Trans-Meowstic
Note: Hi guys. Uh. Here's a spin-off for you! Well, not so much a spin-off as it is a gag story. It's just a little bit of a hiatus from Wave, but I'm getting right back into that. I already have the first part of a brand new chapter up on DeviantART, so go and check that out or something.
For now, let's do a little bit of humor! Humor's fun. I'm new to this kind of writing. Heeeey, I don't know what else to say. Have a weird and stupid story. xD
DISCLAIMER! I don't own Pokémon! All characters belong to me and stuff, but any Pokémon involved are of their respective owners.
All right fan fictioneers, where were we?
Ah! That's right! We were in the middle of a story! Now, it's a bit of a jarring story in its crude mannerisms and complex metaphors that break the rhythm and the flow—don't mind my tautology—of the many words on the many surfaces somewhere on an internet page or something; however, my good readers, that story is not soon finished as it is abrasive, because many a word is left to be interpreted and pondered upon, like a rock. Just like a rock. No significance in the simile, just stating that it's like a rock—steady on, it is hard. It's a creation by the pen, or perhaps many little buttons on a rectangle with a wire protruding from its rear region. Oh, by that, it should be literature. Wondrous. How syllogisms make the world spin on its axis.
I need not make a comment or a query below or above, depending on the source of this work—and not so much source defined as a brainchild, but a physical—no, not physical—digital place. This is me and you, readers. Consider this a form of communication via means of imagination. Right now, you must be wondering, "I came here for a Pokémon TF, did I not? Where is this process? Why must this rambunctious writer provoke me with his (or her) arrogant diction and condescending manner?".
Congratulations! You are one of many, and in said many, you are, for another many—that of reasons—together. You are not alone, and that is a precious tidbit to reach for—no, not reach for, because it implies distance, rigor, and a fair bit of lactic acid—what I meant was hold onto, as you already have it in your hands, closed, held up against your bosom while your nose pokes into its shining splendor. Your chin must feel warm from its radiance, your heart warmer. Digressions aside, I'll move ahead to the answers. The answers, of course, are ambiguous as they are wont, and rote, even to be.
And here such an answer is: I have been trifling in the realm of the 'monnies, big and small, for a little bit now, and I've accumulated likings—different likings; however, we'll focus on the one where humans and Pokémon come together in the more unorthodox of ways. What is it called again? Metamorphosis? True! A Pokémon undergoes metamorphosis in the form of evolution. Well, consider one—the human—a placeholder for a first form of a Pokémon chain. Were one to ignite some magic into this placeholder, commanding him or her to evolve, would said placeholder change into a Pokémon? Gosh, this is complex. My brain is falling out.
What would be the most reasonable way to create a Pokémon TF? Should I just have our protagonist transform outright? Maybe he or she is a science experiment. Or, perhaps this transformation heirs from a cosmic source; say, a meteorite falls to Earth containing a magical chemical that envelops the world in a certain child's interest and that interest happens to be Pokémon, and, through some means of contact, the interest, by guise of perception filter, spreads to humans and changes them into Pokémon? Oh no, that's stupid—I'll come back to that one when I want to make a story that's... not serious, yes.
Digression number two: I'm not the slightest bit sure why I've become so interested in those Pocket Monsters. One night—September twenty-eighth, to be both precise and accurate (not that that date is important to me or anything—insert fake laughter here)—I did some browsing while my man-servant was taking another of his naps. I found things I liked—no, that I like, because "liked" implies past-tense, and I don't "like" to write in past-tense. Maybe I should get over that.
Do you guys love cats? I love cats.
I consider my spirit animal a cat. What kind of cat? Well, something with deep green eyes. Jade-ish. I like that color. Jade. Not jade-ish. Jade-ish isn't a color.
I want the protagonist to transform into a cat Pokémon. It is to my best hopes and wishes that I can hit the ground running with this little story of mine. If anything or anyway, I would prefer to finish it tonight after dinner. Not just finish, but consummate. What does consummate mean again?
I just checked. It has something to do with sex. Well, so do I. End of story, start of another story!
Without further adazzle, become bedazzled!
…
…
…
My name is generally Topher.
I'm pretty fruity.
…
Best character description ever, right? Oh, fine, be that way... (Can't actually hear what "way" you're being, so I'll go right ahead and assume you were sighing loudly—like, real loudly. Like the kind of loud that sounds all crackly over a microphone.)
So, I'm Topher!
I'm like a strawberry, but without seeds, the flavor, the little green leaves on top, or really anything strawberry-related. But, I promise, I'm like a strawberry.
I have boobs!
Wait, no, another bad description. Let me set up first. I need to relax.
…
I am not fat!
...Okay, I can't do this. Narrator, you'll need to do it for me.
What? What do you mean you don't exist? This is first-person?! Shoot, that means I'm the narrator. WELL, THE NARRATOR HAS BOOBS.
Ssssssso, okaaaaay, my name is Topher Reigh and my maiden name is Ashley, but that's a long story. Lemme tell you that story, guys!
Once upon a time, there was a boy who had crappy parents! Those crappy parents did some bad things to their boy and their boy grew up thinking he was a girl! I think hormone therapy goes somewhere between the fine print. Here's what happened though: I ended up the way I am now because my parents forgot they had a kid sitting around twiddling his thumbs. Then they died. Oops. That sucks. Well, maybe you shouldn't have messed with a DEMON CHILD AHAHAHAHA pffffffffff no that's not me. That's dumb. My parents are dumb. More like WERE dumb. Aha... ha... sniff...
N'aw, shucks-a-lot, I'm okay now! I'm like Batman, but girlier. Bruce Gayne! But not really gay, since I don't consider myself gay—I just consider myself a girl. Hey hey, get this, on the topic of "Bruce", I have a cousin whose name is close to that. He's my man-servant. And cuddle toy. If he doesn't cuddle me, I get to be perverted around him. Spoilers, I do both of those things anyway. I have a feeling he doesn't like it too much on the outside, but on the inside, he looooves it on the outside, if you're gettin' what I'm gettin' at. Wink wink~.
Oh God I'm terrible. I'm soooo terrible and I know it and I love it, because I totally don't care what anyone thinks of me~! I'll go out all day and look real pretty—my best, even! With all the make-up I own, I'm surprise my auntie and uncle don't say something about it touchin' their paychecks. Oh. Yeah, I live with my auntie and uncle. Fun fact! They're awesome. They don't care if their nephew looks more like a niece, or that I take like all day to dye my hair—just found a really nice blonde, by the way! I wanna grow my hair out more—Crucie hinted at me that he likes that.
