The problem is the idea for this came to me in early November and I still had a little bit to finish up on what I was working on. And even then I had a title and a general idea (something about gender swapping during Thanksgiving) but I still had to chase the idea down the rabbit hole.
The "pantser" types would say, "Just start writing and figure it out later!" But I didn't really know what I wanted to write about yet. For a story like this you need to set the parameters: who's being swapped? How? Why? Is it going to have a happy ending where they learn something? Or is it going to be one of those dark endings that only I appreciate?
So there was a lot to think about and I'd just had two teeth pulled out so I wasn't exactly feeling at my best. But I did finally come up with a rough idea involving turkey that was somehow poisoned. And...the idea never really got off the ground.
I kept procrastinating until it was a couple of days before Thanksgiving and then there was no time to write, edit, and get the thing approved by Amazon before Turkey Day. And what's the point of releasing a Thanksgiving-themed story after Thanksgiving? And I figured I might as well start devoting my energy to a Christmas-themed story. I've done a Christmas-themed one every year since 2014 so it's kind of a holiday tradition. Ha.
I did write on Swapsgiving one Saturday before the holiday. Here's a little taste of this turkey:
For some people the best part of Thanksgiving is seeing
family. For others it’s the
parades. Or others the football
games. Or nowadays for some it’s the
shopping after the meal.
But for me, the best part of Thanksgiving is always the
smell of the turkey cooking in the oven.
If I could get that smell in an air freshener for my car I would in a
heartbeat. One whiff of that heavenly
aroma and I’m transported back to Mom’s kitchen, where every Thanksgiving she
would roast a turkey that was usually twenty pounds or more.
Dad, my older brother Skip, and I would watch TV on the
couch while the smell of roast turkey filled the air. Within an hour all I could think of was
biting into a big, juicy chunk of white meat.
Then there would be hours of torment as that smell lingered while Mom
prepared the rest of the dinner and we waited for the relatives to show up.
Angie isn’t the cook Mom was, but as I read the morning
paper, I detect that same lovely smell.
I put down the newspaper to sniff at the air and like a cartoon dog my
mouth opens for my tongue to loll out. I
use a corner of the paper to wipe drool from my mouth.
Angie laughs at me from the doorway. “Easy, boy.
It’s not going to be ready for a couple of hours yet.”
“It smells awesome.
Just like Mom’s.”
“Hopefully it tastes better.
No offense, but your mom’s turkey was usually dry.”
“Sacrilege!” I cry out.
I grab her wrist to pull her down onto the couch. Angie’s lips don’t taste like turkey; they
are a lot sweeter.
Far too soon she pushes me back. “I have to get to work on the other
stuff.” She taps me in the chest with a
finger. “Don’t you go picking at that
turkey. You’ll get sick.”
“I know. I’m not a
dog,” I growl.
“Sometimes I wonder,” she teases.
I gather up the paper to get back to reading. This is no ordinary Thanksgiving dinner: my thesis adviser, Dr. Montcalm, is coming
over with his wife. I need his support
to finally get my doctorate so I can then start to practice psychology. And I’ll be able to insist people call me Dr.
Hughes. Then I’ll be able to pay back
the hundreds of thousands in student loans.
Plus I won’t have to rely on Angie to earn most of the money, which even
if this isn’t the 1950s would still ease my male pride.
I search the paper for some topics to discuss with Dr.
Montcalm. The old man is a real gossip
hound; he loves trying to analyze famous people--politicians, celebrities, and
even athletes--through media articles.
He once spent an entire hour discussing whether or not Meryl Streep has
a narcissistic personality disorder.
I try to read, but nothing sticks. Not with that turkey smell tormenting
me. I desperately want to go into the
kitchen to rip off just a little chunk, but I can’t with Angie still in there,
making the sides. Her mashed potatoes
usually end up lumpy and her stuffing bland, so I only eat enough to reassure
her. It gives me more room for that
delicious turkey.
