literature

An Original Transformation TG - Part 1

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I will be posting this on Royal Road.


An Original Transformation

I was young when I first learned about sex transformations. My parents allowed me on the computer and I found my way to a video website. After some random browsing and searches for cartoons I watched, I happened upon a video of a man with a blanket around himself.

Wide-eyed, I saw his muscular limbs change into soft, slender arms. His hair went from short to long and back again. It was like a magic trick. This was the excuse my parents used when I asked them about it.

I accepted their answer but I still watched the video when I got the chance. Before long, I found more videos like it. Instead of blankets, they involved foods, charms, and other objects. But the form was the same. A man became a woman or a woman became a man. The variation was so captivating that I kept watching.

Eventually, my parents noticed what I was doing. They sat me down and had the sort of chat no kid wants to have. Their stern faces and sharp words pushed me to shiver and hide my face.

In crumbs they doled out to me, I learned of the world beyond mom’s home school lessons and the small private school I’d started attending.

“The sanctity of what it means to be a man or a woman is under fire!”

It took me a while to piece it all together. They called it a blend of “witchcraft” and “perverse science”. I listened with a twinkle in my eyes, hearing beyond the growls and finger-waving. It was like old promises of Santa Claus had been given back to me. The world seemed strange and new.

I was forbidden to look further and a heavier block was placed on my computer. But my parents couldn’t be everywhere at every time. I would sneak a glance at samples of silver cheese. Focusing on a cereal box while looking past it, I saw the blur of a small young woman become a lanky, muscular man with shiny hair. I was about to watch a boy barely older than me sample a piece before my mother dragged me off for another lecture.

Before long, I knew enough from library books to get around any blocks my parents put on my computer. I learned the rules.

Transformation tech was regulated but common. There were safe-guards for children which could be maintained or overruled by family. Most parents transferred authority to their children at age fourteen. At which point, it became like a membership. You had to give permission. That was as far as I understood it at the time.

Fourteen felt like an eternity before me. But I soon came up with a plan. The long game.

I made sure my parents saw a model son who took care of his homework, squawked all the right phases, and got all the right praise. It earned me a degree of privacy online, despite the fact I’d long ago subverted their meager efforts to block content.

Aside from a forest of transformation enthusiast sites, I found my way to strange science fiction movies, quirky novels, and, randomly, soccer groups. I had the appearance of a well-rounded individual. I could talk about anything that came up. I impressed my parent’s friends. But lurking beneath the surface was a vault of esoteric rules about transformation usage and methods which bubbled through my neurons.

As the years went by, transformations became less of an oddity. Recreational methods were limited by design and I could’ve put together an encyclopedia on those limitations. I knew medicinal methods would be out of reach for me but it was interesting to read about therapeutic transformations for the very young with body identity problems alongside the elderly given young forms. Of course, it didn’t mean eternal youth and I could tell you exactly why, if you had an hour or so.

At my original private school people talked about transformations like everyone was doing it. It was always the cousin of a friend who got an exception and ate a special food. Everyone tried to hide their giggles.

Eventually, I parlayed my academic success into a transfer to a more open school with college credit options. The first week, I saw more transformations take place in front of me between classes than I imagined possible.

I watched a girl tie a ribbon in her boyfriend’s hair which turned him into a long-haired blond girl. I watched the new girl’s smile, halfway between calm resignation and amusement. A few people looked their way but no more than at a couple sharing a sudden kiss in public. My pulse thundered as I tried not to stare. I kept glancing with little jerks and stops to the point I nearly collided into a mass of bright pink hair.

The hair dashed back with the smell of orange, chocolate, and almonds trailing in its wake. Standing before me was a girl who made my neck tingle as though I’d just touched a live wire. Looking at her gave me a rush which echoed like my first transformation video.

Later, my mind would put together the details but right then all I could understand was the darker-than-cotton-candy-pink at the top of her hair with long dark locks over her shoulders and spiraling out from her roots. Her eyes looked like cut glass as they flicked away from me and I noticed a glinting silver stud barely bigger than a snowflake beside her nose.

She brushed her hair back with a fingerless glove and said, in a squeaky small voice just a shade from being a cartoon character, “Sorry. Counting cracks. Umm…bye.”