NO I'M NOT INTO MY COUSIN LIKE THAT, JEEZ! I just like playing with him. Playing rough. WINK. WINK. Okay, yeah, I'm weird.
But weird isn't the end of it! Boobs are. Teehee~.
I've been biologically correct for too long, kind of! After years of waiting, I'm finally blooming into a lady! Plus! (Or minus? I've never been good with math. I'm talking about the nether regions.) The chest region is getting plump! Seriously! I have to wear bras now, and it WEIRDS CRUCE OUT. It's pretty much the best thing in the world.
Daaaaaang, I've never been happier with my body than the way it is now!
[^^^ Oh why look, it's obvious foreshadowing. Nice to meet you obvious foreshadowing. I am literature, and you are terrible. Topher, why don't you just tell the readers where you live?]
I live with my aunt and uncle!
[No, not that, you twit-butter. Tell them where you live, not whom you live with.]
I live in a small suburban town called Autumnridge, right dead-center in California! Maybe a little north, actually. It's near the Central Valley, so we don't get a whole lot of attention. I'm glad, though. This is a really progressive state, and their view on homosexual and transgender rights has really come a long way since the early 2000s. Now, there are these advocate groups or something that you can join and-
[Yes, yes. Enough. We're getting uncomfortably political, and I can't help but not be asked to picture you in a navy blue business suit. No, really. It's a far game from your usual tank top and cut-offs combo, the occasional skirt in there, flip-flops and the like. It really compliments your pale skin—haven't you been meaning to get a tan? OH, NOW SEE, I AM DOING YOUR JOB FOR YOU. Look, this isn't going anywhere. Just go have dinner and I'll appropriate the description.]
Oh! It looks like dinner's ready! Let me so innocently skip off to my Caucasian American Dream-esque family gathers at the dinner table to assemble ingredients, condiments, and kitchenware!
...also, boobs.
...
[Ah, yes, Topher. A most vexing young boy with a troublesome history, Topher, often called Ashley by his friends, has come a long way since his childhood in the midwest. Albeit taboo by most standards, our young cross-dresser is blessed to share a roof with a most open-minded family, as well as attend a high school brimming with liberal thought, equal rights, and a respectable helping of, well, respect. Much is earned for our dear Ashley. His—presently and arguably, her—life has been a trudge through cold feelings and thin ice under heavy heels. Locked away by his parents until they had found meaning to his existence, he has served prayer and hope dearly, searching for a way out. Upon the disappearance of his lethargic caretakers due to causes unknown, presumably that of lab-work, Ashley has been transferred over to his guardians on the west coast, Aunt Janet and Uncle Gibson. A young married couple, these two have kept a vigilant eye on their niece-bound nephew for years, saw him through a middle school education, and now look forward to his place in high school alongside their son, Cruce, and the memories of their passed daughter, Molly.
But all of this is so depressing, and that's not what you're here for—heavens, no! You're here for one or many more of many things! You could be here because of your kinks, you cheeky sausage. Perhaps you could be here to learn a couple things about the art of transformation, or even a little life lesson. It could be that you desire a little laugh, or maybe you're just bored. Wonderful! That makes two of us, or even three, or four! I could be many, you could be more!
There is a very special reason that I am pursuing a description of our Ashley. He's done well implying his own features. Yes, long blonde hair that finds itself in a ponytail of liquid golden, and a sun-floe of waves under the moon, under blankets. A well known cross-dresser, he puts his body between shapes that comply to his curves, colors which sing against his biology, the pinks, the high blues, the soft yellows. As of now, we see him in his lounge attire. What is it? Nyan Cat pajama pants and a black T-shirt advertising a particular female pony of rainbow. His pants glove his thigh-rich legs, his shirt much too long for his hip-and-bust-expressive body, sleeves hanging over his small shoulders like bells. His feet, small and round, are cupped with pink wool, hands free for manicured fingers.
Oh, yes, the face. He does own quite the face, with his cheekbones accenting his skin, lips high from his round chin, nose pointy, turquoise eyes as neighborly has neighbors could be. His forehead has an undesirable amount of surface to that, to which he injects the remedy of bangs, sinking like sunlight into water, hiding a half of his left eye.
Ah, as for halves, it seems we've stumbled upon half of the title of this little tale. What about the other half? Good question, me! Dear Ashley still wants to see a TF story to the end, as his inquisitive aquamarine eyes have brought him to a world of transformation. I like that world. Do you? Of course you do!
What was it he said? Oh, after dinner, he would like to put the TF to sleep? No? Bah, close enough. I'm trying to make it sound vague here. What I am trying to do is make the story just a little bit different. Maybe I'm at fault for breaking the cycle? Maybe, yes—this story does have an awesome caliber of discrepancy to which I—no, we—can employ advantage, imagination, and most importantly, a wee bit of fun for you and I, yes! But, before such fun drives itself forward, I advise a quiet dose of character development. Exposition only goes so far, my dear audience.]
…
[By the way: surprise! This will be loosely in the style of drama!]
ME: Wait, what?
[Yes, that's correct, Ashley! No more pesky dialogue tags to make your conversations repetitive and messy. Go forth, and speak to your heart's content. Be free!]
…
Dinner's here! Looks like we've got some hot dogs some up for us tonight, neatly placed over a checkered tablecloth. Lessee, from right to left, there's a bag of hot dog buns, relish, mustard, ketchup, plate of grilled dogs, a Gibsy putting silverware on the table, an Auntie grabbing the napkins, and a man-servant named Cruce sitting down closest to the kitchen window, leaning back, eyes and thumbs occupied with his phone. New phone, huh?
I walk up to him and he doesn't even notice. It helps that the table's just a tiny square! Less time to get around it. When I'm with him, right to his left, he makes this grimace, almost putting his mouth sideways, eye caught it mid-twitch.
CRUCE: I don't get how this works.
[Yes, and neither do I.]
ME: Mmmmmm~?
I put my hands over his wide shoulders and I start to squeeze, pushing my fingers into his neck, but he's too distracted with the twenty-first century to react to my pleasure power. Which sucks! This gets him all the time! I squeeze just a tad bit harder, lowering the aim of the massage (or grope) to his beefy arms. So beefy, those arms! Too much martial arts. He likes to show his arms off, always wearing those tight muscle shirts around the house, sometimes even at school. Cooler weather nowadays forces him to put something heavier on, which is nice, but I do like seeing his arms. More access!
CRUCE: When I add a contact, I can't keep the screen up for long enough to like... save it, or whatever.
