there ever be anything there to see? What kind of fool am I? I take the safe way out – I walk away.

I sit down in a cafe – and instantly regret it. A dragon and a mermaid are arguing at another table, and I try not to stare. Just seeing them, the phantom limbs are back in full force, and I’m almost overwhelmed by the phantom claws and wings and tails flicking in and out of my awareness. If I move now, I think I’ll fall.

In the end I can’t eat anything. I blurt out an apology and a thank you to the staff, and almost run for it. The familiar sensations are there already: clenched eyebrows and jaw, shoulders wanting to hunch over, and the bottomless pit in my stomach – loneliness that would devour everything. Except now, with my sense of form, I’m so much more aware of it than usual. I know exactly which muscles and nerves are involved, and for once, I wish I didn’t.

I stumble back the way I came. I barely notice where I am. There’s the arch – Thank you for visiting Hyper City, it says on this side – and then I’m on the same path, to the same dusty village. At the bus stop, I look back, and there’s no sign now of the city, or the path. The bus comes.

I’m holding back tears all the way home, but manage not to break down till I’m in the door. Then the tears come – and I can feel exactly how my body does it – and for a while I can’t do anything. Eventually I drag myself into the kitchen. I reach for biscuits, tea, anything that might help – and realise, too late, that was a phantom limb, not a physical one, and now I’ve knocked things everywhere, and it’s all too much.

I lie on the sofa and curl up.

And I’m back, here. I’ve been here before. I’ll be here again. Loneliness is the flavour of my life, after all. And what’s the point in doing anything, if, at the end of the day, I’m still always lonely? All connection is ephemeral and fragile – always having to hold back, in case I overstay my welcome – never knowing if I’m too much, or not enough. I always end up here, time after time – desperate, and alone.

I don’t think about it – if I did, I’d stop – I just do it, in the pain of the moment: I call my friend. The one I think is most likely to understand. I tell them everything. What I am, what I’ve been doing, what happened today. I’ve put this off far too long. Our last few calls, it’s been so hard to talk, it’s felt like we’ve been drifting apart, because I couldn’t tell them anything. Not this time. I break into tears again as I pour it all out. They listen. Afterwards, they say, in something like wonder, that there was always so much they didn’t understand about me, about why I did and didn’t do the things I did, and now it all makes sense. I say, deadpan, that there was method in my madness – and then all the tension is gone, and we’re crying and laughing together.

I feel a weight lifting.

Eventually I fall asleep on the sofa. Later in the night, when I realise I’m dreaming, my dream guide is there, waiting. She hugs me. She doesn’t often turn up on her own, but when I need her most, she’s there. She says a few words of reassurance. Would you regret it if you weren’t? And she’s right. She always gets to the heart of it. I’m doing the right thing. She, at least, understands. We both want the best for me – she’s part of me, after all – and though I already know what she’s telling me, sometimes hearing it from another perspective makes all the difference.

I’m crying again, in the dream. I wake up with the tears spilling over into my physical eyes – but the worst is already past. The rest of my dreams are better, the most relaxed they’ve been in weeks. In the morning, I feel almost OK.

I’ll go back to Hyper City. Not right away, but I’ll go back. And next time will be better.

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I won't be posting for a few weeks, but I'll be back at some point with Part 7 – Tipping Point.

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[calliecwrites]

Shifter HRT, part 5 – Mind Before Matter (6 Months)

I’ve been on shifter HRT for half a year now. Half a year! The physical changes are still going slowly, but the mental changes are really speeding up. My mind is getting ready for the kind of body I’ll have. I’d say that’s a sign the big physical changes are coming soon.

I’m fully aware of my body now. Not in the vague way humans are – I mean everything. I know my shape, how it’s all laid out on the inside, and how everything connects. I’m aware of things stretching and twisting as I move. And all this knowledge is just there, like how I know whether I’m hot or cold.

