The AR Story Archive
Stories of Age/Time Transformation
by: personalias | Complete Story | Last updated Dec 8, 2017
Three women's very identities are put in jeopardy as reality shifts around them. A commission for anonymous
Chapter Description: Susan the tomboy breaks some bad news to her mother.
Magic exists. It has always existed, and potentially will always exist; yet, it has never existed and never will exist in all likelihood. To the uninitiated, this may seem paradoxical at best; however it is the absolute truth.
Humanity has always had a peculiar capability to create power where none exists. Magic is nothing less (or more), than the human psyche making manifest and breaking down and reshaping the world as it sees fit, with little care for rhyme or reason or what the world wants.
Things like fire-breathing dragons, wish-granting genies, magic wands, or pacts with gods and demons are both smoke and mirrors, as well as absolute truth. Mankind has long been aware of its own physical fragility, and thus when it came time for its true potential to be expressed, mythical beings and objects sprang up into being to act as conduits for these thoughts and impulses to be made manifest. In our collective ability to play God, we made gods of our own, and gave them power.
That is why science and existential philosophy resulted in the widespread scarcity of magic, with both branches" insistence on explaining and measuring everything; and if something was unmeasurable, it then could not exist. As more and more people accepted that as fact, just as generations ago their ancestors had accepted magic as fact, it too manifested as fact.
Unlike certain existential philosophers, however, I would argue that just because we made our gods, doesn"t make them any less powerful. They have power. Collectively, we are a race of hyper intelligent bumblebees. We should not be able to fly.
And yet"¦.
- An excerpt from "Do You Believe in Magic?" By Cornelius Crowley.
1.
Susan
It was a typical Tuesday afternoon at Ma"s Diner and Pie Shop. The lunch rush had just ended. The yuppies on their lunch breaks had gone back to work and the travelers looking to get some "authentic southern cuisine" had all paid their tabs, gassed their cars back up, and hit the road for Disney World. Now, all that remained in the sleepy little eatery were the retired folks who had nothing better to do than eat greasy burgers on a hoagie roll and poke at collard greens; in other words: the regulars.
Susan was no regular, but she"d arguably spent more time in the little restaurant than most of the old timers combined. Growing up there had all but guaranteed it; Susan had been washing dishes since she was five, busing tables since she was seven, and cooking since she was nine. It"s just what happened when you were "Ma"s" daughter. Growing up, when Susan wasn"t at home or at school, chances are, she was working in the family restaurant.
The diner had been her Grandmother"s first, and had been passed down to her mother, and as Susan had been raised to believe, would one day be hers in all its greasy spoon glory. There was the rub though: Susan didn"t want to be the next "Ma" and continue the family tradition. Renaming the place "Susan"s" wouldn"t have helped either; Susan wanted out. As long as she was studying at college, she was free; her mother had been okay with her going to school to "discover herself", and to study for a "fallback career" in the event of a worse case scenario. The problem was, Susan had only a matter of weeks before graduation with a degree in accounting, and as far as she was concerned, she was done baking chocolate pecan pies and grilling up "Today"s Specials". Now how was she going to tell her mom?
As her mother sat across from her, still wearing an apron while munching on the last slice of Key Lime Pie- she always saved the last slice of pie for herself, which is why she never quite lost the baby weight even though Susan herself was very much blessed with a track runner"s physique- Susan had no idea how to broach the subject. Poking with a fork at the remains of her Rueben with one hand, Susan adjusted her thick, black rimmed glasses, almost identical to her mother. They never talked while they ate. It was an unspoken rule that had long ago become an unbreakable law, like gravity. Good. It gave Susan more time to think about how to broach the subject. Unfortunately, her mother wouldn"t give her the luxury of time.
As she swallowed the last bit of crust, Susan"s mom wiped her mouth and then asked, "So, how long after you graduate before you come back to work?" Just like that, the ball had been put into Susan"s court. It wasn"t accusatory. There was no hint of a veiled, cynical retort prepared; no expectation of rebuttal. It was an innocent question. This had been the plan all along, hadn"t it?
The young woman swallowed hard, and reached for a glass of water, if only to stall. From over her glass, Susan stared at her mother- both of their hair the exact shade of so brown so dark it might be mistaken for black; only Susan"s was cropped short and her Mom"s was going gray in places- and saw both a woman she loved and a future she hoped to avoid. "Mom," Susan gulped, "I might be a while."
"How long is a while?" Mom arched an eyebrow. "Going for your Masters?"
Susan shook her head, eyes closed. "I"¦" she paused, "I don"t want to come back to work."
Her mother"s expression shifted instantly. Now she was sitting up a little straighter, her typically soft smile was now a horizontal line across her face. "Oh?" she asked. "Then what do you want to do? Accounting?"