ME: It's a phone, Crucie. Phone not hard. Phone your friend. Easy tool for simple boy. Too much buff and not enough mind?
CRUCE: Too much ouch and not enough aaaaahhh...
He's probably talking about my pressing. Yep, I press hard, and that's what'cha get for not paying attention to me! I let my fingers drift back up to his neck and give the back of it a taunting tickle before putting a little more force into the action. Janet and Gibsy are talking about something-or-other right now, so I'm gonna go ahead and take my time with this hunk of karate-chopped meat in front of me. Looking at the screen of his phone, I giggle at his dilemma, watching as screens cancel over each other. Finally, with a press into his shoulder-blades, I get something of a reaction out of him. He lifts his head and shoulders, looking away from the phone.
CRUCE: Aaaahh!
ME: There! Got your "aaaahh!"
CRUCE: Tophs, I wanted an "aaaahhh..." not an "aaaAAH OH GOD!"
ME: You'll get that later tonight~.
CRUCE: Really? Hold on, wh-what did I do to you?!
ME: You haven't been working on your English project, have you?
[Oh, right. They have an English project and it's due this coming Monday. And it's Sunday. Eat your heart out, procrastination. Delicious. Tastes like paper and tears.]
CRUCE: Dude, I'm halfway done. How—like, wait, how do you not know this? We share the same room and we're basically hanging out with each other all day. Sooo, what, were you like...
ME: Uh—I was thinking? I have a big story to be thinking about, y'know~? Speaking of which, what source material are you using for the project?
CRUCE: If I tell you, you'll kill me and make me into a purse.
ME: [Gasp] Oh my God, I want to! But then you can't be my man-ser—you're using my story, aren't you?
CRUCE: What gave you that idea?
ME: A certain purse.
CRUCE: What?
ME: There's this purse I want to get. It's made of human skin. Yours, to be specific.
Cruce resumes his phone fiddling.
CRUCE: Sorry, not followin'.
I squeeze into his neck again and shove my lips into his right ear, pushing his messy brown hair out of the way with my nose. Smells like man-shampoo. Seriously, what is that, like, coconuts and testosterone? I let my teeth touch his earlobe, claiming my power over him at present.
CRUCE: Fff-c'mon! Your story was gonna get out there sooner or later. Heck, if I didn't do it, the universe would've thought of some worse way to do it... Easy, Tophs. I need those for listening to your cute and irresistible voice.
Cheating with charm again, I see! It works... It always does. I back away from the cuzzy, sniffing grumpily and taking a seat, pulling my chair to the corner of the table, just to be a little closer to Crucie so he could listen to my "cute and irresistible" voice up close. I take a brief glance at the ear I had captive. It would look good pierced, wouldn't it? He would think otherwise. He's so big and burly, but I bet'chu if he got his ears pierced, he would be crying like a little'un. Big softy...
Mmph, my chest feels funny, and not because of the beeewbs, but because now I get to go to bed knowing that tomorrow is the day my big secret gets exposed in front of that English class. "That" English class? Mm, 'guess we share the same class, but still, I'm not ready for everyone to know my dumb story. It's dumb! It's too kiddy, with too many flaws and chumpy characters that don't make any contribution to the story, and... meeeeeh, Cruce, you suck.
A couple grabby-hands here and there later, and a hot dog is sitting in front of me. I only like ketchup on it, and a thin trail at that. Not too much extra calories—just enough to watch the waistline, yet keep me full for the night. Mmm, plus, I'm not a big meat eater. Gibsy's hamburgers are fabulous, but I really gotta watch out for carbs and proteins overloads—I don't wanna end up like man-servant-soon-to-be-purse. Not that he's fat. He's healthy, but he eats like a garbage disposal. Twice, at that, if those two hot dogs stacked with relish say anything about his appetite.
AUNTIE JANET: Heeey, Ashley!
ME: Heeey, Auntie!
AUNTIE: Did you hear what we were talking about back there?
ME: Nooope, sorry. Was talking to One-Hundred-Percent Man over here.
I point to Cruce, but I really don't need to—the guy has half a hot dog sticking out of his mouth, looking up at us with his back hunched over in mid-chew. Classy!
GIBSY: Should I tell 'em? Eeh, I'll tell 'em. We're getting a kitten.
ME: WANT!
I have this urge to stand up from my seat so bad. Oh God, it's like having to pee, but not. But also, it's like having to PEE SO BADLY. From your heart. EW I KNOW, but that's what it's like! I just wanna run over to Gibsy and hug his face because I knooooow how he doesn't like having animals around the house since they uhm... die...
[Emotional curve ball!]
GIBSY: Yep, that's fun, right? Probably gonna be a girl kitty. Janey wants one, since we've always had boy cats in the family.
ME: [Nasal, slow] Er. Mah. Gerd.
CRUCE: Eh, I hate cats.
Everyone looks at him. So silent.
GIBSY: Hey, Cruce. Wanna get your pops a beer?
CRUCE: N... No?
ME: You should get him a beer.
AUNTIE: Agreed. Beer him. Bring beer into his life.
[Well, that's certainly not creepy at all. Better BEER that in mind, Cruce. I went to college.]
Cruce is always a good boy when it comes to fetching things for us. That's what DOG PEOPLE DO, after all. Sorry, I know! There's a little divide between us kitty-kind and those doggy-dummies. Besides, it's not like I hate dogs! I just think they're sloppy. Cats are more complicated~! I love the challenge of raising them, and the idea of bringing a little girly kitty into our home is making me all squee-like.
I make a little squee, in fact, as Cruce returns from the land of the fridge, a can of apple ale in hand. He jokingly sets it in front of him, next to his own bottle of iced tea. A second of tongue-happy smiling later, he pushes it across the table. Gibsy catches it and pulls the tab up with one finger not a split-second later, a sharp hiss and crack whipping the air, vapors of alcohol and hoppy flavor venting high, as he tosses the can back and guzzles down a brisk many milliliters of booze.
GIBSY: [Refreshed sigh] Thanks.
CRUCE: Yeah. Uh, when's this thing happening? With the cat?
AUNTIE: Tonight.
CRUCE: Sure, that's logic. I like logic. Especially that logic. That logic is flawless.
ME: What do muscles know about logic~?
CRUCE: Y-you know, I'm not pumpin' iron twenty-five eight, Tophs! I have other hobbies, too.
AUNTIE: Soon, one of those hobbies will be taking care of our kitty, eh?
CRUCE: [Defeated sigh, monotone] America, you deceive me.
