“Wow, a real TV news station! I can’t believe it!” Braydon said. He was eight years old, and the day he had been waiting for had finally arrived.

“Got ourselves a little anchorman-in-training, huh?” said the man in the suit. He shook Braydon's dad’s hand. “James Johnson. Nice to meet you.”

“Matthew Thomas,” he replied. “And yeah, ever since he was a little kid, he’s always just been crazy about watching the news, the same way most boys are about trucks or dinosaurs. He’s been a fan of yours for as long as I can remember.”

“Well, now, you’re just making me feel old,” James laughed. Indeed, he had the look of a man who was getting older but wouldn’t let himself admit it; his attempt at keeping his brown hair had just resulted in a dirtier gray color, and all those hours in the tanning salon weren’t helping. “But I’m glad to hear the young ones are still interested in an old person like myself.”

“So when he told me that what he wanted the most for his eighth birthday was to tour a news station, I figured, why not? Glad you guys were willing to let us hang out.”

“Oh, think nothing of it.”

“Are you ready to go, Braydon?” His dad said.

“Actually, Matthew, I only have permission to bring the kid backstage. The station manager was worried you might be a spy from the other networks, trying to leak our stories to them.” Before Mr. Thomas could protest, James cut him off with a wave of the hand. “I know, it’s stupidly paranoid, but I don’t make the rules. So how about you hang out in the lounge instead? There’s fresh coffee 24/7, and we’re getting some pizzas delivered at five.”

“I don’t know…I’d feel more relaxed if I was with him.”

“Ah, Matthew, c’mon. He’s a bright young lad. Eight years old, you said? He doesn’t need to be handheld everywhere anymore. And besides,” he tousled Ben’s hair. “The entire station knows he’s coming and we’ll all be looking out for him. He won’t get into any trouble.”

“Yeah, c’mon, Dad, it’ll be fine!” Braydon piped up. James chuckled in response.

"It won’t take any longer than an hour, sir. You have nothing to worry about.

“Well, I guess it’ll be alright…” Mr. Thomas finally said.

That was fifteen minutes ago. Brennen was starting to regret his decision.

For starters, he was starting to feel sick. Really sick. Like his guts were squirming around inside him and reforming. He felt a lot of pain in his legs, almost like his muscles and bones were being stretched, and his chest felt really tender and sore.

Then there was the headache he suddenly started having. It wasn’t just a normal headache; it felt like his entire brain was being cleaned out from the inside. For example, he kept catching himself thinking that he was actually 18 years old, just graduated out of high school, and touring the station in preparation for being a journalism major in college. He knew that wasn’t true, but it felt like it was, to the point where it seemed to be more realer than reality.

And he was also apparently hallucinating. He could think of no other way to explain the sudden splotches of bright pink that kept appearing all over his clothes. He never actually saw them growing, but more than once he looked back and saw that they’d gotten bigger.

“Mr. Johnson?” He said. “I need to take a break. I’m tired.”

“Well, alright, I suppose. I’ve actually been wanting to have a little facetime with you.”

As Brannden sat down, he noticed that his butt felt a lot…squishier against the narrow metal chair.

“So, Brannder, I took a look at some of those high school newsletters you edited. Very good stuff for someone so young. And those editorials—wow! You’ve got a way with words, young man.”

“I…newsletters? Wait, I think you’re confusing me with someone else. I’ve never been to high school.”

Mr. Johnson laughed. “Yeah, I’d like to forget those years myself sometimes. Awkward teenage years, right? But I hear you’re doing pretty well for yourself at NYU. Glad my rec letter sealed the deal.

“Yeah, glad…wait. Wait! What are you talking about? I’m just a little kid!”

“Oh now, give yourself some credit! Sure, some of your classmates may not want to grow up, but I think you’ve got a career ahead of you. You’d certainly be at the top of my resume pile.”

Brannder’s head was swimming with weird memories . The more Mr. Johnson talked about his supposed academic history, the more real it seemed to him. Memories swan into view; long evenings spent in the high school newspaper lab, drunken celebrations with his fellow graduates when he got that scholarship letter, doing grunt work for the upperclassmen at NYU…even his own thinking about them seemed to solidify them as fact.