"I don"t know," the almost college graduate balked. Accounting had been really just another way to get her mother off her back. Accounting meant that Susan could do the books AND make eggs benedict for the blue hairs ordering from the breakfast menu at 4 pm; this made her mother more patient. "I just know that this isn"t for me." She gestured around the restaurant, as the few remaining customers ate their meals in relative luxury, while the few non-family employees bussed tables.
"But you"re good at it," Mom answered. There was a mixed tone of nagging encouragement in her voice, now. Her mother was clearly winding up for a sale"s pitch of a sort.
Susan was having none of it. She wasn"t about to get guilted or cajoled or flattered into a life that wasn"t for her; college had taught her that much. "Just because I"m good at it doesn"t mean I like it." There was a pause. Mom said nothing, but the flicker in her eyes said it all. There was storm brewing behind those eyes. They were about to have a fight. Fuck it. Might as well go for the throat. "I hate it. I don"t want to be the next "Ma" or whatever."
"Ma" just cocked her head to the side, as if she were a particularly confused puppy dog.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Take a year off," her mother said. "I"ll do fine without you for another year. Then when you"ve gotten this whole "finding yourself" thing out of your system, we"ll talk more." She moved to get up. Susan reached across the table to get her mother to sit. "Honey," Mom"s voice sounded both hurt and bemused. "I"m not mad." That was a lie. "If you need more time, you need more time. Believe it or not, I was young once, too."
How patronizing could one woman be? A growl rose up in Susan"s throat. "Mom," she said, "this isn"t some phase that I"m going to grow out of. When I mean something, I mean it."
A condescending smirk was her mother"s initial reply. Followed by, "You mean like how you meant you were going to be a rodeo star?" Susan"s face flushed at the implied accusation, like her decision to not take over the family business was akin to the fantasy career of a nine-year-old. Susan, however, wasn"t caught completely off guard by this tactic, and had readied a counter of her own.
"More like how I stopped liking dresses, and ribbons, and tea parties and all that girly shit when I was four. Was that a phase?" It was true. By the time she had entered kindergarten, Susan couldn"t stand anything that she found overly feminine. A tomboy through and through, she hated skirts, dresses, heels, and so on. Pink anything might as well have been the skull and crossbones for her. The "My Size Barbie" Susan"s mother had gotten her for Christmas was redressed in jeans and a t-shirt, it"s frilly play gown ripped to shreds by a pair of fabric scissors. Her stuffed animals and dolls were all executed by age six. Her mother had assured her that she"d start to like dresses and girly things again when she got older and got interested in boys.
Nope, not the case. Turns out plenty of boys liked a gal who could keep up with them; though there were more than a few who were somehow threatened when she was able to also kick their ass at video games. By contrast, Susan couldn"t remember the last time she"d seen her mother wear so much as a pair of jeans, or gone without makeup.
"Susan," her Mom sighed, "You"re my daughter, and I love you, but have you really thought this through?"
Susan balked. "Of course I have, Mom," she said. "I know what I want, and it"s not this."
"Knowing what you don"t want isn"t the same thing as knowing what you want and how to get it, little girl. You don"t even have a backup plan for your backup if you"re not going to become an accountant."
Something snapped in Susan at being referred to as "little girl." But instead of getting loud, Susan went the opposite direction, almost whispering so that her mother had to lean in to properly hear her over the sound of sizzling grills and forks scraping plates. "Mom, I"m grown-up now, I think I can take care of myself."
Upon seeing how much Susan was bothered, her mother leaned back and favored her with a condescending smirk. "Real grown-ups refer to themselves as adults, Susie. And right now you"re just proof that it"s possible to grow older, but not grow-up." She leaned back and crossed her arms.
Susan hated being called "Susie." She hadn"t answered to that diminutive nickname since pre-school. "Well, Janet," Susan copied her mother"s intonation, the gloves were about to come off, "You"re proof that it"s possible to grow older, but not wiser, and-"
Susan"s retort was cut off by a low groaning across the floor, like a bass version of nails scraping on a chalkboard. The younger of the two women whipped her head around to see the source of the strange noise. Then, she did a double take and looked at her mother to see if she had noticed. Mom hadn"t. How could she not though? Right in front of her eyes, a piece of furniture was scooting itself across the floor towards them.
It was a thick wooden highchair, and not the backless-barstool-meets-baby-swing type that so many restaurants had. This was a proper highchair, wooden and sturdy, with a feeding tray that clicked into place, trapping its intended occupant, and a footrest a few feet above the floor so that tiny feet weren"t left dangling. Mom kept three or four of these highchairs in the back of the diner for when the inevitable toddler was brought along; she thought it looked more "homey" than the mass-produced booster stools that other restaurants used. This particular highchair had the word "Baby" stenciled on the back, flanked by pink and blue hand prints. The chair itself was older than Susan; she"d seen baby pictures of her mom in that chair.