I stick my tongue out at Cruce and giggle—I don't even think I have a bite cleared off my dinner yet. I look down just for the sake of curiosity, and nope! Still nothing. Not too hungry, now that there's food in front of me. Or maybe it's just 'cause I got other things to think about, like how I'm gonna see a NEW KITTY TONIGHT!
Still though, a girl's gotta eat. So does a boy who thinks he's a girl. And thus, I would eat! Gibsy's dogs—funny how this conversation is over a table of dogs—have a pretty special flavor to them. Some charcoal is burnt onto the meat, and there's a little bit of a ginger aftertaste. He's a good cook—likes to make weird recipes. Marinates all kinds of things in all kinds of other things, like enthusiasm in Crucie's despair! Mmm, I would lick that right up, had it less to do with beer. I dun like beer. Too beeeeery.
Oh, and I'm underage. But that doesn't ever stop me! Gee, I'm glad I'm just thinking to myself right now in a place no one else can see. My head. My head belongs to me! Really though, is Cruce going through with this whole thing about using my story as a source for his project? I knoooow it can be any sci-fi-based world, and I knooooow it's related to literature, but... that's low, you dog-lover! I want to keep that to myself until it's done and ready to grin at the world all nervous-like, waiting to be accepted and published by someone open enough. I don't like keeping secrets, but this one is different. I got so far with this one and now it's about to drop all over the floor. Well, shoot, I'm not about to clean it up. I have a man-servant for that, so if anyone comes at me thinking I'm lame, I'll throw his butt in the way of their words. Maybe his friend Katalyn can help, too. She's good about putting her fists in sensitive places. Oops, don't take that out of conteeeext~!
No wonder Auntie and Gibsy want to have dinner so early. They pick their paper plates up and clean their side of the table, before grabbing some things and heading out into the blue dusk. Aren't pet stores closed by now? Or maybe they're getting the kitten from a stray litter. They like to talk about rescuing stray animals, but they never really do anything about it.
This leaves me to contemplate something...
Cruce? Still on his new phone being a caveman and not understanding how touchscreen works.
Nah, not him. Maybe... Still gotta find a good design for the purse he'll make.
Wait, wait, no! Of course—derp. I have a story to get back to. I'm putting my main one on the racks for a little. I wanna let it dry until some fresh ideas pop up into my head. Little bit of browsing later, and I have a new interest. I wanna groom that interest! I like the implications it puts on the table—I should really clean the table before I head back to my room and both DREAD and BOUNCE around for the upcoming thingies!
...but I have a man-servant for that.
ME: Hey! Crucie.
He doesn't even look over to me, but based on my "cute and irresistible" voice, I'm pretty sure he's listening. That, and I'm like two inches from his face right now.
ME: If you're really gonna go through with exposing me like that—uh, my story... Can you at least do the table and dishes tonight? Pretty please with me naked on top?
CRUCE: [Distracted with phone] Only if you're actually naked.
Wait, what?
ME: Uhhh, do you actually want that?
CRUCE: [Still distracted] It's called "deadpanning". It's that thing you do when you make a joke seem like it's not a joke.
ME: Cruuuuce, you're a wonderfully handsome young man. I want your children... Like that?
CRUCE: See, with you, I already know it's not a joke. So it doesn't work.
There's a loud scrape, but it doesn't jar me too much, since I'm the one doing it. It's just 'cause these wooden chairs and this linoleum floor don't work together so well. After scooting out, I stand up, walk around my chair and grab its sides, putting it back where it belongs. I hop over to Cruce again, leaning over, hands above my knees, fingers parted. I'm looking at him with a smile as wide as my lips can make. He's not doing anything on the phone. I just so happen to notice his eyes on me, frozen like a big 'ol buck in the headlights. I lean in and squish my lips against his cheek, making a loud smooch. And then, I bounce backwards! I spin and break into a gentle run. I hear something behind me, getting further away! Something like, "Did you just kiss me...?"
Aaaand now I have this crazy room all to myself. It's such a discombobulated place, really. There's a big pile of plushies on my side and a bunch of weights on another. The bed is at the far end of the room, right under the window. It kinda has sides of its own, since its right down the middle of the line that divides Crucie and I. So, one pillow is all pink with hearts and the other is all blue and plain, but their owners share the same gender, and the same sleeping space, oh yes they do~. My side of the bed has more blankies and his side has less. We each have a nightstand, but all the furniture sorta takes up an entire wall, so that leaves, er, not a whole lot of space for a TV or anything. So we don't have one! Internet is our TV anyway.
I jump along and take a seat in my desk chair, spinning a little bit, throwing my feet onto the bed and stretching out my arms. Now that my belly is—whoops, forgot to really eat that much. Oh well! Cruce will finish my dinner. Anyway, I'm fine, so now it's time to do some thinkies. I have a few things to do thinkies about. Those thinkies can be about what terrible things I can do to Cruce tonight to get back at him for exposing my story, or it can be more innocent and involve expansion on that story! Not the same story though. I need a break. So let's do something a little less serious.
Mmm, but how do I do it? Where do I start? What's the setting? Who's the main character? I wanna do something I've never done before—something so original that it hurts. In my chest. Around my boob region. Because I have boobs. Now.
[Ah, so our Ashley is looking for a place to begin his story, yes?]
I turn the quiet chair around and take a closer look at a few papers scattered on the desk. They got a whole bunch of notes and scribbles, but they don't lead anywhere, and they have a lot more to do with the story I don't wanna write right now. I want to use them as a point of leverage for a new thing, but I'm losing my creative juices. I don't know if I can ever get them back to the way they used to be. It's like I... need to search around a little more. I need to find a new reason to write! I need to find more reasons to be a storyteller. If I could get inside people's minds and see their histories, maybe I could understand the world a little better. That could help me finish building my own fantasy world.
[And he would need to get inside the heads of others, I see?]
I lean over, crossing my arms on the desk and putting my chin over my top forearm. One of the notes is just a crummy drawing of a cat wearing a skirt. She stands on two legs. I don't know why I keep drawing her. She's my favorite character, but she never shows up in any of my works. She's just here in the real world with me. Late imaginary friend, maybe? I don't even have a name for her. Maybe she's me! Maybe she's kind of the person I'd want to be. First of all, she's a cat, so I'd love to be that. Second, she's a girl, so...
[And he has a burden of identity crisis which he wants to mend?]
Gosh, I really don't know what I'm gonna do. This is such a big dilemma. Writer's block! Who wants writer's block?! Nobody, that's who! Oooooh, I'm starting to feel so angsty. Why won't someone just solve my problems and give me a story I can work wiiiiith?