It’s my sense of form coming in. It’s like proprioception – how you know where your limbs are, how you can touch your nose with your eyes shut – combined with whatever it is I tweak when I want to feel phantom arms or wings, but turned way, way up. I can’t change anything – at the moment it’s read-only – but I have a feeling this is going to be a big part of how shapeshifting works. It doesn’t feel detailed enough, yet, for what I’ll be able to do – I think it’s going to get a lot stronger – but even this would already overwhelm a human. If anyone needs proof that I’m not human anymore, here it is.

I know the shape of things, but not necessarily what they do. So, uh, I’ve become just a bit obsessed with anatomy in the last few weeks… OK, so I’ve been reading about it in every spare moment. It’s kind of a big deal, suddenly being aware of all this stuff inside you and not knowing what most of it does! And, who’da thought, we know quite a bit about how humans work.

Though it’s funny I only take an interest in this when I’m well on the way to becoming something else.

I’ve counted all my bones, and learned the names for them. I’ve found organs I never knew existed (thymus? mesentery?). And I’ve come across the weirdest names for things. In your ears there’s a goat and an anti-goat (or the words for those in Ancient Greek), and in your eyes are the zonules of Zinn – and those sound so much like aliens in some low-budget sci-fi film that I couldn’t stop laughing. We are the Zonules of Zinn, take us to your leaders—

But – I should stop. You’re not here for a three-hour lecture on anatomy. Especially when all of that is going away! Being made of homogenous goo seems way more sensible than all that muddle.

So: goo.

Tiny filaments of fluid are growing all through my body like a second nervous system. Unlike my gooey blood, I’m pretty sure this is the real thing – the stuff I’ll eventually be made of. I also think this is what’s giving me my sense of form. It’s what’s letting me watch the changes from the inside. More of the flexible patches of skin are appearing, and they line up with where the filaments are densest. They’re really starting to ache now, but still don’t do much yet – though my sense of touch is sharpest there.

The goo is also filling all the spaces in my brain and spinal column. I’d bet that’s happening right down to the cellular level – though I can’t feel that much detail. My old cerebrospinal fluid is completely gone. And, yes, it’s weird being able to feel my brain, knowing that this thing is somehow where all my thinking happens. Except now it’s not the only part doing that. Shifters don’t have brains – or even cores, like some kinds of slimes do. Our minds are spread out through the whole of our bodies. We’re thinking with goo, not meat. But right now, I’ve got both, and that’s got to be why the fluid is so tightly packed around my brain – so the two of them can talk to each other. Somehow, this process has to change the way my mind works right down to the atomic level, while still keeping me as one coherent person the whole time. Hearing what some of the people on slime HRT are going through as their brains dissolve, I can only hope the shifter version isn’t going to be like that.

My eye for detail is stronger and more consistent now. Sometimes I realise I’ve been staring at things for hours, taking in everything. And it’s not just sight. I want to touch things, feel all the textures, turn them every way, trace everything with my fingers. Sometimes I want to taste things too, though I’ve been resisting that one – my body is still human enough that I don’t think that would be a good idea. Germs, and all that. Is this how babies feel, exploring with all their new senses? I’ve got to wonder. It’s like my mind wants to relearn everything, now that so much extra detail is available.

I’ve found I really like meshes and grids, and things with lots of little holes in them, especially if they have multiple layers, and even better if they’re irregular. They’re fascinating. I want to stick my hands in there and be whatever weird irregular shape would fill all the spaces – though of course I can’t, because my body is still solid.

And sometimes I want to absorb things, too. That’s the only way I can explain what I’m feeling – wanting to take things apart layer by layer and… know them completely? Not with my hands or teeth, but with something I don’t even have yet. Absorption isn’t just a way to eat, but a way to learn forms more accurately than through observation.

But I can’t do it yet, so when the feeling comes on, dysphoria gets bad. Having new instincts that I can’t act on is horrible. My mind wants it, and my body just can’t. Imagine being hungry and having no mouth. Now it really feels like being stuck. When it happens, I curl up, hold things tightly, and press them against the changed parts of my skin, hard as I can. That helps a little bit. But until my body catches up with my mind, I’m just going to have to put up with it.