With a quick flutter of black boots and glossy dark pants bearing a Decepticon buckle, she snuck by me and back into anonymity. As her gray hoodie dwindled away, I glimpsed a Hello Kitty figure and a purple blob which looked like no cartoon character I’d ever seen.

The moment lingered with the slowing of my heart and that unique aroma swirling in my nose. It was the kind of moment which never crossed my mind before but which immediately burned through my brain.

My next class was just a cacophony of sounds and people. I leaned against the wall and avoided the old poster tacks. Ripples of conversation about the soccer logo on my backpack were nearly enough to clear my head. But each flash of bright color caught my eye, even a can of pink lemonade at the bottom of a trash can.

If that had been it, I might’ve forgotten her, only to see the beacon of her hair during random lunchtimes for a fleeting instance. But she sat right in front of me during history class.

I clutched the table and breathed as the aroma returned. She slipped sideways into her desk and half-heartedly raised a gloved hand to say a small, chirpy, “Hey.”

“Oh, hey.” All I said. Any other words oozed ridiculousness and pain on my tongue. I managed a polite smile and my best effort not to stare. Her backpack didn’t look like it came from a store. It had uneven double stitches and the rough look of black denim. Its colorful adornments were a rainbow blur from my angle.

I kept wanting to look at her despite shifting my eyes away. I’d seen plenty of girls at my other school. I’d even been on a few dates with ones my parents smiled about when I introduced them. There was nothing wrong with them. I liked a few of them, especially when they weren’t sealed up in their sky-blue collared tops and long, tartan skirts. They made sense.

I tried to catch up on the class introduction as it flowed into roll call. My name came first.

“Zack Devoe?”

I darted my hand up, answered in the affirmative, and flicked my eyes over the girl. She was crouched over her desk with a pen, her silver nails shifting like sparkles.

“Fleur Embrey?”

Her hand launched into the air before creeping back. She stated “here” twice, once with a squeak that nearly overwhelmed the word and then with it digging out of her throat before she coughed.

Fleur. It sounded like a name I might’ve read once in a book.

I watched Fleur while trying not to watch her. I noticed how she took notes. I couldn’t tell if they were a messy scrawl or an attempt at artful chaos. She often massaged her arms and took out slim pair of glasses before slipping them inside a soft case.

If Fleur had arrived in my world with a rough, gravely curse and a scowl before slipping a cigarette between her lips then maybe I wouldn’t have noticed her. But she sat before me, inscrutable.

She hopped up during pauses in the lecture to fan the textbook before the teacher and ask questions which vanished beneath the murmurs of side conversations.

If I was bold then I would’ve leaned in with an academic question while she was working. As it was, we didn’t properly talk until a random study pair placement for the first quiz.

All the desks turned chaotically with skull-scratching groans. She looked right at me and then down at her paper.

“You want to start on Ancient Greece? I was skimming the part on laws and the courts.” Her voice came out so small that I needed to lean forward to catch everything.

I flipped through the last part of the textbook I could remember. She rubbed at her glove.

While she exhaled a high-pitched treatise on Aristotle which seemed to go beyond what I was reading, I was relegated to single words and little sounds.

After a few minutes, she stopped and clutched her hands together to squeak, “Uh…sorry.”

I assured her it was fine and there was a stutter of silence as the rest of the room came flooding back in. I pushed it back by saying, “Study questions…might be helpful.”

She vigorously agreed and went to work drafting her first one.

I came up with a couple myself but I was outnumbered three to one both in number and complexity of questions. I noticed her hand trembling as she set her pen aside.

“Are you alright?”

My own trembles hit my neck in the silence after my question.

Fleur leaned back and flexed her wrist. She shifted in her seat with her gaze down. Then she tried on the weakest version of a smile followed by undulating words rising just above her sound so far.

“Oh. Of course. It’s nothing.” The words weighed long after she had spoken them.

I leaned forward and clutched the edge of the desk. “Alright. So…”

Clenching the paper covered in her words, Fleur announced that she could type everything up and email it to me.

“That’s cool but how about we go study somewhere this weekend?” It was beyond the scope of a study pair for the class but if I didn’t ask then, that would’ve been the end of it.

