Second Skin #1

They called him Ellis—but that wasn’t always the face in his mirror.

In his mid-forties, with thinning brown hair and pale skin that sunburned too easily, Ellis looked like a regular guy. The kind who might teach history at a community college or spend weekends tinkering with old radios. But beneath that unassuming exterior was a secret only he knew: he could shapeshift into anyone, as long as he wore something they once wore.

It was magic. At least, not the kind you find in books. It was something stranger—something older and ancient. A gift he discovered in his twenties when he slipped on a leather jacket from a thrift store and emerged looking like someone else entirely.

That’s why he practically lived in thrift shops. Places where people unknowingly left pieces of themselves behind.

Today, it was a pair of white dress pants. Crisp. Slim fit. A faint trace of cologne clung to the waistband—rich, woodsy. Someone stylish had worn these. Someone confident.

Ellis stepped into the changing room and slipped them on.

The transformation was instant.

His breath hitched as warmth bloomed beneath his skin, like stepping into sunlight. He watched in awe as his pale skin darkened shade by shade, the pinkish undertone fading into a deep, smooth brown. His arms lengthened, veins disappearing beneath firm, toned muscle. His midsection pulled tight, abs forming in places he hadn’t seen them since college. His jaw sharpened, and the fine lines around his eyes vanished completely.

He reached up—his hair had changed too, buzzed short and perfectly clean. Even his posture was different, more relaxed, more powerful. He looked up at the mirror.

A young Black man stared back. Shirtless, strong, striking.

Ellis let out a breathless chuckle. “Damn…”

He raised his phone and snapped a mirror selfie, capturing the moment like he always did after a successful shift.

This wasn’t just a body—it was an experience, a perspective, a life. And for now, it was his.

And he wasn’t planning on changing back anytime soon.

Lesson Plan Change

It still catches me off guard.

Every morning, I open my eyes expecting to see my aging hands, my thinning hair in the mirror, the slight stiffness in my joints from years of standing at a podium. Instead, I see his face—young, clean-cut, sharp-featured—and a body that’s twenty-five years younger than mine ever was. I’m in the body of one of my freshman English students, Carter Vasquez, thanks to a freak explosion in the science department’s experimental consciousness transfer lab.

One moment, I was sipping burnt faculty lounge coffee and grading essays about The Great Gatsby. The next, I was disoriented, sprawled across the quad lawn in someone else’s body.

The entire campus was in chaos that day, hundreds of mismatched souls running around in unfamiliar bodies. They’ve stabilized things now—classes resumed, the dean’s issued daily “progress” bulletins—but the damage is done. For now, I’m stuck as Carter.

I still teach, though not in my usual button-downs and slacks. Now it’s knitted polos, faded jeans, and yesterday’s bedhead. I have to hold office hours in a body that students mistake for a peer. Do you know how hard it is to maintain authority in a seminar on Shakespeare when you look like the guy who vapes behind the dining hall?

Walking across campus today, phone in hand, jacket under my arm, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It’s still surreal. The face staring back—his messy brown hair, the careless scruff—isn’t mine. Not really. I even caught myself adjusting to it, flexing the jaw, squinting the eyes, wondering if I could learn to live like this if the science department never figures it out.

But I don’t let myself dwell too long. I have a lecture on metaphors at 10 a.m., and despite everything, students still need to learn.

And I still need to teach.

Body Swap N'B Review #3

Inspired by thegreatstoryteller's post on tumblr which can be found here!

SarahR97 - ⭐️⭐️⭐️

So here’s the deal: my sister’s bachelorette trip was in Vegas, and last-minute flights were stupid expensive. A friend suggested Body SwapN’B—just pick your destination, and they’ll find someone heading there you can swap with. Seemed genius at the time. What I didn’t expect? Waking up in his body.

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes at the Vegas facility was this tanned, sunburned, kind-of-sweaty, very shirtless reflection staring back at me. Broad chest, scruffy stubble, and boxer tan lines? Not exactly the “bachelorette glam” energy I was planning to serve.

Turns out, I had swapped into a guy who looked like he lived off energy drinks and beach workouts. His stuff was already in the room—black athletic shorts, cologne I’d never wear, and a towel still damp on the floor. I took a shower (which felt way different with this body), then threw on the cleanest polo I could find and headed to meet the girls.

That’s when it really hit. They were in matching satin robes with custom tumblers and sashes. I was just… some dude. They tried to include me, bless them, but there’s only so much you can do when the spa hands you a “deep tissue” treatment package because you don’t look like you belong in the mani-pedi group.

Don’t get me wrong—this body was useful. I carried all the bags, got us free drinks from random guys, and didn’t have to worry about my feet hurting in heels. But when we went out to the club, and I caught myself in the mirror next to my sister in her white bride dress, the sadness really hit.

I’ll give Body SwapN’B credit for convenience. But next time? I’d rather fly coach in a middle seat than miss celebrating as myself.

—Regretfully, the accidental bro of the bride

The Love We Still Share

It had been two months since the Great Shift turned the world upside down. Two months since I had woken up in a stranger’s body—broad shoulders, square jaw, and muscles I didn’t know how to control. Across from me, in another unfamiliar body, was the man I’d spent fifteen years loving: my husband, David.

