"Woman in the Mirror: A Tale of Unexpected Identity Swap"
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Sure! Here’s a short story version based on your prompt, with added dialogue, characterization, and vivid description.
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I almost called in sick just to avoid the weirdness. But curiosity (and Lucas’s desperate texts) got the better of me. The afternoon sun blazed orange against the cracked paint of his porch. I knocked, wrestling with images of my best friend trapped in his mom’s body, half-expecting this all to be some elaborate prank.
The door flew open. There stood a tall, curvy redhead in flannel pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. She—Lucas—blinked at me through a shocking cloud of auburn curls.
“Dude, you coming in or what?” Lucas asked, voice higher and smoother than I’d ever heard.
I stepped inside, suppressing a snort as he tripped over the threshold.
“This is a lot,” I said, putting it mildly.
Lucas closed the door, pushing stray hair out of his face. “You think I don’t know that, Alex? Try peeing standing up with these hips.”
“Oh my god,” I said, and couldn’t help a full-out laugh now. “How’s Mrs. Franklin?”
Lucas sighed. “She’s in my room, filing for a government form for ‘irrevocable metaphysical events.’ Turns out, there’s paperwork for everything.” He gestured at himself. “This, though, is forever.”
I gazed at him—her—whatever. Mrs. Franklin had always been the type to alphabetize cleaning products and RSVP with written notes. Now, Lucas’s mannerisms—the flopped way he sat, the constant fussing with his nails—were spilling all over her. He was like a punk kid crammed into a corporate suit.
He flopped onto the couch, accidentally smashing a cushion under his—her—endowments. “I keep sitting on my own hair. And…” He gestured. “Look at these things. They’re like airbags.”
I tried not to stare but failed. “So… you still wanna have beer and play Call of Duty?”
“That’s the plan. If you can help me open one of these bottles—my nails are like little razor blades.” He tried nimbly, fumbled, and handed it over.
I cracked the caps, handed one over, and grabbed the controller. Lucas took his, frowning.
He glanced down at the controller, then at his new hands, flexing long, painted fingers. “I swear, dude, these hands are dainty. I can’t even sprint and crouch at the same time. Tell me how to take these nails off?”
“I think they’re glued,” I said, grinning.
He groaned. “This is hell. My aim is shot, my boobs keep jostling when I lean over, and when I bend down—” He trailed off, flushing.
I laughed again, but it turned to sympathy. “At least you’re not in jail.”
“Yeah, but I’m living in hell, Alex.”
We fired up the Xbox, Lucas gritting his teeth every time he flubbed a reload. He sighed, watching his kill count tank.
“You know what’s at least sort of nice? The hair is soft. And there’s, like, this weird confident feeling whenever I walk. Is that… normal for women?”
“Not all the time, but maybe for Mrs. Franklin.”
We played into the evening, Lucas cursing every time his avatar got sniped. Finally, he leaned back, rolling his neck and huffing hair out of his eyes.
“If I start baking banana bread or humming show tunes, smack me, okay?”
“Deal,” I said.
He took a sip of beer, wincing a little.
“I might never get used to this, but at least I don’t have to face a judge,” Lucas said. “Guess I’ll just have to invent something that gives me a fighting chance with these.” He waggled his red nails meaningfully.
“You could patent it,” I told him.
“Yeah, and this time, I’ll call it legal.”
We both laughed. And for the first time since the swap, Lucas seemed to settle in—not quite at home, but at least willing to try.
This story was generated by user zach3 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: My friend was always working and tinkering on new projects. When he built a swap device I told him it was a bad idea since swap devices are technically illegal. He said nobody is going to catch him so he didn’t need to worry about it. He decided to test it by swapping with his mom. Of course the decide ended up breaking after the first swap. His mom was always a rule follower and made sure to let someone know of their situation. My buddy thought he was going to have to face jail time but they came up with a better idea. He was going to have to live the rest of his life in mom’s body. He invited me over to hangout today. He is struggling with having long hair and long nails and big boobs and a curvy ass. He is trying his best to get through it. He suggested drinking some beers and playing some call of duty, which he isn't quite as good at with his moms hands and busty body. His mom is a busty and curvy redhead. Make sure you have good dialogue and description, and give the characters names.
Response: Sure! Here’s a short story version based on your prompt, with added dialogue, characterization, and vivid description. --- I almost called in sick just to avoid the weirdness. But curiosity (and Lucas’s desperate texts) got the better of me. The afternoon sun blazed orange against the cracked paint of his porch. I knocked, wrestling with images of my best friend trapped in his mom’s body, half-expecting this all to be some elaborate prank. The door flew open. There stood a tall, curvy redhead in flannel pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. She—Lucas—blinked at me through a shocking cloud of auburn curls. “Dude, you coming in or what?” Lucas asked, voice higher and smoother than I’d ever heard. I stepped inside, suppressing a snort as he tripped over the threshold. “This is a lot,” I said, putting it mildly. Lucas closed the door, pushing stray hair out of his face. “You think I don’t know that, Alex? Try peeing standing up with these hips.” “Oh my god,” I said, and couldn’t help a full-out laugh now. “How’s Mrs. Franklin?” Lucas sighed. “She’s in my room, filing for a government form for ‘irrevocable metaphysical events.’ Turns out, there’s paperwork for everything.” He gestured at himself. “This, though, is forever.” I gazed at him—her—whatever. Mrs. Franklin had always been the type to alphabetize cleaning products and RSVP with written notes. Now, Lucas’s mannerisms—the flopped way he sat, the constant fussing with his nails—were spilling all over her. He was like a punk kid crammed into a corporate suit. He flopped onto the couch, accidentally smashing a cushion under his—her—endowments. “I keep sitting on my own hair. And…” He gestured. “Look at these things. They’re like airbags.” I tried not to stare but failed. “So… you still wanna have beer and play Call of Duty?” “That’s the plan. If you can help me open one of these bottles—my nails are like little razor blades.” He tried nimbly, fumbled, and handed it over. I cracked the caps, handed one over, and grabbed the controller. Lucas took his, frowning. He glanced down at the controller, then at his new hands, flexing long, painted fingers. “I swear, dude, these hands are dainty. I can’t even sprint and crouch at the same time. Tell me how to take these nails off?” “I think they’re glued,” I said, grinning. He groaned. “This is hell. My aim is shot, my boobs keep jostling when I lean over, and when I bend down—” He trailed off, flushing. I laughed again, but it turned to sympathy. “At least you’re not in jail.” “Yeah, but I’m living in hell, Alex.” We fired up the Xbox, Lucas gritting his teeth every time he flubbed a reload. He sighed, watching his kill count tank. “You know what’s at least sort of nice? The hair is soft. And there’s, like, this weird confident feeling whenever I walk. Is that… normal for women?” “Not all the time, but maybe for Mrs. Franklin.” We played into the evening, Lucas cursing every time his avatar got sniped. Finally, he leaned back, rolling his neck and huffing hair out of his eyes. “If I start baking banana bread or humming show tunes, smack me, okay?” “Deal,” I said. He took a sip of beer, wincing a little. “I might never get used to this, but at least I don’t have to face a judge,” Lucas said. “Guess I’ll just have to invent something that gives me a fighting chance with these.” He waggled his red nails meaningfully. “You could patent it,” I told him. “Yeah, and this time, I’ll call it legal.” We both laughed. And for the first time since the swap, Lucas seemed to settle in—not quite at home, but at least willing to try.
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