And there were other memories coming down the pike, ones that were, if possible, even weirder: dying his hair blond and letting it grow long, experimenting with makeup, secretly wearing womens’ underwear in public. It wasn’t that people had made fun of him for it—it was college; who wasn’t experimenting with breaking the gender binary?—it’s just that he didn’t recall it feeling so…natural. Like it wasn’t just a secret indulgence, but the way things were supposed to be. The way they’d always been.

Brannder stood up and immediately had to grab the wall for support. While he wasn’t looking, his dirty white sneakers had morphed significantly, the heel had pushed upwards and the sole much more narrow. He couldn’t figure out what had happened, so he began to panic.

“M…Mr. Johnson! I can’t walk in these.”

“Oh, come on. You walked in wearing them, didn’t you?”

Brannder couldn’t remember that, but it was the only explanation that made sense. Cautiously, he stepped away from the wall. His ankles were still wobbling and he had to catch himself fairly often, but eventually he staggered forward, and returned to a reasonable, if halting pace.

“Attaboy,” Mr. Johnson said. “Come on now, Mr. Tohmasan, we’ve still got quite a bit to see.”

Brannder noticed, after a few minutes, that it was getting easier and easier to walk in his new shoes; it was odd, because they weren’t getting any flatter. If anything, the opposite was true,

the heels getting narrower and narrower as they spiked up to four inches high.

“As I was saying, Mr. Tohmaman,” Mr. Johnson droned on a few feet ahead, “Your duties as an intern will include contacting on-site filming locations, receiving and editing wire reports, and so on.”

“Yes, but…” Was that his voice? It sounded so…grown-up. “When will I actually get to do some reporting?”

Mr. Johnson turned and smiled at him. “A go-getter. I like that. Well, we do have a Saturday morning show we could start you out on. Nice and fluffy.”

Beannder was thrilled that he’d get to start reporting so soon, only for that to quickly be replaced by a wave of fear and doubt. He wasn’t here to intern! He was justa kid getting a tour. He was here with…he racked his brain, but he couldn’t quite remember who.

As if to punish him for resisting the transpiring changes, his body grew tight in the stomach and chest. Beannder groaned as he felt what little was left of his baby fat get sucked in, replaced with a toned, curvy stomach. His chest had the same stretching, growing feeling his legs did a while back, and the soreness in two particular points could no longer be ignored. He groaned as they began to push outward, straining his plain blue t-shirt, which didn’t rip because it itself was growing thicker and heavier. Beannder could especially feel it around the collar and the shoulders.

He stopped to marvel at his new assets. Like most boys his age, he’d told dirty jokes about them, but had never actually seen one. Now he had two, plump and tender, staring him in the face. “I have…boobs?” He whispered, his voice sounding even stranger than before. “But that can’t be…boys don’t…” He stopped. Why did she think she was a boy?...wait! He was a boy, dammit! He had to find…whoever it was that he came here with, and get out of here quickly.

James appeared from around a corner. “Miss Cohmaman? Please hurry along. We have a test reading scheduled for you, and the cameraman is very impatient.

Beannider’s growing professional ambition—a live reading! In the studio and everything! -quickly quelched his paranoia. She walked swiftly to catch up with James, her heels clicking, bust bouncing, and hips starting to sway.

James was glad that Beannider chose that moment to stop in bewilderment, as he had another problem to deal with. Matthew Thomas, the kid’s father, had grown impatient with waiting, and was trying to force his way backstage to get in contact with his son. The change was almost surely irreversible at this point—this wasn’t James’s first rodeo—but a sudden surge of memories from one’s old life would definitely slow it down, maybe even reverse it.

James approached Matthew, all smiles and sunshine. “The tour is almost over, sir, please be—“

“What the hell are you doing back there? Why is everyone stonewalling me? Let me see Braydon right now or I’ll call the cops!”

As luck would have it, his wish was answered as Beannider rounded the corner, although she didn’t look much like Braydon anymore. Her hair had started to change, scruffy brown locks randomly turning into silky blonde ones, creating a patchwork effect. His face had lost much of its roundness, his nose turning narrow and pert. “B-Braydon?” Matthew said.

“D…D…” as much as Beannider tried, the word she was searching for just wouldn’t come out.