Fluffing her papers, Fleur kept quiet and then offered, in less of a squeak than normal, “Sure. Where would be good for you?” I let her choose and she immediately suggested the new library branch which had opened up on the west side of town. A few careful questions revealed that she didn’t live far from me. After exchanging emails and restoring our desks, I said one last thing.

“I like your buckle.”

She glanced down as though the buckle was as much of a surprise to her as it had been to me when I first saw it. Cautiously, she let go of a bigger smile than before and told me, “I love Soundwave…”

Digging into the mental mire of a thousand webpages ago, I asked, “Is he the one who turns into a tape recorder?”

Those would be my fateful words. I learned more about the character than I imagined possible as Fleur whisper-spoke her way through the details. Her voice lost the tight squeakiness as I listened.

From there, I tagged along with her to her lunch club nestled beside the tallest oak on campus. It would’ve been nice to say that I instantly made lots of friends there. But the taller blond girl would drift off into her own little world or bicker with her brother, who didn’t so much eat lunch as try to bounce things off the gymnasium’s windows. Conversations with the one playing sim games on a small tablet were often brief. Tim, the only one I really befriended, could always be found laughing about some poster on his classroom wall. When he mentioned his mom’s boyfriend was leaving her I waited too long for a punch line.

It was there I began to unravel details about Fleur. At first, they came in ancillary fragments. How she’d been really sick growing up and did a lot of TV watching which led to menagerie of favorite cartoons. Her parents were small business owners of a salon and medical supply store adjacent to one another. I noted eagerly that her favorite books were ones I’d never heard of. And I was watchful when she would rub at her gloved wrists.

She arrived to our library study session in a pink Soundwave top, which accented her brilliant hair, and a pleated skirt. She curled close over the textbook notes as we wound our way through the questions. I wasn’t sure if leaning close or keeping back would be more comfortable but she held a smile near to her lips either way.

As our study session entered a lull, I set aside the tingling of my thoughts and simply asked her, “Why pink hair?’

Her quick answer was, “I like it. It’s pretty.” But her words squeaked in on themselves so I gave her a studied look. Carefully, she elaborated.

“It’s…not something I would’ve done before. Before now. There’s so much more. I mean. I didn’t really have much boldness when I was younger, you could say.”

I leaned forward to invite her to say more. Her eyes darted nervously. She sought out the questions for a quick refresher.

I offered, “I’ve been in love with transformations for a long time but I’ve always been quiet about them because of my parents.”

I immediately saw that Fleur’s mouth twitched and she brushed her hands just short of rubbing them. She showed me a smile but with discomfort behind it.

Her swift words were, “I see. I…well…I hope you’re able to express yourself more and more…”

I resisted more questions and Fleur stopped rubbing her hands when I did. We plowed through the questions but I knew I wouldn’t remember them a week after the test. What I did remember was how Fleur hopped up and went searching for books during a break. I watched the titles she lingered on and the ones she presented to me with squeakless delight.

What lingered with me wasn’t anything about long-dead civilizations but how I knew several of the books Fleur had mentioned to me. It was because they were lists of fiction which involved transformations. Some of them were written before widespread transformation use. Others reacted to the shifts during. And still others were more recent and had accepted it as part of the background of life. None of the books stated this upfront on their dust-jackets or in their online synopses. I’d found them through forums and archives for enthusiasts.

I could’ve marked her selections as coincidence but it with everything else, I found myself watching and wondering over Fleur more and more. But I let her lead our conversations, especially when a thought about transformations popped into my head.

Such thoughts only trailed behind as Fleur leapt to music and movies as she rubbed her back. They were selections that even my parents would admit to listening to and watching. The classical and the lyrical.

When she put me on the spot, I had to admit that I didn’t really listen too much and I could barely name a single group. Except for one made of performers who not only used transformative aides on stage but also slipped them into the steam machines of live concerts for the audience. I skipped mentioning that one.

As with the books, Fleur showed smiles and radiant words in the bounty of what she enjoyed but kept the same feeling when listening as well. She may have held up her favorite works but she didn’t push them on me. Another note which made me smile with her.

Our conversation flowed back into the last of our notes, until I asked one particular question. I wasn’t even sure what triggered it. It had to be about the divine in Aristotle. A rare note of intrigue in an otherwise antiseptically-phrased chapter.