Only now, David wore the body of the man from 3B—tall, dark-haired, and athletic. I, on the other hand, had been dropped into the body of his roommate, a lean, slightly anxious-looking man with soft brown hair and wide, nervous eyes. We were still in the same apartment, still in the same bed, but everything had changed.

At first, we tried to act like it hadn’t.

Every night I reached for David, wanting to be close again—wanting him, no matter what body he wore. But he’d pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he’d whisper. “I just… I look at you and see a man.”

I didn’t push. I knew how disorienting it all was. I knew it wasn’t about me—not really. But it still hurt. I missed the way he used to hold me without hesitation. I missed us.

Then, one night, as we lay in silence under the covers, I turned to him. “David, do you still love me?”

He didn’t answer at first. He stared at the ceiling, then finally said, “Of course I do. You’re still you. But when I look at you, my brain doesn’t… react the same way.”

“But your heart does?”

He turned, eyes full of hesitation and longing. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It does.”

I leaned in slowly. “Then let’s try.”

That night, he let his guard down. He kissed me, trembling at first, but then with growing certainty. His hands, though new to him, still knew how to hold me. I saw his eyes flicker—not with confusion, but with realization.

“This is still you,” he whispered against my lips.

And in that moment, the bodies didn’t matter. The world had changed, but our love hadn’t.

Wilkommen to My New Life

I’d never wanted something more than I wanted that role.

Playing the Emcee in Cabaret on Broadway—that was supposed to be my breakout. My audition was flawless: tight vocals, daring choreography, raw charisma. I was the Emcee. But the callback never came. Instead, the headlines screamed: "Orville Peck to Star in Edgy New Production of Cabaret!"

A country singer in a leather mask. Stunt casting. I was crushed.

That night, I tossed and turned, seething with frustration, imagining what could’ve been. I must’ve passed out somewhere between plotting revenge and humming “Money, Money.”

When I woke up… I wasn’t in my apartment.

It took a second to register the ornate vanity mirror in front of me, framed by bulb lights and covered in makeup palettes and half-drunk iced coffees. Flowers lined the walls. Costumes hung from racks. I blinked against the overhead lights. Someone had already done my eyes in heavy black liner. My lips were painted. And the reflection in the mirror…

It wasn’t mine.

My jaw dropped. The face staring back at me was Orville Peck’s—but unmasked. I was shirtless, broad-chested, with tattoos I’d only seen on magazine covers. A thick thigh rested lazily across one leg of the green velvet chair. I was mid-pose, hat pushed back slightly, as if I’d been interrupted while getting into character.

I stood up quickly, heart pounding. The room spun slightly, like I’d just come out of a nap after a long night. But it wasn’t exhaustion—it was disorientation. On the counter, a playbill sat with tonight’s date. Curtain: 7:30 PM.

I looked at the time: 6:42.

“What the hell…”

Someone knocked. “Five minutes, Orville. Need help getting into the harness?”

I froze. My voice caught in my throat.

Five minutes until curtain.

I didn’t know how I’d become Orville Peck—but I was about to walk onstage in his place, in front of a sold-out crowd, as the Emcee.

My dream had come true. I was the Emcee.

Shall we begin? Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome…

Cinco de Modelo

 It was Cinco de Mayo, and Todd—29 years old, unemployed, and completely indifferent to the holiday’s cultural meaning—stood in his steamy shower with a cold Modelo in hand. The bathroom echoed with the hiss of running water and the occasional belch as he worked through his second beer before breakfast. He had no plans, no responsibilities, and figured, “Why not spend the day drunk?”

As the morning turned to midday, Todd stayed in that haze, downing bottle after bottle. But sometime around beer number seven, things started feeling… strange. His chest hair thickened. His pale skin took on a deeper, sun-warmed tan. His face felt tighter somehow, the bones shifting underneath, cheekbones broadening while a salt-and-pepper beard itched its way into existence.

By the tenth beer, Todd was stumbling to his mirror, trying to rub the blur out of his eyes—but the reflection staring back wasn’t him. His long, wet hair had shortened and slicked back. His once-lazy, scruffy jawline was now full and masculine, with a proud smile and deep laugh lines etched from years of living. The Modelo clinked as it slipped from his hand and rolled across the tile.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t even panic. Something about the golden buzz from the beer, or maybe whatever curse had soaked into the bottle caps, was softening his mind. Memories rewrote themselves. The apartment was no longer a bachelor’s cluttered cave but a warmly decorated home. The faded band tees in the laundry basket became silk-patterned button-downs. Photos on the wall shifted—no more selfies of Todd in his twenties. Now they showed a cheerful middle-aged man at family barbecues, laughing with nieces and nephews, dancing with a woman who called him “mi amor.”

He blinked, confused for a moment, holding a fresh beer in the midday sun. Then he smiled. “¡Salud!” he said to a friend across the patio, raising his bottle. Todd was gone. Now there was only Esteban—a proud Mexican man in his mid-50s with a cold Modelo in his hand and no memory of ever being anyone else.