"The Transformation of Lickle: A Tale of Unexpected Depths"
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In the hallowed year of our Lord, 2024, walked a boy of tender age, six whole years of curiosity and innocence stitched to his golden heart. He was a proud American, hailing from the sparkling lights of Manhattan, New York. Born into this strangely beautiful world on a fiery July day of 2018, he was small and lean for his age, standing at a measly 3 feet and 7 inches, weighing no more than 45 pounds. He had a mop of messy jet-black hair over his scalp which danced in the wind as he walked. His sharp eyes, in stark contrast to his hair, were a clear blue, rich with life and intrigue. The laughter in his eyes made his tiny ecosystem of joy utterly infectious.
Lickle, as the boy was fondly called by his visibly young mom, wobbled in his tiny white Nike sneakers, a grinning caricature of Buzz Lightyear garishly printed on them. His footsteps were light, beguiling a sense of first-earned freedom, as if an adorable turtle was finding its path on its maiden voyage in a vast ocean. The glow of this sweet liberty warmed his round face, intensifying the sparks in his blue orbs.
His mom, Lisa, born on the tenth day of the last month of 2000, was just 24 years old. They had an intriguingly noticeable height difference; Lisa, with her 5 feet 5 inches and a lean built of 130 pounds, often spoon-fed stories of her, Lickle, and his beloved grandma flying to exciting, mysterious places with endless cheese to the moon-eyed boy. The grandma, Gertrude, was a petite, shriveled woman of 60 years of age, born on a fine March day of 1964, weighed just 110 pounds and stood at 5 feet.
Before Lickle could narrate his wandering tales to Lisa and Gertrude, he blinked to find himself standing in a different dimension. This was not New York City. He was looking over the Golden Gate Bridge, feeling ominous mythical chills. He was taller, his bare skin felt different, there was a skimpy Givenchy dress barely covering his chest that was suddenly protruding out before him, clenched at his waist with an expensive Prada belt. It was a royal blue color with sequins sparkling in the rain that showed no sign of mercy as it relentlessly drenched his illuminated body. His freezing legs were part of a newfound anatomy ending in Giorgio Armani sandals, tanned skin complementing the creamy white leather perfectly.
The physical realization engulfed him as he looked at his amazingly small foot before catching the reflection in a window. It was an adult woman. A beautiful woman, entirely foreign to him. Isabella, as her reflection spelled out on her Versace purse, was dressed outrageously scantily for the merciless cold, pouring rain over San Francisco. An ornate Gucci butterfly brooch on her dress seemed to shudder in the damp cold, as did she, blinking in the reflection. She was a tall woman, standing at 5 feet 8 inches, weighing slightly over 130 pounds.
Inside her purse, there was a shimmering financial expanse: a golden Visa card perched on an array of dollar bills, a few vibrant Mac lipsticks and eye-liners, and a tiny pocket knife. Before he realized it, he heard a crash nearby. He instinctively pulled out the small knife from the purse.
"Don't let the dress, sandals, or the nail polish fool you! I'm not a helpless princess. I'm one dangerous bitch," he found himself saying, words echoing with an unexpected maturity.
He yearned for his mom and grandma, feeling a melancholic burden over his heart. "I am gonna miss mommy and grandma so much. I don't wanna be a girl, it's scary here in the dark!" he quoted emotionally.
He looked down at his new form, the sandals on his dainty foot, and let the tears cascade down his new face. Little did he know, he was permanently stuck, imprinted never to be the curious six-year-old Manhattan boy again.