A half-hour of torture goes by until I’m finally saved by
the bell--or the buzz of Angie’s phone.
I hear her answer it. Her voice
starts to get farther away and I hear the steps creak as she goes upstairs.
After eight years of dating and marriage, she knows me well
enough to shout, “Hank, stay away from that turkey!”
“I’m nowhere near it!” I call back. Angie is the only one allowed to call me
“Hank;” everyone else I insist call me Henry.
It’s a privilege she’s earned and no one else has yet.
I wait another minute before I get up to slink into the
kitchen. I use a potholder to open the
oven slowly to avoid making any loud noises.
The oven is a hideous kiwi-green holdover from the ‘70s that came with
the house we inherited from Angie’s grandmother three years ago. The original idea was that we would move in
to serve as caretakers for the old woman, but before we could move in, she died
in her sleep. We threw out the bed she
died in, but everything else we kept; we couldn’t afford to furnish an entire
house on our own.
As the door opens, the turkey scent washes over me. I close my eyes and take it in like someone
might take in an ocean breeze on a tropical beach. As much as I’d like to bask in the smell, I
only have a couple of minutes before Angie comes back.
With the potholder I ease the oven rack out a few
inches--the most the crusty old rack will move.
I can’t pick from the top or Angie will be sure to see it. I can’t go too deep as the meat inside isn’t
cooked yet. But near the bottom will be
hot and almost invisible. If Angie does
see anything missing she might think it just broke off. Plus at the bottom you get some of that
grease that’s not good for the waistline, but so, so delectable.
White meat is my favorite, but I can get by with a scrap of
dark meat. Like a hard-core drug fiend
I’m not too particular about the purity; I just need something to sate my
burning need. I rip off a postage
stamp-sized chunk of meat and skin still dripping with grease. I blow on it a few seconds before I pop it
into my mouth.
As I chew I push the rack back into the oven and then close
the door. The perfect crime--
I’ve just swallowed that warm, greasy piece of goodness when
my stomach roils. I double over and gag,
but nothing comes out. I gag a couple of
more times before pain seizes my entire body.
I try to scream, but I can only let out a choked gasp.
I drop to my knees on the cool checkerboard tile of the
kitchen floor. I’ve never in my entire
life felt pain as intense as this. It’s
like someone lit me on fire. I let out
another choked gasp as I hear--and feel--bones snapping. What’s happening to me? I think of those old horror movies where a
guy changes into a werewolf; that can’t be happening to me, can it? Through the pain I can’t see any hair growing
on my hands; if anything there’s less.
My nails are getting longer, but not like claws.
They’re long and glossy like Angie’s after
she goes to the nail salon.
While my hands aren’t getting hairy, waves of dark hair fall
over my face, getting longer until the ends coil up on the floor. I manage to tilt my head just enough to see
the top of my T-shirt has been pushed out by two big, round breasts. I have cleavage! The breasts, the hair, and the nails all give
me an idea of what I’m becoming.
I’m turning into a woman!
***
The pain finally ends; I’m so exhausted that I collapse onto
the floor. I ought to try to get out of
here before Angie sees me--and so I can take stock of what’s happened to
me--but I’m too weak to move. I pant
like a hot canine and like a canine I moan pathetically. I can’t see much with the hair that’s fallen
over my face over like a veil, but I hear the creak of the stairs.
I have to get out of here!
My mind screams at me to move, but I can’t do anything. I continue to lay sprawled on the floor like
a rug as I hear Angie shout, “Oh my God!
Who the hell are you?”
I can only moan in reply.
The last thing I expect is for Angie to kick me. Or to kick me again and again. “Who are you?
Where’s my husband? Did you kill
him, you goddamned tweaker?”
The last insult makes me realize she thinks I’m a junkie
who’s broken into her kitchen. The
neighborhood isn’t the best, so it’s a slightly plausible scenario, though it’s
not likely a junkie would be wearing her husband’s clothes and would have
passed out on the floor.