These senses are still intermittent, though now they’re there more often than not – and I’ve got a theory why. My fluid and brain are constantly changing and learning to communicate, so it’s no surprise if the signals don’t all match up sometimes. And when they’re fuzzy or missing, I miss them. I feel like I’m walking around blindfold. The old human default is starting to feel like nothing more than a bad dream, one I’ll be glad to forget.

Still, I don’t know how permanent any of this is, not yet. If I lost access to my medication, would anything stay? Would it all go back to the way it was before? Would this be the dream, that I’d never recapture?

My actual dreams are changing, too. I’ve been a shifter in dreams for years – or at least the approximate version my human brain could handle. That’s changing. Now if I decide to have wings or extra arms, they don’t just appear, like before – now, they grow, and my sense of form grows with them. There’s no internal detail, but I know exactly what shape they are, without having to touch them with my hands or look. And they’re much more stable – they don’t disappear halfway through the dream if I get distracted. I don’t know how realistic any of this is, but it’s the most I’ve ever been able to do. Imaginary shifter becomes shifter-in-training! And soon – soon! – I’ll be able to do this for real.

And one last thing: I made a few comments online, on posts by people like me. Anonymously, of course – hiding is a hard habit to break, and it took a long time to work up the courage even for that. It’s one thing going through all this in private – it’s quite another telling someone else. But I’m glad I did. Just those one or two replies saying I’m valid mean so much. There are other people who get it. Maybe over the next few months I’ll be able to do more. Maybe I’ll make some new friends. Maybe it’s time to tell my existing friends, and my family. I’ll think about it.

Like I said at the start, I’m hoping the physical changes are going to really take off soon. Which means – the goo'd times are coming! And I’ll see you there!

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[calliecwrites]

Shifter HRT, part 4 – First Changes (2 Months)

It’s happening! Slowly – but surely. I noticed the first small changes over the last few weeks. And, despite obsessively checking myself for changes every day, I found the first thing completely by accident.

I don’t bleed anymore. I nicked my finger while cooking, and nothing happened. Eventually there was a little blob of red goo there, but it wasn’t watery like blood, and after a while it seeped back into the wound. That’s what my blood is like now. It kinda makes sense that it would be the first thing to change, since it’s already liquid, and it’s what’s carrying the shifterising hormone around my body. I can’t feel it, I can’t control it, but knowing that I’ve got goo in my veins (what a thing to say) is weirdly validating. All those pills I’ve been taking are actually doing something! And I’d swear the cut healed faster than usual – though that might just be me seeing things where there aren’t any.

Speaking of seeing, my eyesight is changing. Or, maybe not the sight itself, but what my brain is doing with it. I’m noticing details more. It’s like how, sometimes, after meditation, I feel like I’m seeing things more as they are, rather than seeing what I expect to see. I imagine it’s what it’s like for an artist studying something they want to draw. Except now it’s happening spontaneously, and more intensely. For a moment, I can look at a tree and take in the whole thing at once, every leaf and branch, and remember it. It’s intermittent – more often than not I’m still seeing things the old human way – but it’s happening enough to notice.

Everyone always says shifters have a really good eye for detail. In all the human stories where shifters are monsters, that’s how they’re able to imitate and replace people so easily (assuming they don’t just absorb them, which also often ends up happening in those stories). I think this must be the start of it.

Some patches of skin feel different, too. There’s one on my leg, one on my stomach, and another on my back. They look the same, but the texture is slightly different, and I can tell where they are even without touching them. If I really focus, I can make them feel just a bit softer and squishier than normal flesh. Not quite like goo, not yet, but definitely different. I’m thinking these will be the first parts to turn fluid, eventually.

And one more thing: I bought one of those shifter art things. Maybe you’ve seen them? – a little bowl full of goo, with a button on the side that you twiddle to change the goo into different shapes. Or, maybe ‘putty’ is a better word – it’s a bit like wet clay that doesn’t dry. It’s a sculpting toy, basically – that shifters invented. I’ve wanted one for years, but never dared, because someone might see it and… guess what was going on in my head? Who am I kidding? – no one is going to see that and think maybe you want to be a shifter! If they even noticed it, they’d take one look, think that’s a funny little thing, and move on. Paranoia is… well. I don’t think paranoia is too strong a word for it. Everything I did had to be checked against would this make people suspect?, and that overrode everything else. Any sign had to be hidden at all costs. I still didn’t dare buy it in a shop – I ordered it online – but now it’s here, sitting on my shelf, and so far no one has called me a monster. I don’t think anyone’s even noticed.