She felt like the new memories were pounding into her brain, actively trying to erase any connection to the past. She gave Matthew a mournful look and said, “I’m sorry…I don’t remember who you are…”

“Miss Cohlaman, please go back to the studio!” James said. “You have your audition in just a few minutes!”

“I…my audition…” Beannider’s legs were desperately trying to turn her around, but she felt that if she turned around now, some door would be closed forever. If only she could remember what was behind it…finally, the mental strain just became too much, and she turned and walked towards the main studio, breathing a sigh of relief as she did.

James turned around and smiled again. “As you can see, Miss Cohlaman does not recognize you, so if you could stop harassing her, that would be great. She has a job to do.”

“’She’ doesn’t have a job, you psychopath! I don’t know how you did it, but…that’s my son!”

“Mr. Thomas, please be reasonable. Braydon is a ten-year-old boy. Does Miss Cohlaman look like a ten-year-old boy to you?”

“Why are you doing this?! Why him?!”

James shrugged. “Because I can, because I find it entertaining, because I need a new co-anchor, take your pick. You’d better come to terms with it quickly, because no one will believe you even if you told, and “Braydon” is getting used to her new life minute by minute.”

As Matthew gaped and stammered, James turned and left, confident in victory.

Beannider watched as the techs set up the cameras and the teleprompter. They had provided him a folded canvas chair to sit on, and as he did, he instinctively crossed his legs, seconds before wondering why, and why it felt so natural. He scratched at his socks, which were beginning to feel longer and smoother around his legs.

The director was an older man, fat and hairy, with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

“So, Miss…Mrs?”

“Uh…Miste—Miss, I guess.”

The man gave him a strange look. “Jeannider Cohleman,” he said, reading from a paper that Chip had provided. “Age 35, ten years of broadcasting experience at our rural KWTF affiliate, finally getting your first chance at the big leagues. That sound about right?”

Jeannider’s head was swimming too much to fully process the question, so he just nodded. “What do you…want me to do?” He said, his voice sounded higher-pitched and more mature, with a smooth, silky confidence that belied his confusion.

“Just do your job, hon’. And don’t forget to smile.”

“Right…”

The teleprompter went live, and he began to read. “Authorities are on the lookout for a woman believed to have robbed a convenience store on 19th and Anderson last night. She is described as…”

As she read the script, he felt a great relief wash over him, as if he had found the answer to his confusion. She smiled brightly and stared directly into the camera, little strands of bottle-blond hair falling just outside her range of vision. He felt a heavy feeling around his neck as a necklace began to materialize one pearl at a time, followed by a similar feeling on his earlobes as they were given two diamond studs. His T-shirt, which had been changing slowly, finally split directly down the middle, the edges quickly changing into the bright pink lapels of a blazer. His sleeves crawled down to his wrists, three gold buttons appearing at each cuff. A gold bracelet appeared on his right hand as his fingers extended, going from short and stubby to long and graceful. A wedding ring appeared on his ring finger. His fingernails followed suit, slowly stretching over the tips of his fingers one by one, nail polish forming on the surface to die them a deep red. A bit of fabric from the blazer split off and began wrapping around his chest, turning into a lacy white bra that encircled his breasts, which took the sensation as a

cue to begin growing again, almost doubling in size, and gaining a slight droop.

Her shorts also completed their transformation, fusing together in the middle to create a smooth single surface, the bubblegum-pink stain soon completely enveloping it. She felt her butt and hips begin to grow wider until they brushed the edges of the chair. The skirt grew tighter around her hips, forcing her to pull his legs together even tighter. Her smile seemed to grow even bigger and brighter as her lips became coated with a glossy pink lipstick. Slight dabs of mascara and blush appeared around her eyes and cheeks, and her hair, which grown to its new length and color, lost its flyaway strands as it smoothed into a single blonde curtain falling to just above his shoulder blades.

“Moviegoers are lining up for tickets days in advance as the new Star Wars…”  Suddenly, he stopped, a puzzled look on his face. “Wait a minute…I wanted to see that. But that’s for kids…but wait, I’m a…” he looked down at his decidedly not childlike nor male body. “What’s going on?!” He yelled, standing up with a clatter.

“Mrs. Coleman, please sit back down,” the camera tech said. “We’re not done with the audition.”

“I, uh, I have to use the bathroom…” he said awkwardly. He stumbled his way back towards the hall.