This story was generated by user manemansteve with assistance by one of OpenAIās large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALLĀ·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Story: The year is 2024. Write me a story the way I write about a random 6 year old boy with a description of the boy's name, where he's from in the US, birthday, birth year, height, weight, hair color, hairstyle, eye color and what he's wearing shoes included and what he sounds like as he walks home alone for the first time with permission from his young mom. Include his mom's name, age, birthday and birth year, height, and weight. Include his grandma's name, age, birthday and birth year, height and weight. Have the boy be excited to tell all the cool stories about walking alone he was gonna to his mom and grandma when he went over to her house and his loving stuffed animal and his dog. Have him blink and suddenly be taller and in a different part of the US as he looks down seeing a small skimpy and expensive outfit barely covering her boobs with a description of the skimpy outfit and revealing and mature and expensive sandals with a description of what they look like and include actual name brands for parts of the outfit and have the outfit be too short for the cold weather which was also raining. Describe the woman who's body the 6 year old ends up in being a woman and a reason why she's wearing the outfit and why she's out in the rain and who she is and who her family is. Include a detailed description of the woman including her name, age, where she's from, birthday, birth year, race, height, weight, hair color, hairstyle, eye color and what she's wearing accessories and jewelry included and expensive purse and what's inside the purse included being revealing and what she sounds like and leave out some stuff to invoke the woman being mysterious. Have the boy look down at the sandals on his feet innocently before sticking his foot out shaking from how uncomfortable he was feeling the purse weighing down on his shoulder. Have him look down at the mature sandals on his feet sticking his tongue out at how girly they are pulling a foot out and looking at how small and dainty his foot was before catching his reflection in a nearby mirror. Have the boy remove the other sandal walking barefoot as he looked down at his new body and looking back up at the mirror as night time got darker causing tears to form on his new face. Have the boy try to walk barefoot stepping on nasty stuff all throughout his steps causing him to look at the sandals in his hands setting them down on the ground and sitting himself on the floor. Have him slip his feet back into the sandals standing up when he heard a loud crash nearby. Have him unwillingly and instinctively pull a small knife out of his purse as he called out in an uncharacteristically mature way to whoever was near and not to let the outfit and sandals and nail polish fool you that I'm not just some helpless little princess I'm one dangerous bitch and have it be in quoted text before snapping out of it. Have the boy say how he's gonna miss mommy and grandma so much and how he doesn't wanna be a girl and how scary it is out here in the dark and have it be in quoted text. Have the boy look down at his new form and the sandals on his feet and squeezed his eyes shut crying not knowing he was permanently stuck in the body of the woman and would never be a boy again.
Response: In the hallowed year of our Lord, 2024, walked a boy of tender age, six whole years of curiosity and innocence stitched to his golden heart. He was a proud American, hailing from the sparkling lights of Manhattan, New York. Born into this strangely beautiful world on a fiery July day of 2018, he was small and lean for his age, standing at a measly 3 feet and 7 inches, weighing no more than 45 pounds. He had a mop of messy jet-black hair over his scalp which danced in the wind as he walked. His sharp eyes, in stark contrast to his hair, were a clear blue, rich with life and intrigue. The laughter in his eyes made his tiny ecosystem of joy utterly infectious. Lickle, as the boy was fondly called by his visibly young mom, wobbled in his tiny white Nike sneakers, a grinning caricature of Buzz Lightyear garishly printed on them. His footsteps were light, beguiling a sense of first-earned freedom, as if an adorable turtle was finding its path on its maiden voyage in a vast ocean. The glow of this sweet liberty warmed his round face, intensifying the sparks in his blue orbs. His mom, Lisa, born on the tenth day of the last month of 2000, was just 24 years old. They had an intriguingly noticeable height difference; Lisa, with her 5 feet 5 inches and a lean built of 130 pounds, often spoon-fed stories of her, Lickle, and his beloved grandma flying to exciting, mysterious places with endless cheese to the moon-eyed boy. The grandma, Gertrude, was a petite, shriveled woman of 60 years of age, born on a fine March day of 1964, weighed just 110 pounds and stood at 5 feet. Before Lickle could narrate his wandering tales to Lisa and Gertrude, he blinked to find himself standing in a different dimension. This was not New York City. He was looking over the Golden Gate Bridge, feeling ominous mythical chills. He was taller, his bare skin felt different, there was a skimpy Givenchy dress barely covering his chest that was suddenly protruding out before him, clenched at his waist with an expensive Prada belt. It was a royal blue color with sequins sparkling in the rain that showed no sign of mercy as it relentlessly drenched his illuminated body. His freezing legs were part of a newfound anatomy ending in Giorgio Armani sandals, tanned skin complementing the creamy white leather perfectly. The physical realization engulfed him as he looked at his amazingly small foot before catching the reflection in a window. It was an adult woman. A beautiful woman, entirely foreign to him. Isabella, as her reflection spelled out on her Versace purse, was dressed outrageously scantily for the merciless cold, pouring rain over San Francisco. An ornate Gucci butterfly brooch on her dress seemed to shudder in the damp cold, as did she, blinking in the reflection. She was a tall woman, standing at 5 feet 8 inches, weighing slightly over 130 pounds. Inside her purse, there was a shimmering financial expanse: a golden Visa card perched on an array of dollar bills, a few vibrant Mac lipsticks and eye-liners, and a tiny pocket knife. Before he realized it, he heard a crash nearby. He instinctively pulled out the small knife from the purse. "Don't let the dress, sandals, or the nail polish fool you! I'm not a helpless princess. I'm one dangerous bitch," he found himself saying, words echoing with an unexpected maturity. He yearned for his mom and grandma, feeling a melancholic burden over his heart. "I am gonna miss mommy and grandma so much. I don't wanna be a girl, it's scary here in the dark!" he quoted emotionally. He looked down at his new form, the sandals on his dainty foot, and let the tears cascade down his new face. Little did he know, he was permanently stuck, imprinted never to be the curious six-year-old Manhattan boy again.
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