Fleur went on a bit beyond the scope of the book.

“Aristotle’s god is the ultimate philosopher. Totally perfect and contemplating and outside of any human conception.”

“What do you think?” My simple little question.

At first, Fleur looked to her notes as though I was quizzing her. She reiterated something before about how this informed other works by Aristotle.

I smiled but shook my head as I clarified, “No, I’m just asking personally. What’s god to you?”

She clenched her hands a bit and gave a sigh. I would’ve accepted it if she pushed me into a different topic but she took a breath and relaxed.

“Nothing. I’m an atheist.” She said it without a quaver in her voice, steady with my gaze. While her shoulders clenched, she didn’t show any other signs of tension.

I ran through her words in my head a few times, parsing them to make sure I didn’t misunderstand her meaning. I’d run into people at my old school who had questions of faith. I’d run into those who reconsidered their denomination with a sweaty shiver like they were cheating on a loved one. I never imagined I would meet an atheist.

If I followed my parents’ example then holding out a cross while reciting verses and backing away, as though from a rabid beast, would’ve been the next appropriate course of action.

I did flinch and Fleur seemed to notice as she lowered her head gently and brushed at her hands. It took me a moment to find words. I asked for a bit of clarification but it amounted to “Are you absolutely sure?”. Fleur’s responses were as steady as if I were asking her if she was sure her top was pink. In retrospect, I would’ve stuffed a sock in my past self’s mouth. Fleur kept a smile all through my questions, though she was clinging by her long nails to the edge of it.

She told me, “I didn’t decide who I am and what I believe in a day. It’s taken a lot from me over my whole life. No matter how it makes you feel, unapologetically, this is me.” As a nudge, she bent over her notes and I focused on that.

We both attempted to study for the rest of our time at the library but Fleur’s words were slower and softer. Mine came in shorter sentences where I might’ve explained myself in detail before. Fleur also accepted any answer before jotting something down. We finished the rest of our notes in half the time.

We could’ve parted ways there with a copy of the notes and answers but as Fleur was quietly stretching, I happened to mention a friend from camp when I was young who made everyone think he knew Bigfoot. My story led into her story about an uncle who thought certain trees were secret aliens as well as his often extensive advice in Christmas cards to recognize the leaves of real trees from alien trees.

That led us to our most comfortable topic, cartoons we loved. We had a certain amount of overlap but each of us gushed about works which the other had never heard of. More fervently than anything we gleaned about the Ancient Greeks, we each knew we had to trade copies of our favorite works.

The uncertain ground was where transformations came into question. I had several favorite shows where it was casually part of the plot but Fleur’s choices apparently did as well.

Mulling with a soft rub of her wrist, Fleur told me, “It’s okay. I mean…it’s not the thing. It’s me. I just… there’s a lot of stuff which…I’m not even sure what to say about it. But…please don’t restrain what you love just because of me.”

I immediately answered back the same. Whatever Fleur had inside her, her loves, her joys, I felt captivated to learn more. No matter what.

She held a warm look close to her face but didn’t say anything else as we finished our study session.

The days and weeks would go by and we would talk at the easiest convenience. We each had separate online services we used but we migrated where necessary. It was hard to talk at school with Fleur torn between wanting to take notes and wanting to detail Cybertron. Lunch wasn’t any better as the distraction of food never made things smooth. Our later library sessions were patrolled by hawklike librarians so they never got more animated than a quick pattern of whispers. Our homes were never an appealing option although I was often eager to see Fleur’s home. She wound up seeing mine first.

We had a project in history which couldn’t be completed at the library alone. I’d told my parents just the right amount about Fleur, highlighting her studious nature and how she’d helped me maintain my GPA, so that they had no objection to her staying over.

The initial meet and greet was both unsettling for me and a relief. Unsettling because I met up with Fleur dressed like one of the girls at my old school, with her hair and piercings made as subtle as possible. Her voice was slight and courteous. The relief came when my parents treated Fleur like an old family friend. Every nod and smile from them came imbued with the implication of meddling matchmaking. At least, it meant they left us alone for the evening.

In private, Fleur loosened the tight straight lines of her clothes and settled down. She clutched at her hands despite the ease of her body. I asked her if she was alright.

