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Question: Story: The year is 2024. Write me a story the way I write about a random 5 year old boy with a description of the boy's appearance, what state the boy is from, his height, birthday, birth year, what he's wearing and what he sounds like and is doing. Have him wake up in the body of a random homeless woman leaning against a building with a description of the woman's name, what state she's in, age, height, birthday, birth year, wearing a tank top, short shorts, sunglasses, her hair in a bun and sandals with a purse on her shoulder. Have the boy start crying as he wants to go home and have him hear his mature voice and unwillingly use feminine speech patterns and mature vocabulary sounding like a woman who's done lots of drugs but wants to go home and have it be in quoted text scaring him.
The year is 2024. Five-year-old Lucas hails from the picturesque state of Vermont, a tiny emblem of idyllic Americana nestled snugly within verdant mountains and rustic valleys. With rich auburn hair, much like autumn foliage, and a myriad of freckles that dance across his diminutive cheeks, his petite height of 3 feet 4 inches has him standing head and shoulders below his peers from Kindergarten. Having taken his first breath on a chilly morning on March 1, 2019, this young boy bore an uncanny resemblance to a miniature leprechaun. When seen, he's often ponchoed in his favorite vivid-green dungarees, paired with a bright yellow t-shirt that declares to the world "Here comes Trouble". His voice, dainty as a moth, usually murmurs with a toddler's unique brand of nonsensical noises and broken sentences. Suddenly, on what should have been an ordinary Wednesday, Lucas awakens bewildered, slumped against the cold, unyielding brickwork of a seedy building. Now he's not Lucas, but Sheila, a 53 years old homeless woman from Arizona. Born at the height of Summer, July 15, 1971, Sheila measures 5 feet 6 inches, taller than what Lucas could even dream of being. For some inexplicable reason, Lucas's mind is now nestled within Sheila. Clad in a faded tank top and well-worn shorts, the thin material of her clothing casting the Suns torrid heat to her weathered skin. Sunglasses rest on the top of her head, holding up a bun of tangled, dirty-blonde hair. Her feet were adorned in threadbare sandals, marking time on the unforgiving concrete. Sheila’s bag, a grizzled entity of worn-brown leather with frayed edges, swerved limply from her bony shoulder. It is the only possession she call hers, a tangible mark of her tough nomadic existence. “Mister,” Lucas, found his voice trembling through the stronger cords of Sheila, breaking into sudden sobs, “I want to...I need to go home.” To his horror, his voice dripped from his mouth, thicker and richer. His use of language was disjointed and unsettling, filled with the maturity and unfortunate wisdom borne of Sheila’s history on the streets and from the dark alleyways of her past. “Look, I know it ain't plausible, mate!" His speech pattern changed without his command, sounding like Sheila, bordering on the aggressive. "A child stuck in a homeless woman’s body ain’t the norm, ain't it? But the thing is, I ain't bluffing...I need to be home safe!" Lucas’s sentence hung on the summer's breeze, echoing within his insides, scaring him and leaving him feeling more lost and homesick than he had ever been before.
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