And now it was moving across the floor, scraping and scooting, and no one seemed to be paying it any mind.
"What the hell is that?" Susan pointed to the furniture moving of its own accord.
Her mother frowned and scolded her. "Susie. Language."
"No, seriously," Susan pressed. "What is that highchair doing dragging itself across the floor?" Susan"s mother looked at the highchair; watching it as it squeaked and groaned across the hardwood floor. Had it been an animal, Mom would have been looking it dead in the eyes.
"Oh Susie," Mom chuckled. "You"ve got such an imagination."
Susan"s anger was rapidly transforming into worry. "If this is a prank, it"s not funny." Tossing her napkin onto the table, she pushed her chair back and stood up; but when she caught a glimpse at her lap, she practically collapsed back into her seat. Her comfortable, worn in, blue jeans were now as white as the napkin that had been in her lap. And just like the highchair, they were becoming animate. A half-gasp, half-scream jumped out of Susan"s mouth as the legs of her pants started shimmying themselves up her legs, bunching up, threatening to go up past her knees. "Mom!" she squeaked out, while trying in vain to tug her rebellious pant legs back down to her ankles. A quick glance at her feet showed the holes in her Crocs were sealing themselves, and socks that hadn"t been there a moment ago were snaking up her legs to cover the skin that her pants were now abandoning.
"What"s wrong, baby?" A look of mild concern now adorned her mother"s face.
Susan got up from her chair, the pounding of her heart drowning out the crinkling rustle coming from between her legs as she stood. "My clothes!" Susan gestured to the ongoing transformation of her wardrobe happening right before everyone"s eyes. Her black Brad Paisley T-shirt that she had gotten at a concert was now bleeding pink, the image of the country singer being erased with it. A white haired old man- a regular- looked up from his potato salad and gave a quiet, knowing chuckle.
"Young"uns", Susan heard him say.
Her mother, with almost practiced slowness, and more than a little oblivious asked, "What about your clothes, dear?"
The girl"s new socks had stopped at her knees and were in the process of developing little frills at the ends. Her shirt, now completely pink, was starting to puff up at the sleeves. Meanwhile, Susan was fighting off a panic attack, trying futilely to stop her pants from abandoning more of her thighs. "THEY"RE CHANGING!"
With a final prolonged moan of wood scraping against wood, the highchair came to a stop at their table. Why did it seem so much bigger than Susan remembered it? Unconcerned, and clearly mishearing her own daughter, Mom got up and asked, "Do you need to be changed hon? Is that it? Let Mommy check."
Her mother walked nonchalantly around the highchair. It was only through pure adrenaline and honed reflexes that Susan managed see her mother"s hand dart for her crotch and jump back before she could be groped. "Mom, what the fuck?!"
This elicited the kind of gasp that echoed and repeated itself from everyone in earshot. A waitress stopped jotting down an order for a couple of policemen who had just sat down. "I don"t know where she heard that word," Mom said, a blush rising to her face. The comment was directed to the other people in earshot, not to Susan. "Must be daycare."
"Mine says worse," one of the cops called back, giving "Ma" a respectful nod before going back to his order. A laugh rippled throughout the restaurant.
Scared, confused, and feeling out of options, Susan lifted up her shirt- its hem was lengthening a bit and flaring to boot- and went to unbutton her jeans. Her fingers slipped and slid uselessly just below her bellybutton, her fingers not so much as even touching the little brass button to unhook her pants. There was no button.
Trying to kick off her shoes- a difficult thing now that they were pink sneakers, laced tight and kept closed by Velcro straps- Susan stumbled and fell into the waiting arms of a particularly adult sized highchair. Like a magnet, the chair seemed to draw her towards it, pinning her upright.
Just before the tray was slid in and snapped shut, isolating her top half from her bottom half, Susan realized her mistake: As the last of her pant legs bunched up, her backside and crotch now bulging and spreading her legs apart, Susan caught sight of a tab on each side of her waist, allowing her pants"¦no, her underwear"¦no, her diaper to wrap around her. The cutesy butterfly patterns along the waist and down her crotch were the last thing that Susan got to see before she was trapped in the highchair.
"You"re cranky," Mom said, before violating every precept of personal space, and sticking her fingers into the leg gathers of Susan"s newly manifested diaper "but not wet. I don"t know what"s gotten into you Susie, but let"s finish our lunch. Then it"ll be time for a nice nap."
Somewhere very far away, a being older than Earth itself-a god in some cultures- smiled dreamily at the little blue and green marble off in the distance.
Better Late Than Never
by: personalias | Complete Story | Last updated Dec 8, 2017
Stories of Age/Time Transformation