She didn’t give me a nod or a shake, only the words, “I’m used to presenting myself in certain roles. But I don’t like it.” I could only muse as we went to work on the project.

Over time, I had little moments like that where the mystery I felt around Fleur only deepened with vague comments and little gestures. In the early days, I tried to lead her to details but she always turned away. As the weeks passed, I accepted this as part of her allure and made guesses I kept to myself.

I learned what Fleur liked. I knew what made her smile. I felt the pace of an idle conversation with her. In turn, she would make little references to transformations (such as “if you have that strawberry yogurt then you’ll become the redheaded lady from their TV ads”) in passing which left me with a smile. I crafted transformative tote bags in my mind which mended clothes and switched them based on what you imagined (in retrospect, it may have already existed somewhere at the time) to Fleur’s delight.

After some time of the unexpected which Fleur brought into my life, we settled into the steady and the familiar. I conceded that I might never understand her. Little did I know her secrets were about to burst through on a quiet Sunday when I finally took a trip to her house.

It was as nice as quick details and fragments alluded to. Her parents, who were out at the time, left a presence from the décor which led me to pine for such a family.

I noticed something was amiss in the slow way Fleur shut the rumpus room door and clenched her hands at the point of pain. Her eyes lingered on a mottled patch of carpet before she took a breath and met my eyes with quivering uncertainty. I sent her a look of ease.

Still, it took her several moments more before she found words.

“I’ve been hiding from you, Zack. I have. I’ve been hiding myself. And it pains me every day that such a large chunk of me is invisible. But it’s still too raw. I…what I’m about to tell you…I beg you with all my heart that you tell no one else. It’s only for you.”

A rush of fear and exhilaration filled my thoughts. Fervently, I told her, “Of course! I never talk about what you say to anyone else.” In whole truth, I didn’t really have any one else who I talked with quite like Fleur. Not even my pastor.

I tried to settle myself with a few long breaths. I reiterated my promise with trembles which fed back on themselves. We both trembled. Then our eyes met and slowly, carefully, the pressure went slack. We both settled into our chairs with me close enough to touch her. As she went to scratch at her wrist, I put my hands between hers. Goosebumps spread up her arms but she didn’t blush.

She stopped and started the first sounds out of her mouth. Despite every overture I could try, what it took in the end was her gritting her teeth and muttering a frustrated grunt to blurt out, “My birth name was Maxwell.”

Her eyes turned away but I followed them. I pursued them with a smile and a calm gaze. Those words were enough for me to understand but I let her unravel the rest of her words, which came in fits and starts.

“I…oh gosh. Okay. Well. Uh…I’ve. See. When. So like…I…it’s so difficult.”

I tried in her place, “You had the permanent version of transformation?”

It was something I ran across early on in my explorations. Sites involving it usually outnumbered the kind I wanted to find. I sometimes read them. I could’ve anticipated some of what Fleur told me but I let her tell her story with as much encouragement as I could offer.

“Yes. I may have to close my eyes. But I’ll get through it….” She did so and it seemed to help with her nerves.

She continued, “When I was a little kid, I was a regular boy. Normal. No weirdness. Normal childhood. My parents have always loved and encouraged me. My problems started a few years ago, around puberty. I had sudden health problems, worse than anything when I was little. Serious depression and a lot of dark feelings about my body too. I just felt like my life was slipping away and I was changing into a monster.”

Resting her hands on top of each other, she said, “I’d get hives all over, like my body was agreeing with my self-loathing. My hands really had it bad to the point I would scratch them every single moment like I wanted to tear the flesh off. It’s still with me as a nervous habit but I had zombie hands before. I started wearing gloves as a way to keep myself from scratching.” I cast a sympathetic look at her hands. She was brushing them but not scratching as she told me more.

“It was actually one of my therapists who got me started on a whole body transformation… The whole thing was grueling though. I absolutely needed to prove I wasn’t just a depressed preteen. From there, I needed to prove there wasn’t an underlying problem. Fortunately, my therapist was very professional and had handled some cases like mine before, although I was the youngest he’d ever recommended. There was a lot of paperwork. They started me out with temporary transformations different than the kind you opt-in for. I’d take these pills every few hours which made my body more like a girl’s before reverting me. It took all my willpower to hold off for the right time to take each pill.”