[And he whines a lot. Okay, enough questions and obvious plot. What say you, audience? Shall we give him this story? Shall we present to him a challenge which he will grow from and create a very special story of his own? After all, you can't be a storyteller without a story of your own to tell. Yes, you may have trials of your own you can speak of to others, but they're sad. Sad is bad. No one wants sad right now! We want to give you an obstacle that is all three flavors of joyous, confusing, and mortifying!
Let us not hesitate any further! To truly begin a story, you need a conflict! And what better conflict than with one's inner regressions and motivations? Well, many, I imagine. Yet, such conflict will be the tracks for our railroad! Yes, my lovely readers, let us embark on a tale of transformation!
OH GOOD, IF THAT WASN'T ALREADY CLEAR FROM THE TITLE COVER...
Look, it's evening and the protagonist is alone in a bedroom. Perfect time for a TF, wouldn't you say? Why do I keep asking you questions? Who are you? Who am I? Well, I am the voice inside of your head drilling wretched thoughts into your puny brain. I am the advocate of deception and disarray within the folds, dark and uncertain, of all minds, seeking chaos within the order. I am the nightmare that awakens in the unconscious of all those who acknowledge the very existence of fear.
But not really.
I also enjoy lying! But I could be lying about lying. I could also be pushing a joke to its limits. It's making my arms quite tired. Let's push something else—something a little bit lighter.]
…
That's funny. I feel weird.
Oh, what's happening to my face?
Oh no, it's turning blue.
Aaaah. My arms are fuzzy.
A tail?
A tail!
A tail?!
[No no NO, you biscuit! These are words, you see. Wordy words! There are no illustrations to go by—what, do you think this some kind of graphic novel? You must be more adept at language than that! Now, try that again. Put more emphasis on the environment.]
The wind was rash, howling like a pack of mad wolves. The window was thumping wildly, and my heart was racing to its dread-rhythm. The floor at my feet was messy with sharp vibrations, the rug's fibers as deep as ocean canyons. The air was like stagnant toxic, sour to my lips and dry to my uvula, eyes watering, fingers frozen, yet clenched. My bones rattled like a snake's fear, a poison. I-
[Hold on, hold on. You've stepped a little bit outside of our tone, dear writer. Yes, I understand that a TF is the point of a TF story, but drawing too much attention to one scene eliminates the fine appreciation for literary symmetry. This does not mean you shouldn't be descriptive. After all, there is quite a powerful reason why the protagonist should receive the uncanny description. We must know what he or she was like before he or she becomes the body we will follow. That goes without saying that this metamorphosis should be described in more clarity than the environment, without ignoring the occurrences of life around him or her. So, let's see a little bit more of the microcosm!]
I bring my head up from my arms and stare into the empty monitor ahead, watching my hazy reflection squint at itself. If I'm not going to get any ideas, maybe I should just sleep, since I'm feeling like I need a good rest. Normally, I'm tired around ten, but tonight feels a little unnatural. I don't know where the feeling's coming from. I don't want to eat or think too much. I just wanna rest. It's like when you get growing pains and you feel sore and uneasy, and maybe laying down for a while will put those pains away.
This is a little backwards, since it seems like I'm crunchy. What's that? Why do I smell something I didn't smell earlier? Smells a little strong. I don't like it. Too... loud of a smell.
I smack my lips. My tongue feels fuzzy—no, maybe not fuzzy, but rough. Rougher than usual. I have a soft tongue. Just ask Cruce.
My hands and my feet are stiff. I try wiggling my fingers and my toes. The sensation's kinda like the whole falling asleep thing, but that usually happens when you have pressure on a certain portion of a body part, and then the nerves have no idea what to do, so they just sort of go on a camping trip. That's how a doctor put it once. Doctor Marius? What's his name? Oh, that's not important.
Wiggling doesn't fix it. Wiggling should always work, but not tonight, I think. So, instead, I close my eyes and sit back, arms behind my head, held high and watching the bumpy ceiling, making shapes out of nonsense in white. I imagine one of the ceiling crumbs falling off and hitting me in the eye, just to distract me from the numbness of my hands and feet.
It begins to spread, neighboring arms and legs harboring that same unbeatable feeling. It gets up to my forearms, then my shoulders, and then my neck. Now, I feel sleepy. I feel like I should lay down on my tummy and let my body drift into a sandy or silky state of slumber, all the while my nerves have their fun and games leaving, going somewhere else—probably vacationing in another body elsewhere. Maybe someone's feeling what I'm feeling, because I'm feeling like I want to talk and share experiences.
But I can't even talk now. My mouth is dry and my teeth feel jagged and sharp, sooo... no talky...
There's a little bit of resistance in my blood, even though I'm submissive as can be. I lower my head and take a brief inventory of the contents of my desk. Papers, pencils, papers, pens, papers, stapler—ah, a ruler. Getting closer. Mirror! There it is. I put a numb arm forward and pick up the round mirror—originally for foundation and now for just checking my face as a reference for drawing humans—up, open it with the other hand, and take a peek into the world of color. It tells me what the black monitor doesn't. It lets my eyes communicate with each other—all two sets of them, one turning on my expectations. My eyes are blue—were blue, and now they're green, horribly uneven with the features of my face. They're feral, retinas bright jade, pupils deeper. I blink twice. They don't change.
I frown, opening my mouth in what you'd probably guess is, I don't know, awe? Awe rolls out a red carpet for more awe. My canines are more jagged, proper fangs by this point. I put a hand on my chin and I feel fuzz. Not good! I shave everywhere almost always, and this is not how quickly my body grows hair usually. The confusion's passing the baton over to panic now.
My face, normally kind of chalky, has a watery blue undertone to it. I bring the mirror closer. I find the fuzz to be the source of my blue problems. As close as the mirror is, my hand is closer, placed on my cheek—so, surely I'll notice that, too. What do I notice? White. Not skin white, but fluff white.
My fingers itch, arms tingle, chest pushing in on itself; there's an earthquake in my body, and it's shaking everything I want to say I knew.
I hear ringing, but not from a phone or from a song. I hear ringing from the UNIVERSE, JEEZ! It's loud! It's so loud—it's like a spaceship taking off right next to you. Again, the eyes get shut. The hands clench up, but I don't do that. I don't close my hands into fists. They do. They do it themselves. As quickly as my eyes had closed, they open again, and I find the hand at my cheek having become stubby and sharp, padded with a delicate layer of white fur. There's a line at my wrist where the fur turns blue. The bones inside are so different, but they're mine, and I can move them because the muscle's mine, too...