It’s hard to find my voice with all the pain I’ve
endured--and what Angie is putting me through--but I manage to wheeze,
“It...me.”
“Me who?” she shouts.
When I can’t answer right away, she kicks me again. “Me who?
You got ten seconds before I call the cops.”
“Hank!” I squeak.
“Yeah, right, lady.
You are definitely not Hank.”
“Clothes.”
She stops kicking me to squint at me. “You’re wearing his clothes. So what?
That doesn’t mean anything.”
If I could get out more than one or two words I might be
able to say something to convince her of who I am. There has to be some code word I can speak to
make her believe me. Something that
would symbolize the connection between us.
I manage to wave vaguely and then spit out, “You...me...grandma.”
“What?”
“You...me...grandma.”
Her eyes narrow again as she considers what I said. I’ve recovered enough strength to add,
“Live...together.”
“How do you know about that?”
“I...Hank.”
“Yeah, right.”
I’ve apparently gotten small and light enough that Angie can
grab the front of my T-shirt. The
breasts sticking out from my chest look even bigger when I’m standing; the
nipples are clearly visible against the fabric.
I feel my face turning warm with embarrassment as Angie looks down at
me. “You are definitely not my Hank.”
“Am too.”
“You sure as hell don’t look like him. Or any him.”
“I know.”
“So, what, you’re my Hank and all the sudden you turned into
a girl?”
“Yes.”
“How? Your fairy
godmother? Space aliens?”
It’s a good question.
I think about the chain of events that led to me ending up on the floor
in a girl’s body. “Turkey.”
“Turkey? What about
it?”
“Eat turkey.”
She stares at me. The
last thing I expect is for her to laugh.
“You ate the turkey and turned into a girl? For real?”
“Yes!”
“Uh-huh. Well, I
warned Hank not to eat it. I just
thought he’d get sick.”
“It true!” I shout.
Tears start to cloud my vision.
Why doesn’t my wife believe me?
We’re supposed to have an unshakeable bond of trust, but the first time
I end up on the floor looking like a girl she kicks me and berates me and
refuses to trust me.
“Oh, Jesus,” Angie grumbles.
It’s hard for me to walk on my own, so Angie pretty much drags me into
the living room. She pushes me down on
the couch like I’m a rag doll and like a rag doll there’s nothing I can do but
flop down on the cushions. “You are
really fucked up, lady.”
“Hank!”
“I’m not calling you Hank, lady. Why don’t you give me a real name?”
“Hank!”
“Bullshit.” She holds
up her phone. “Give me a real name or
I’m calling the cops. I mean it.”
“I am Hank!”
“Then prove it, bitch.”
“How?”
“Where did Hank propose to me?”
“Central Park.”
“Good guess. What
song did we dance to at our wedding?”
“Endless Love.”
Her eyes narrow. “OK,
that’s two for two. But you could have
been a guest at the wedding. Let’s try
something personal. There’s one thing
Hank does in bed that I really, really like.
What is it?”
“Nibble nipple,” I say.
She puts the phone in her pocket and then shakes her head. “I guess you’re either Hank or some girl he’s
coached real well. And if he told you
about that last one just to play a joke I’m going to kill him.”
“No joke.”
She studies me for a moment before she says, “Stay
there. I’ll be right back.”
I can’t go anywhere even if I want to. I lie on the couch, idly watching the Macy’s
parade on TV. There’s some school band
marching by when Angie bends in front of me.
She puts something to my lips. I
soon realize it’s orange juice.
“Thanks.”
“You’re all clammy,” she says, wiping sweat from my
forehead.
“Tired.”
“I bet. I mean,
changing into a woman would be tiring, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.” My exhausted
body manages the energy to yawn.
“Sleepy.”
1 comment:
That's a twist all right. I never thought of these swaps as physically draining but they would be I'm sure.
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