Dear Anonymous,
I have to ask why you read other people's transgendered stories and not mine? I'll admit I don't have a penis, but! I have been dressing in girl's clothes ever since I can remember! That has to give me some sort of edge, doesn't it? At least enough to keep me relevant and in the running with the big dogs! Maybe it's because not all of my transgender characters are gay subbies...I'll have to work on that, just so I can conform to your expectations. Let me know if you want me to color my hair too.
On the bright side! I will ensure that I name all my characters "Ashley" now, just to save you the trouble of having to read something before deciding you don't like it. It's such a time saver and I can't help but wonder why I didn't think of it first! They call me "Lil Miss Shortcut" in my driver's education class. Well, they used to until I crashed the car. But that was so completely NOT my fault. They put the gas pedal right next to the brake pedal!! Ever notice that?
And finally, thanks for wishing me a happy life! It's like getting a little fortune cookie in my email! I'm not entirely sure of your intentions however. I mean, I am, don't get me wrong, but four out my five other personalities are convinced you were trying to suggest that because I write a transgender story, I must be living a transgender life.
I suppose I could be. It would explain a lot of things, like my craving for gladiator movies. Unfortunately, if that theory was correct I'd also be living a lesbian life. And a hetero life and cross-dressing for my gay dog in between all the great sex my husband seems to expect for some reason. No wonder I'm so tired all the time! I was living the life of Riley...And then Riley came home.
That's an old joke and they even made a movie out of it. They'll make a movie out of anything if it sits still long enough.
But, this is a good time to remind those few individuals who insist on living in a fantasy world where people are what they write and so conversely, we'd all better be careful or we'll certainly become what we read, that you're wrong. I was looking for a clever way to say it gracefully and spare you the anguish of suffering too much reality all at once, but there's just no easy way to say it except the easy way. Don't confuse me (or any of the rest of me's) with any characters in any stories I've written. Unless, and this important so write it on your hand, unless I say right away that "This is a true story..." and to the best of my knowledge I've only done that three times and none of those will see the light of day on SOL...I think.
Okay? Writers make stuff up. It's kinda how it works. We tried it the other way, but all that did was drive up the price of hot buttered cashews, and while you're trying to wrap yourself around that concept...
I'll say goodbye!
Thanks for avoiding me! The world is much safer for it!
signed lovingly,
rache aka T.S.Severe
Homework
(now that the stupid stuff is taken care of)
One thing I can do is write dialogue.
Do Anybody
Fiction by Rachael Ross
Copyrighted 2010 Rachael Ross
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"I know you," she said, narrowing her baby blues suspiciously.
"I doubt it," I sighed. "How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"How old?"
"Fourteen�" she frowned as I stared at her, "�almost."
"That's what I thought." I nodded, turning my eyes back onto the road. "You don't know me."
"How old are you?"
"Pretty fuckin' old," I said, pointing at the glove box. "Look in there and find me a cigarette."
"Smoking's bad for you." She opened the glove compartment and picked up the gun. "What's this for?"
"In case I get cancer."
"Is it loaded?"
"There's a bullet in there somewhere." I shrugged. "I need a smoke."
"Huh!" She grinned and found the pack of Marlboros.
"What are you doing?"
"Lighting it for you," she replied around a cigarette, punching the lighter on the dash, and looking at the gun on her lap.
"I'm still only going as far as Denver."
"You sure?" She picked up the old revolver again and pointed it at me.
"Pretty sure, yeah."
"Just checking," she said, tossing the gun back in the glove compartment and slapping it shut.
The lighter popped and she puffed the cigarette into life, wincing around the smoke. I took it from her lips before she could choke.
"I hate amateurs."
"I wasn't coughing."
"You were gonna." I shrugged. "You got a name?"
"Marty," she replied. "What's yours?"
"I thought you said you knew me?"
"Maybe."
"John Smith."
"I knew it!" She clapped her hands and giggled. "You're so fake!"
"What?" I made a face at the girl. "That's my name."
"You're that guy in Broken Window."
"Nah." I shook my head. "I was the only guy in Broken Window."
"That's what I mean," Marty said with a laugh. "Oh man! My dad's got like all your albums."
"So he's the one."
"Shut-up!" Marty rolled her eyes. "I'm serious. I grew up listening to you."
"You ain't grown up yet," I reminded her, looking down at her flat chest and skinny hips.
"You know what I mean," she said. "So why'd you quit?"
"I got fuckin' old, remember?"
"So? What�You don't like music anymore or something?"
"I love the music."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I hit a brick wall doing fifty," I said. "Talk about something else."
"I don't wanna," she decided, giggling happily. "You're famous."
"Right."
"That one CD was killer too."
"Which one?".
"Music to Fuck By."
"Music to Sleep With?"
"Yeah." Marty nodded. "Whatever. I learned how to cum listening to that one, especially the third song."
"You know how to cum?"
"Duh! I'm a girl, ain't I?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"I cum all the time," she said sort of snappishly. "Vadge cums�"
"Vadge?"
"�clitty cums, titty cums�"
"Titty cums?" I laughed. "Now I know you're fucking with me."
"�butt cums."
"Shut the hell up!"
"I'm just saying, you taught me how to cum."
"What track is that?"
"Number three," Marty sighed with a content smile. "Do Anybody."