I drop the mirror, not because I want to, but because I have to, because my other hand is the same way. The slam startles me. I jump from my chair, holding both sharp hands up. Standing in front of the sliding closet door mirrors, I gasp with enough ferocity to make my tongue flick into my fangs, tossing my head back and yelping at the sound of the universe exploding next to my eardrums.
The mirror tells me that my hair is white, shorter now, with my ears over it, rather than behind it. My face is fuzzier, blue surfacing around my cheeks and my eyes and my forehead. My head's rounder, my nose shorter, fixed into a small black dot. Everything's numb, but I can still move, because I own all of it.
I can see the bed behind me. The mattress is up to my chest. I turn around to make sure that's one-hundred percent true. It is. I'm shorter. My clothes tell me the same thing, pants wrinkling and folding 'cause they're starting to have less and less leg to cover. Same goes for the panties, the shirt, and the... bra.
I point at the mirror with these weird hands.
ME: GOD! YOU LIED TO ME! YOU TOOK MY GREATEST ACCOMPLISHMENT! ( T-T )
I shrivel up and start whimpering because this whole thing sucks!
My shirt doesn't fit anymore. I'm shorter now. My socks don't even line up with the way my feet are pointed. I let the pants fall away, undergarments caught in them. I step away from the dregs of my clothing, hurling the needless shirt from my torso. Now, I'm leaning against the mirror, white paws against it, nose nearly touching it. My feet are the same as my hands. Instead of having structures of their own, they're just sorta part of the legs. I still have knees, but they're not pronounced. It looks like I have stockings on, but that's just a part of the white fur. Blue around my waist, a skirt of fur fanning out around it—that same deep ocean blue.
I still have curves. I still have evidence of my maturity, but darn it, it's not the same...
My neck is fluffy. It's so fluffy that I can't see it. Instead, all I get is a cloud of swirly white in front of my chin, poofy and soft as marshmallows combined with cotton candy. I touch it with both paws, pulling it up and nibbling on it. I don't know why. I really want to nibble. I want to bite things. I bite things when I'm nervous. I keep nibbling on the fluffy scarf as I watch it grow out over my shoulders, joining my white hair. My hair's so different. It's caught between two tall ears. I fold them over, because I don't want to hear that noise anymore. I don't have a choice. I gotta keep them folded, or else I might do something crazy.
My hair's all swoopy in the front. It wants to go to one side, like there's wind blowing it that way. There's a tuft of it sticking up higher than the rest. It still has a decent length to it, but it's nothing like how it used to be. I can still make it into a ponytail. I think I'll do that after I... EEK, OW. SPINE! SPINE TICKLES AND HURTS AND TICKLES!
I slap my rump and squeak. Feels like something's crawling around inside of my—WHOA THERE! Suddenly, I feel relieved. There's something soft between my paws. There are... no, two things soft down there. I can feel them pulling my weight back. I can see them peering around my butt in the mirror. They're curvy, kinda like the scarf. Blue, with a white stripe—like the ears—at a point near the end, with some more white fur to finish it off. This fur's fluffier than the rest of me—I'm pretty fluffy, too. I'm also tiny, so these swoopy tails are huge. And there's two of them. My balance flags. I step back a couple inches just to appease the big shift in my weight.
I fail.
I fall backwards, but the tails catch the fall. That's the least they can do!
My white furry legs out in front of me, I sit there thinking about how the creature in the mirror could possibly be me. I'm a two-foot blue cat thing with, well, hair, two tails, and the power to hear the universe. Of course I know what I am. I'm a Meowstic. I know this much from my new interest!
But I'm a Meowstic. I am. Me. Ashley's a Meowstic.
Putting my paws in my lap, I sigh, regaining feeling in my body bits, all that weird numbness bleeding out of me. Satisfying, but scary to know this is why it's leaving. Bittersweet, a little bit. That's the last thing I was feeling when I was still human.
I keep watching my jade eyes. They don't move, 'cept for when I'm a little distracted with my ears and why I can hear things I've never heard before, like the sounds of... thoughts, I think. I think I hear thoughts. My face is so round, but still so awesomely feminine. I tilt my head to the left, silent, trying to look at that Ashley with a different angle. My ears fall to one side. I tilt to the right, and they follow. I move, and Ashley moves. I think, and Ashley thinks. I look down, and I see what Ashley wants to be wearing right now, but she's nude, so all she can do is sit on clothes that are too big for her. She feels like a bit of a baby, because she's so small, but her thoughts are still big.
Can Ashley talk? Or stop referring to herself in third person? I sure hope so—oh, there she goes. I mean I. There I go.
ME: Aah... Aaaahh! Aaah? Ah!
Okay, I can still make noise-things out of my talky-hole. Good! I need that. My voice sounds a little different. Maybe it's because the vocal chords are smaller. Biology? Eh, biology—wait, I'm a Pokémon. Screw biology! My voice is still adorable, and I think Cruce would think so, toooowwwwwaaaaait a minute, I'm not alone on planet Earth. Oh God. Is Cruce a Pokémon, too?! Naaaah, that's stoooopid, but... is it?
CRUCE: [Enters the room] Hey! You all good in here? Wait, where are you? I thought I should come in because I heard you screaming and the author felt it was decent timing to put me here, so here I am. Being here. Looking for you. But I can-
[Shut up, Cruce.]
ME: Cruce! Hi! I'm right here. Like literally two feet to the left of you. Walk forward a little? Yes, like that. Now, look over here...
He follows the orders of my voice. Feels funny to talk when you have a sharper tongue scraping inside of your mouth. Plus, I have fangs I need to dance around. Those are tricky. Still, at least I can talk, even if it sounds like my mouth is numb. I hope he figures out who's talking to him soon. I don't want this to be anymore awkward than it needs to be.
He comes around the little entrance way in the room and notices me right off the bat—a little after I guide him with my voice, actually, so not that fast. Er... He's just looking at me now. Not saying a word, just letting me borrow his creepy stare. Yep, still staring...
I try to stand, but instantly topple backwards again. These pointy feet don't work in conjunction with the tails. I guess I need some help getting up. Gosh, I must look crazy pathetic right now. But at least I have the most caring cousin in the world to take care of m—and he's gone. Yep. Closed the door and everything. Just walked away.
Welp.
I'm alone.
Wait, no—someone's opening the door.
CRUCE: [Enters the room] Hey! You all good in here? Wait, where are you? I thought I should come in becau-
ME: [Flailing arms] I'M RIGHT HERE, CAPTAIN BUTTHOLE!
