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Question: Write me a story the way I write about a random 6 year old white American boy with a description of the boy's name, appearance, height, what state he's from, what he's doing. Include a description of the boy's mom's name, age and height and the boy's dad's name, age and height. Have him be having trouble sleeping when he jerks awake. Have him be in the body of an Arab woman with full traditional Arab clothing, shoes and accessories. Have him only be able to speak Arabic. Reveal the woman whose body he wakes up in's name, age, height and what part of the Middle East he's in. Have him be unable to go home and have him start crying. Have him say something in Arabic trying to innocently speak like a 6 year old but have say something a Muslim woman would say unwillingly and have it be in quoted text
In the immense plains of Kansas, a 6-year-old boy named Timothy lived a simple life. Timothy, fondly referred to as Timmy, was a white American boy with puppy-dog brown eyes and soft wavy blonde hair. Standing a whole 3 feet, 8 inches tall, with an infectious giggle and a spark of curiosity still gleaming in his eyes, Timmy was your typical boy-next-door. His parents, Ellen Wright, a pretty thirty-five-year-old woman of modest height, 5 feet 4 inches, and his towering father Jack Wright, a doting 38-year-old dad standing tall at 6 feet, revered in his charm and affection. One night, Timmy awoke with a start from his troubled sleep, heart thumping as he felt a chill run down his spine. However, his boy's PJs felt different - incredibly soft, layered, and far more elaborate. And his bed felt wider, more decadent. He looked down at himself and was shocked to find himself in an intricately woven abaya, the silhouette he'd seen depicted in one of his geography books. His slender six-year-old arms had morphed into elegantly curved hands, adorned with ornate gold bangles. His feet, clutching onto plush Persian carpets, were encased in hand-stitched leather sandals. A large ornate mirror propped against the far wall revealed a reflection he didn't recognize — that of a middle-aged, Arab woman. He discovered a name tag on a small table next to the bed reading, "Amira Qasim, 40 years old, 5 feet 5 inches." He uttered the name in disbelief. As he observed his surroundings, the pungent smell of exotic spices and the mild clamor of a bustling souk from a nearby window made it clear that he was in the Middle East. Panic started to creep in. He yearned for his soft cotton pyjamas, his small race car bed, his doting mom's goodnight kisses, and his dad's soothing bedtime stories. A wave of fear washed over him. He was hundreds of miles away from home, a completely different continent. He felt tears welling up in his eyes and starting to spill over, streaking down his now matured and veiled cheeks. His heart told him he was still that 6-year-old boy from Kansas, but his new body and world reflected a very different reality. Between choked sobs, he attempted to say something. His six-year-old boyish American English was subtly replaced with fluent Arabic, a language he didn't understand or know he spoke. It felt strange to hear alien words flowing out of his mouth so naturally. In an innocent attempt, he said, "إن شاء الله سأعود إلى الوطن يوماً ما." Unbeknownst to him, he had apologised politely and prayed for his return home, saying, "Insha'Allah, I will return home one day”, a phrase commonly expressed by spiritual Muslim women.
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