"Oh. That one."
"Why'd you call it that anyway?"
"Hmmm�"
"Can't remember?"
"It's personal."
"It's a song title, come on!"
"Yeah, but�Ah, fuck it. My old girlfriend named it."
"Your girlfriend?"
"The drummer on my first tour." I said, breathing the words out with a cloud of blue smoke. "You ever see the little booklet thing?"
"In the CD? Of course."
"That was her."
"The Chinese chick?" Marty asked, rolling down her window a couple inches.
"Cambodian," I corrected the girl. "Lotus."
"That's a weird name."
"I couldn't say her real name," I said. "Anyway, we were someplace, just starting out, you know�"
"Is this a long story?"
"�and saw this killer drum set and I asked her, what would you do for a kit like that?"
"What did she say?"
"She'd do anybody," I replied, smiling at the memory. "So I wrote a song for her."
"It's about getting a drum set?"
"No! It's about giving it up for something you want."
"Giving up�sex?"
"Whatever. Sex. Love. Your life. Like you gotta have that stupid thing that's gonna make you happy for ten minutes."
"And then what?" Marty pulled her dirty blonde hair back, tying it in a sloppy knot.
"And then you realize you fucked up." I shrugged. "You traded something valuable for shit."
"That kinda sucks."
"Yeah, well�"
"I thought it was a love song."
"Lotus loved that drum kit."
"Really?"
"For about two shows," I said with a chuckle. "And then we blew it up in London for the closer."
"Did she do you?"
"How do you think she got that kit?"
"How old was she?"
"About your age," I said. "Twelve, I guess. We were all kids back then. That first album�Fuck."
I didn't want to talk about it anymore and we rode in silence for awhile.
"Hmmm�"
"What are you thinking about?" I asked and Marty shrugged.
"If I'd do anybody for anything."
"Would you?"
"I don't know what I want," she said. "Would you?"
"Maybe," I said, taking one last puff. "If I could be young again, sure."
"Yeah?"
"Getting old sucks," I snorted. "I mean, it's not the grey hair and wrinkles and golf�"
"You play golf?" She laughed.
"�it's just not doing what I was born to do," I explained. "I had twenty, thirty years maybe, and about the time I figured out what was going on�"
"It was over?"
"Yeah," I nodded. "I still got songs in the back of my head."
"Okay."
"And I sleep sometimes and dream I'm on some stage just hammering my guitar, jumping around and thinking I'm gonna be doing it forever."
"You're pretty depressing."
"Me?" I grinned at her. "Depressing is watching the Stones play Gimme Shelter when they're seventy."
"Heh!"
"I knew when to call it quits," I told her. "I was on top and I left a fine ass lookin' corpse."
"Except you aren't really dead," Marty reminded me with a lop-sided smile.
"I'm not the same guy," I told her. "I just got his memories."
Marty seemed to think about that while she kicked off her sneakers and put her small feet on the dash. I liked the way she hugged her knees to her chest. The fake leather skirt she wore fell down the girl's skinny thighs and I could see her panties, pink like they had to be. Pink like her toenails and lip gloss and the plastic bangles around her wrists. That little girl had a lot of junk, a lot of flair pinned to her pink purse and denim jacket.
"You getting tired yet?" she asked, looking straight ahead into the setting sun.
"Just a couple more hours."
"There's a motel up there." Marty jerked her chin towards a neon mirage flickering in the distance.
"Got something on your mind?"
"We could hang out a little," she said, sucking on her bottom lip as we looked at each other.
"What do you want?"
"I haven't decided yet," the little girl admitted, grinning carelessly. "Except I don't want to go to Denver tonight."
"Having too much fun?" I grinned back at her.
"You like me. Right?"
"You're okay, I guess�" I teased her. "For a groupie."
"Thanks a lot."
"Hey, it's a compliment, believe me," I said. "Groupies are honest anyway."
"So you think I'm honest?"
"I don't know." I looked at her. "I guess it depends on what you want."
"I told you! I haven't�"
"Decided yet? Yeah. I got that part."
"Yeah. When I figure it out though�"
"I'm gonna be in trouble?"
"Probably!" She laughed and wiggled her toes. "So, are you gonna stop at the motel or do I gotta beg or what?"
"You sure your only thirteen?"
"Pretty sure," she said. "Why? Am I too old for you?"
"Heh!"
"You got old, but your music's gonna live forever." Marty tilted her head. "Doesn't that mean something?"
"Not to me." I looked at her and shrugged. "Why? Should it?"
"I dunno." She raised her eyebrows innocently. "That's why I'm asking."
"Let's get a room," I said and maybe it was that look on her face that did it.
"How come you only got one bullet?"
"With a mini-bar," I decided, pulling off the interstate for one last detour. I'd had plenty of those; one more wasn't gonna hurt too much.
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Assignment: Well, there's the first half of a story and wouldn't you just know? My dog ate the rest of it. So it's up to you to save the day and write the second half of the story�and tie up all those annoying loose ends!
POV: 1st (John Smith)
Sex: Whatever the plot requires
Challenge 1: Explain why there's only one bullet for the gun
Challenge 2: Explain what Marty wants
Challenge 3: Think outside the box�In fact, there is no box. I didn't bother to include one.
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