Right now it’s in the very rough shape of a dragon. Well, OK, so it’s basically a blob with two little blobs that kinda maybe could be wings… and looks more like a mushroom… what you can do with the button is very limited! But the real appeal of these is that once I can turn fluid, I’ll be able to flow into it, mix with the putty, and sculpt it from the inside using my own shapeshifting ability. It’s no wonder shifters love these things. Some of the pictures I’ve seen online are amazing – almost as amazing as what they can do with their own bodies. What I’ll be able to do, eventually.

And so that’s it! Two months, and things changing already! I’m still taking my human hormones – I’ll have to keep doing that for a while – and I still haven’t told anyone (ugh, don’t want to think about that), but for only having been on this for such a short time, things couldn’t be better!

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[calliecwrites]

Shifter HRT, part 3 – Rebirthday

I had the appointment. I passed the test. I’ve got the little package that will change everything.

I hold it tight all the way home. Part of me is still angry at my contact for messing with me like that – and the rest is in something like stunned amazement that I actually have it.

Now I’m home. I open it up.

There are two kinds of pills. First there’s antihominidone. That’s the humanity blocker, the one that lets my body change and stops it trying to change back. People transitioning to lots of different species take this one.

Then there’s the other one, the one that does the hard work of actually changing me. ‘Shifterising hormone’, it says on the label – they don’t even have a scientific name for it. There’s a little instruction book with doses – one of each a day – but it doesn’t say a lot about side effects or timelines. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, going DIY – this isn’t stuff you’d get from a doctor, after all. Almost no one’s been through this before. It’s super experimental, and I’m the experiment. The whole process takes two to three years, but what to expect when is pretty vague.

This is when my anxiety kicks in. Experimental treatment? Becoming another species? What am I doing?

I take one of the hormone pills out. It’s a clear capsule full of liquid. I turn it over, and the liquid slowly drops from one end to the other. It’s thick and gooey, which makes sense, since I’m going to be gooey. It looks a bit like the fluid shifters are made of, but without the life of the real thing. How do they make this stuff? Do they distil it from their own bodies or something? It’s not made of dead shifters, is it? Geez, I hope it’s not made of dead shifters. —Nope, nope, not thinking that way. Lots of other things are gooey. It could be anything. It could be literal magic, for all I know.

They’re so secretive, since they don’t want anyone else figuring out how to make it. Maybe I should save some and smuggle it to the other groups who are trying to? No, who am I kidding, this is for me – I’m not wasting a single drop.

Stop. Focus.

Changing species is much bigger than changing gender, but somehow it doesn’t feel quite as scary as that did – because this time, I’ve been through something like this before. I’ve sat here, scared and desperate, staring at pills that might as well be magic, before. Looking back, it doesn’t feel like I ‘changed’ gender at all – I just stopped pretending to be something I wasn’t. Sounds easy. Sounds obvious. Hopefully, one day, I’ll look back and this will feel the same.

I trust myself so much more than I did back then. I was right the first time, and that makes me confident I’m right this time, too.

And my friends and family? We’ve been through the fire together once. The ones who would leave left then – that’s what I tell myself. But I don’t really know how anyone will react to this. That’s a problem for another day.

The first two pills are on the table in front of me. Here goes.

* * *

It’s done. I’ve taken it. I feel all tingly, though surely it can’t be having an effect already. I think that’s just the excitement and the fear and everything.

I call the day I started estrogen ‘Rebirthday’, because that’s how it felt. I never thought I’d have another day like that. Now I have one birthday and two rebirthdays. I am a shifter. Even through all my doubts and fears, I can truly say that now, for the first time. I want to laugh. I want to cry.

I am a shifter. I am me. I know the next few years will be hard, I know there will be pain, but I can’t wait.

This is what I am.

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