Looking in the mirror, his jaw dropped. Of course, he had felt and seen the various changes so far, but seeing the totality of them was still shocking. He was the perfect image of a beautiful young woman, maybe in her twenties, dressed in a girlish yet still professional pink suit. Jennider began to tear up at the image. This wasn’t him! He was…he…he couldn’t even remember his name!

Alright, he thought angrily, I’m just going to stay in here, away from James and his cameras and lights and whatever else is doing this to me, until I get back to normal. He sat on the closed toilet lid and began to will himself back to normalcy, unsure if it would even work.

Maybe it was just the placebo effect, but after a few moments he did begin to feel differently. He felt a sense of anticipation, like his real memories were going to start coming back at any moment. And they might well have, until…

Jennider heard noises in the room next door; the clomping of heavy shoes, the jingling of a belt, and some distinctly masculine coughing and grumbling. But the room next door was a bathroom, which meant…Jennider leapt up and flung the door open. Looking at the signage, he saw the telltale symbol; he’d entered the women’s room. What’s more, he’d done it without even thinking.

A gripping pain began to seize Jennider in the groin. He staggered back to the toilet, flipped the lid up, and sat down. He looked down at his genitals, which were slowly transforming to match the rest of him, vanishing as they pulled inwards. A duller pain centered around his crotch as the process finished. Jennider gasped and tried to catch her breath. As horrible as it was, Jennider at least felt a slight sense of relief that this was the last change; the freakish experience of changing was, at least, over.

Yet something kept nagging at the back of her mind. Something that had happened out in the studio. It wasn’t about the movie, it wasn’t about James…she gasped in shock as she realized it. The cameraman had called her “Mrs”.

With that one realization, the ineffable wheels of reality alteration began turning. In a wealthy suburb thirty miles from the studio, the “for sale” sign in front of a large house changed to ‘sold’. A freshly painted white picket fence sprouted up around its sizeable yard. Scattered toys began to appear in the grass, a football here, a water gun there; they belonged to Connor Coleman, age ten. One of the empty bedrooms began to fill with metal and punk-themed paraphernalia, along with an Xbox 360 and a 44-inch TV. Speakers began blasting music out the windows, music that Tyler Coleman, age fourteen, had forgotten to turn off before he went to school. And finally, a shiny silver Chrysler appeared in the driveway. Any adult would have been happy with it, but it was actually a gift to eighteen-year-old Hunter Coleman from his fabulously wealthy parents, a reward for a high school career filled with excellent quarterbacking and even better grades. One of those parents, 46-year-old Roger Coleman, was at that moment walking out of his investment firm and heading to his slick black BMW, unperturbed by the fact that neither he nor the car had been there a minute ago.

These memories, and many more, began to pour into Jennider’s consciousness, her head splitting with the sheer volume of them. She clutched her head, feeling something metallic forming around her left ring-finger; a golden band. As this final detail settled into place, Jennider began to change once more. This time, she was aging. Slight lines began to appear under her eyes, by her mouth, and on her neck. Her lacy bra grew a bit thicker to hold her breasts, which were starting to sag, upright and perky. A few small deposits of cellulite appeared on her thighs and calves. Her fingers became slimmer and bonier, the nail polish softening to a more mature cream color. Her skin grew a bit darker, years in the tanning salon catching up with her.

Jennifer Coleman, 50 years old, mother of three, the most famous newscaster in Los Angeles, stood up and retrieved her purse. She then went back to finish her report and soon left the news station for the day. She got in her BMW and drove home.

Once she got home her husband greeted her outside their house. "Great job on your show today honey," Roger said. "Thank you honey," Jennifer said. Once she got inside their house her children came down from their rooms to greet their mother. She then heard the blasting music coming from Tyler's room. "Tyler, I thought I told to turn your music off before you left for school today," Jennifer said. "Sorry mom, I forgot," Tyler said back. He quickly went to his room and turned off the blasting music. That night after dinner as Jennifer was laying in bed, she thought about how amazing her life was. She had an amazing job, a loving family, and thousands of fans.

Epilogue: One day as Jennifer was signing autographs she saw her former father. Her former father said how excited he was to finally meet his favorite news reporter. Jennifer said thank you and gave him an autograph.

THE END!!