CRUCE: Oh.
ME: What do you mean, "Oh"?!
CRUCE: [Straight-faced]Somebody left a sexy cat person in my room.
ME: Oh~...
I blush, because holy crap! I take another glance in the mirror, then I look at my hysterical cousin again. He's a little closer to me. His arms are crossed. I can barely see his face from this low.
CRUCE: This uh... This is new, Tophs. You eat somethin' funny, or what? You're a... cat. With like two tails.
ME: [Scoffing]Mmh, that IS how you state the obvious...
CRUCE: Yeah, and the obvious is that you're sexy.
I blush again. Why's he gotta do that?! Maybe he's using reverse psychology on me. Oh, that's what it is. I think I can see what he's thinking now. I get it! I'm a Meowstic! I can beat him at his own game! Normally, I'm the one making him uncomfortable with perverted thoughts, but now the tables have turned all over the place. I won't let him defeat me. I must use my newly acquired power in order to stop the madness that is—Oh God he's picking me up. He's gonna pick me up. He's reaching down and he's gonna pick me up like I'm just a little animal. Oh gooooosh, oh shooooooot, oh heeeeey actually I think I love the heck out of this moment—yes! This is a good moment! Screw it—be horny, you diabolical man-servant, you. 3
OW! HE'S PICKING ME UP BY the... scruff of fluff in the back of my neck. Ow! It's not right! I'm bipedal! It doesn't work like that, CRUCE!
CRUCE: I don't... know what to do with you. Generally, I'm not a cat guy, but I guess I can get over that. Uh, got the phone working. Mom 'n Pops were just a couple houses down. Seems like they aren't getting that kitty tonight, but it looks like it doesn't really matter. We get one either way. So hey, why're you a...
ME: [Annoyed] Meowstic...
CRUCE: A "Meow Stick"?
ME: Meowstic, Cruce. Like mystic?
CRUCE: [Slower] A "Meow... Stick".
I grumble something I can't even understand. He's so derpy. I swear, he does it on purpose. Oh wait, DUH. I know he's doing it on purpose. I can see what's going on behind his eyes. God, it's actually kind of hot... Oh yeah, hold me and bind me up, you~. WAIT, NO, that's not what I want to be thinking about right now! I just got turned into a Pokémon! I gotta have him help me figure out how to turn back into a human.
[Or you could just settle down and live happily ever after and accept your transformation. Oh, but hold steady, that's not going to happen, now is it?]
I huff and look into the mirror again, hanging from his hand like I'm some gross rodent with rabies. But I'm nooot! I'm an Ashley!
CRUCE: We've had this conversation before. Isn't the, uh, Pokémon you showed me?
ME: Oh, er... M-...maybe. Yes, okay, it is. I got turned into that all of a sudden. I was just sitting down and can you please at least hold me a little more gently? Gosh, you're a big brute, Cruce...
He doesn't apologize. Instead, he swings his free arm underneath me and catches the spot just above my rear, pushing my tails against my back. I wriggle them until they part around his arm, now free of his lock. My lower body is pushed upward, feet dangling forward, as his grasp around my fluff becomes a cradle with his hand, holding my head like a baby's. My paws are forced forward, too, limp and hanging in front of my chest.
I'm still. I can't think to move. Everything around me is too big for movement—too big for me to get anywhere anyway. Cruce especially. He's so big. He's a giant in so many ways, holding me bridal style. Holy crap, it makes me want to purr in his arms. My chest is super fluffy right now—on the inside, I mean. It's tingly. I have had it before. It's when you feel so good that you just want to hug someone. I couldn't hug right now, so my only other option is... a rumbling in my chest, neck, and nose. It feels so clean. Right now, I'm in the clouds, and it sounds like a delicate whirring and churning.
CRUCE: Dude, you're purring.
ME: [Very obviously happy, voice vibrating] Mm-hmm...?
CRUCE: You are, like, absurdly happy right now. This is literally your heaven.
I reach out to Cruce's chin.
ME: Heeey... Can you maybe dim the lights and get naked?
CRUCE: Sure, let me just get the adoption papers and I can have you put up by tonight.
ME: [Stops purring]Oh, you're such a penis!
I slap his neck with my raised paw. He grins like a doofus, no change anywhere else in the skin of his face.
CRUCE: Is that why you like me so much?
ME: Kind of.
Cruce starts to walk somewhere. I'm looking up at him, so I can only see his chin, the ceiling, and the fan above. I feel sleepy. Body's not numb, but it's a bit tired after changing shape and hearing the voice of infinity or something... big yawn...
Uuh... I feel too relaxed. I feel like butter and fluff. Fluffy butter. That's so gross... Eeck.
I'm getting lower, but not shorter—I think I'm a little paranoid about my size changing. It's not that, though. It's just because I'm being set down somewhere. It's soft. My back feels better. Cruce's arms are harder than this surface—what is this surface? There's something cushy behind my head. It feels different than I think it normally would. Maybe it's because of my fur.
Oh, is it my pillow? That makes this the bed. I'm in bed now. My chest is rumbling again. I'm so comfy. Something warm is touching my tummy, right down to the hidden skin. Cruce happens to be reaching for me at that moment. I can't see where his arm is going—it's heading for me though, so I'll assume he's rubbing my tummy. It's nice. It's almost tickling, but not quite tickling. It's that soothing spot between tickling and stroking. Cruce is totally doing that right now, and ohmygoooood...
CRUCE: [Smiling] Yeah. I like this. Good game, this'un. This fits you, Tophs. You and I can try and figure out what's up. Maybe the Circle'll help us out tomorrow.
ME: [Purring] The Circle? I forgot about that... I gotta go to school, huh?
CRUCE: I think it's safe to say you're sick.
ME: But I feel so gooood...
CRUCE: Hey, you wanna come to school then?
ME: Yeah, but only 'cause you're there.
CRUCE: Ai, Tophs...
He looks away and sighs. I can tell what's on his mind, and I think he knows me enough to know that I can. It doesn't last too long. That's cool! I don't like seeing Cruce, of all people, get sobby and whiny.
CRUCE: Tell you what: You chill here and I'll finish cleaning up the kitchen. I'll tell the folks you're asleep when they get back. You look okay, so I guess you don't need me to tell you that everything's gonna be alright.
ME: Aww, you always say that, and now you're not going to say it even when the weirdest thing ever happens to me~? C'mooon, say it to me. Pleeease~?
I give him blinky eyes, innocent and big~.
[And lots of tildes.]
