Soul Switch: A Bodiless Bargain
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My friend, Drake, had always been the life of every party, a charismatic force of nature who could charm his way through any situation. But now, he stood before me—a disembodied soul, caught in limbo between life and beyond, a shade of his former self.
His death had been sudden and unexpected, leaving his soul trapped on Earth, teetering on the edge of obliteration. The only way to save him was to find a new body before his essence faded entirely. In our haste and urgency, I had intended to place Drake into a comparable male form. Fate, however, had a different plan.
The morning sun filtered through the curtains of my apartment, casting an almost ethereal glow on the figure standing hesitantly in front of the mirror. Staring back was not Drake but a busty, curvy, 5'5 redheaded female. If this situation were happening to anyone else, it might've been comedic, but the pained look on Drake's face was no laughing matter.
"I can't believe you, Paul," he muttered, adjusting the spaghetti straps of the form-fitting top that clung to his new shape. "Of all the bodies, this is what you picked?"
"I didn't pick it, man; I misfired!" I defended weakly, knowing full well how absurd it all sounded. "Look, we had no time, and you were literally fading. At least you're alive—sort of."
"I'm stuck lugging around these...these things!" he exclaimed, gesturing at his ample chest. "And my back—oh God, my back! I can’t even stand up straight."
Drake slumped onto the couch, his new form seemingly weighing him down. “Get me some Advil, or a drink, or something. I need to get out and clear my head—what's left of it.”
“Yeah, about that,” I interrupted, pulling out a dainty purse from the coffee table. “You might need this.”
His eyes widened in panic before wielding the small bag with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. “A purse, Paul? Seriously?”
“If you’re heading to the bar, you’ll need it,” I said as gently as I could. “Inside, you’ll find your new ID.”
Drake rifled through the purse, finally pulling out a card with a distinctly feminine face on it. “Caroline Summers. God, this is ridiculous.”
“Hey, it was the best option I had!” I implored. “We can figure this out, Drake—or, uh, Caroline. But for tonight, let's just get you that drink.”
Surprisingly, he agreed with a reluctant nod, slipping the ID back into the purse and slinging it over his shoulder. “Fine. Let’s go to the bar.”
Despite the awkwardness of the situation—the clicking of new high heels against pavement, the constant adjustments of unfamiliar clothes—we finally made it to our favorite haunt. The stares we garnered were intense, some even outright confused as people tried to connect the conservative notion of Drake with the striking redhead beside me.
We found a couple of stools at the bar, where our regular bartender, Jake, eyed us both curiously. “Seen a ghost?” Jake quipped at me. He had no idea how close to the truth he was.
“Just the usual,” I managed with a thin smile, while Drake—or Caroline—ordered a whiskey neat.
Jake raised an eyebrow but complied, sliding the drink across the counter. Drake hesitated for just a moment before knocking it back in one smooth motion. “Another.”
The night wore on, with drink after drink downed in the hopes of numbing the confusion and pain. Not just physical but existential. Between sips, Drake vented. “I don’t know what comes next. No way I’m staying like this forever.”
“We’ll fix it, I promise,” I said, placing a hand on his—her—shoulder. “We’ll fix this, Drake.”
As the night stretched on, the promise hung heavy between us—a testament to the oldest truth of friendship: through thick and thin, in life and beyond, a true friend never leaves your side. Even if that side happens to now be in a body that’s 5'5 with curves that could kill.
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 had died and didn't go to the afterlife and now he was a lost soul. He needed to find a body quickly or his soul would perish forever. I was going to place his soul into a male body but I aimed poorly and put him a busty and curvy, 5'5 redheaded female body. He says his back hurts from lugging around his new assets. He can’t even seem to stand up straight. Now he wants to head to the bar to try and get some stuff off his mind. Before we do that I tell he might want to check his purse to find his new ID.
Response: My friend, Drake, had always been the life of every party, a charismatic force of nature who could charm his way through any situation. But now, he stood before me—a disembodied soul, caught in limbo between life and beyond, a shade of his former self. His death had been sudden and unexpected, leaving his soul trapped on Earth, teetering on the edge of obliteration. The only way to save him was to find a new body before his essence faded entirely. In our haste and urgency, I had intended to place Drake into a comparable male form. Fate, however, had a different plan. The morning sun filtered through the curtains of my apartment, casting an almost ethereal glow on the figure standing hesitantly in front of the mirror. Staring back was not Drake but a busty, curvy, 5'5 redheaded female. If this situation were happening to anyone else, it might've been comedic, but the pained look on Drake's face was no laughing matter. "I can't believe you, Paul," he muttered, adjusting the spaghetti straps of the form-fitting top that clung to his new shape. "Of all the bodies, this is what you picked?" "I didn't pick it, man; I misfired!" I defended weakly, knowing full well how absurd it all sounded. "Look, we had no time, and you were literally fading. At least you're alive—sort of." "I'm stuck lugging around these...these things!" he exclaimed, gesturing at his ample chest. "And my back—oh God, my back! I can’t even stand up straight." Drake slumped onto the couch, his new form seemingly weighing him down. “Get me some Advil, or a drink, or something. I need to get out and clear my head—what's left of it.” “Yeah, about that,” I interrupted, pulling out a dainty purse from the coffee table. “You might need this.” His eyes widened in panic before wielding the small bag with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. “A purse, Paul? Seriously?” “If you’re heading to the bar, you’ll need it,” I said as gently as I could. “Inside, you’ll find your new ID.” Drake rifled through the purse, finally pulling out a card with a distinctly feminine face on it. “Caroline Summers. God, this is ridiculous.” “Hey, it was the best option I had!” I implored. “We can figure this out, Drake—or, uh, Caroline. But for tonight, let's just get you that drink.” Surprisingly, he agreed with a reluctant nod, slipping the ID back into the purse and slinging it over his shoulder. “Fine. Let’s go to the bar.” Despite the awkwardness of the situation—the clicking of new high heels against pavement, the constant adjustments of unfamiliar clothes—we finally made it to our favorite haunt. The stares we garnered were intense, some even outright confused as people tried to connect the conservative notion of Drake with the striking redhead beside me. We found a couple of stools at the bar, where our regular bartender, Jake, eyed us both curiously. “Seen a ghost?” Jake quipped at me. He had no idea how close to the truth he was. “Just the usual,” I managed with a thin smile, while Drake—or Caroline—ordered a whiskey neat. Jake raised an eyebrow but complied, sliding the drink across the counter. Drake hesitated for just a moment before knocking it back in one smooth motion. “Another.” The night wore on, with drink after drink downed in the hopes of numbing the confusion and pain. Not just physical but existential. Between sips, Drake vented. “I don’t know what comes next. No way I’m staying like this forever.” “We’ll fix it, I promise,” I said, placing a hand on his—her—shoulder. “We’ll fix this, Drake.” As the night stretched on, the promise hung heavy between us—a testament to the oldest truth of friendship: through thick and thin, in life and beyond, a true friend never leaves your side. Even if that side happens to now be in a body that’s 5'5 with curves that could kill.
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