I didn’t know what else to do but touch her hand, listen, and watch her, even when her eyes jittered about too nervously to keep near mine. With a little sound, she asked me, “Is there…anything you need me to explain?”

I shook my head and assured her that I’d run into just about all this on the internet.

She tried on a quick smirk as she noted, “The benefit of a transformation fan friend…” I smiled back at her.

Her pills scaled up in effects until they made her fully female for a limited time.

“This had to be documented too”, she added with a sigh. “Documenting both the harshest and best of the effects. The hardest thing was when I had to stop taking them to prove those effects too. But it helped prove my case. I finally got approval. It was kinda scary on the day it happened. It was an outpatient procedure. They hooked me up to a special IV and gave me a mild sedative because permanent ones are quite painful. I didn’t remember much except that I woke up in a pink gown feeling like my life had finally begun.”

I had to know more. I eagerly asked her questions about how it felt by comparison and what things were challenging and strange and which things were familiar. I tried not to launch all my questions at once but I trembled in my seat. Fleur leaned back and clutched her hands.

“There’s so much to say. I’ve saved some things to a private journal. Only a few people have ever seen it, like my therapist and some friends from junior high. I had it more open before but I found out one of my friends wasn’t as trustworthy as I thought. I’d returned to the same classes after a long time away for therapy. Most people didn’t even remember the other me and it would’ve been fine except for the betrayal. I had my classes moved a few times but it didn’t help. Those were dark times and eventually I had to do home coursework until high school, when I was able to transfer to a school far enough away from my old one…”

I winced. With all the transformations which happened casually and for sheer amusement, it bewildered me that a medical transformation would be so discriminated against. And not by my parents, by those our age who were the swiftest adopters of recreational transformations.  

Fleur looked skittish for my response. At any other moment, I would’ve resisted, but I found myself giving her the biggest hug I could give. She blushed as I released her and gave a quick apology.

Fleur assured me, “No, it was wonderful.” We still moved about like delicate china to one another. I learned that Fleur’s name, which she picked herself, was taken from a book I remembered reading when I was younger. I also got a promise to get a look at her journal “eventually”. More than anything, I assured her that nothing had changed between us.

Actually, that wasn’t completely true. Whereas I had found her captivating, mysterious and alluring before, I added to the mix a raging crush and a feeling she was the sexiest human being I could ever imagine. This feeling wasn’t tempered in the least when she exposed her childhood photos to me. I noticed the dark rings of her eyes back then but I saw only Fleur.

She watched me when I gave her these responses and I noticed her watching. I saw how she tensed up before a new piece of information and then she marveled at me like a complex bit of a study note. I was just glad such moments concluded with her trying on wider and deeper smiles which shimmered in even the darkest of rooms.

At school, plenty of people talked about us and how we hung out together but for reasons which merely made Fleur blush instead of cry. To the average classmate, we were a quirky pairing of a punk rocker girl and a choir boy. We let them talk.
I decided to split this up. More coming soon! Hope you enjoy.

Part 1 - majorkerina.deviantart.com/art…
Part 2 - majorkerina.deviantart.com/art…
Part 3 - majorkerina.deviantart.com/art…
Part 4 (End) - majorkerina.deviantart.com/art…
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Comments36
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andmos's avatar
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Overall
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Vision
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Originality
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Technique
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Impact

And here we are again. And what a great start of a novel. I will do a proper critic once this story is finish, but I had to just get atleast one critique up.

Vision: I can see clearly the inviorment and the plot in this story. However, there are always something to pick on. You missing details about the surroundings, wich is important in any situation. However you describing peoples very good. But this can also improve. A good 4.5 star is a good start.

Originality: what we have here is an out of a box story that focus on TG and transformation to be a normal thing. A great start just adding the originality to this story. A 4.5 star will be great in this situation

Technique: you have improved majorly from my last critique. That's a huge plus as a writer. I saw very few errors and a good line of story. A 4.5 star because of this is a first chapter critique

Impact: behind every light story there are something dark, something that are hidden very well. This story makes me think about what identity you have and what your true id are. A good 4.5 star

Now this can I call a beginning, with a plot, good characters right from the get go and a great start for a potential story. Keep improving, because whatever you do to write this story, you doing it right.