CRUCE: [Shaking his head, grinning] Everything's going to be alright. I think.
ME: Nyeeeeehehehe!
I squirm underneath his touch, after which he moves his hand up to my neck and rubs around the region in small circles, forcing me to lean my head all the way back. I giggle obnoxiously—I'm probably loud enough to be heard by the neighbors—and let him caress the fluffy scarf. I can't tell you how GOOD it feels! It's like THAT is the SPOT, ooooooh yes~! I close my eyes and I smile as wide as my new cheeks can handle—maybe a little wider than the previous face I owned! Putting my paws over Cruce's hand, I kick at my own tails, lifting them between my legs, then clamping them in place. Cruce pauses. I pause, too, open my eyes, and look at him, just begging for him to continue!
CRUCE: Daa-haaayumn, you're cute. Soft, too. Alright, kitty-butt, you stay put. I'll be back soon.
ME: [Nodding] Mmm~! Hey, could you also do me a favor?
I lick my lips, craving something... creamy...
[Goodness me.]
CRUCE: Whassup?
ME: Caaaan you bring me a small glass of milk, pweeease?
[Oh.]
CRUCE: [Wink] You got it.
I give him a wink back. I sit up after he takes his hand from my neck and returns to the door, left ajar. Another door somewhere opens. There are some footsteps outside our room. Cruce breaks into a swift jog, reaching our door and pulling it open. He looks back at me and gives me a brief thumbs-up. I wave him off with a few flicks of my paw. Off he goes, to tell some white lies...
I fall back into a poof after hearing our door click shut. I'm trapped, but I don't mind.
I'm not looking at enough things. I'm a Pokémon in the real world. I'm essentially an animal with a human mind. Who transforms into that? You don't hear about that sorta thing in magazines. Oh well. It's not that bad. I can get used to it. I just need to understand how to balance myself, walk around, maybe learn a better way to grasp things. No fingers. Shucks~.
My chest is still tingly from where Cruce touched. He's giving me more affection already. Okaaaay, fine, maybe I'm a little bit loony in the head for having the hots about my cousin. It's just how we act. It's just how I like to play. I'm frisky!
And now, he thinks I'm so cute that he'll give me neck rubs. Mmm, and I'll get more tonight. I'd better be a good kitty then. I wouldn't want my man-servant to neglect me. Should I call him something else? Master? Pfft! Like ever.
Meh, he can still be my man-servant. He's gonna give me his milk, after all. Hehehe!
Oh, could he, by chance, be my trainer? I am a Pokémon, and that is what pairings are called in that universe. I never pictured Cruce as a Pokémon trainer, but times change, and so does my body. Like, a lot. A big change. Bigger than my crazy form of puberty.
Speaking of changes, I need to think of my TF story still. Or do I? I don't, really. I am my own TF story now. I can go around and make a story all about myself. Should I? What should I do? I always liked to hide my stories and keep them all to myself and Cruce. But now, I can't escape it. It's inevitable. Crucie can only hide me from Auntie and Gibsy so long, then I'll need to come out and face the sunshine. I want to go to school tomorrow, but I don't want people to know that my body has anything to do with my mind.
But I'm a Meowstic, and my mind and body are closer than they ever have been before.
Mmmeh, stories are tough to tell when you dun wanna tell them.
I'll sleep on it. Tomorrow, my story can start. I hope everyone thinks I make a good main character...
Eyes closed again, I sigh through my nose, and let numbness crawl into my fur, natural now, with a purpose for being here.
…
Somehow...
Time goes by fast.
I dream a cold dream, silent, and without many smiles or much laughter. It comes to me in a flash, but I remember it like a still frame.
…
I'm still in bed, but it's darker and warmer. I can still see clearly, like the colors are vibrant, even through the shady haze of a somnolent bedroom. My tails are touching something to my right. I look to my left first. The digital clock reads 8:00PM. There's a short glass of milk, shy of the rim by a centimeter.
Next, I check the right. Cruce is there, half covered by the bedspread. He's setting his phone down, leaning to one side to drop it off on the nightstand. My tails are touching his leg. I try to move one of them, gently thumping against him. He notices me with a quiet look in his face. It makes space for a smile, contagious in its nature. Consider me infected~.
He reaches for my head while I sit up. I don't get the chance to fully lift my head to him. He's already petting me, brushing his hand along my hair, letting it run down my back to the base of my tails. I close my eyes again and sit there, those vibrations in my throat resuming their sound.
CRUCE: Did I wake you?
ME: [Head-shake] Mm-mm.
CRUCE: Need a drink of milk? It's right there for you.
ME: [Looking at paws now] Mmh... I can't pick it up.
Cruce shuffles, scooching himself closer to me until his hip is touching my side. He reaches over me, keeping his occupied hand on my back, and lifts the small glass with his other. He lowers the glass for me, placing a couple inches away from my face. I sniff at the loose cream, smelling the gentle whiff of vanilla and sugar. I wanna question him, but I think he's trying to help me. Hypothetically, I can totally see him shoving the glass in my face the moment I take a drink, but right now, I don't think he's like that. He's scared for me, but he's not gonna show it through anything other than nervous jokes. He wants to help me, he really does. I trust him. My heart feels secure. I feel more safer than ever. Safe as a kitten.
Moving as close as I can to him, I give his arm a kiss, then I begin to lap at the surface of the milk, before taking delicate sips. All the while, he holds the glass steady, not budging or twitching, the only movement of his hands being the single hand behind my back, petting along my spine.
I give him the okay, licking my lips clean. He sets the milk down on his side, thinking it's better that way, I guess. Before he turns back to me, I'm already curled up against him, arms hugging around his side. He lifts me up again, but not to hold. Rather, he lays himself down, then lays me near his face. I almost instantly push my cheek against his nose, rubbing into it.
His hands around my back, he and I fall into those familiar depths.
The last thing on my mind is joy. I want this. I really do.
...
This is what I have to carry on with. I don't need to care whether or not my story is good. I just need to have fun with it. I can both promise that and be promised with it. So, as long as I get this feeling, and I imagine the days of feeling this way are far from over, I can put my pen to paper, bring color to the world of words, and imagery to the seascape of white and the canvas of an alphabet.
Every story is a TF story.
Because a writer transforms the page.
And the page lives happily ever after.
The best part is that it's not the end.
[Oh dear, is my turn to construct a witty endgame comment?
It looks like Ashley has found himself in quite the CATasTOPHERy.
I am actually sore from that.
No, really. I think I should sleep now, too. Fair night, my friends!]