"The Transformation: A Journey Through the Mysterious Woods"

In the late summer of 2021, in the lively neighborhood of Cleveland, Ohio, there lived a sprightly 6-year-old boy named Jackson. Born on the 12th of October, 2015, Jackson might well be mistaken for a year or two older due to his somewhat unusual height for his age, standing at 4 feet 2 inches. Carrying a weight of 45 pounds, Jackson’s small physique exhibited an energetic spirit and tireless curiosity. His hair, a mop of jet black curls, bounced upon his small shoulders, contrasting pleasantly against his radiant blue eyes that sparkled with fervor and a perpetually questioning mind. Jackson's young mother was a woman of remarkable resolve and beauty named Lily. At just 24 years old, Lily stood at 5 feet 6 inches and weighed a wholesome 135 pounds, embracing her responsibilities with grace. Born on the 20th of May, 1997, she was a Taurus, possessing a stubborn will to power through whatever life threw her way. Her hair was a waterfall of brown tresses, softly curling at the ends. Her eyes, an alluring shade of hazel, reflected the kindness and wisdom of a woman who had been through much but had persevered. Regrettably, Jackson's father, Benjamin, was no longer in their life. In his 26th year, standing at 6 feet 1 inch and around 180 pounds, Benjamin had been born slightly before Lily, on April 22, 1995. His straight hair, the same jet black shade as his son's, was frequently styled in a carefree, messy look, complementing his piercing green eyes that carried a curious glint. On Lily’s side, there were other key figures, her younger sister, Rosie, 22, a lively spirit standing at 5 feet 4 inches and weighing around 120lbs. Her birth on the 16th of June, 1999, made her a Gemini, explaining her dual nature of gaiety and seriousness. Her hair was a natural blonde, styled in a casual bob, while her eyes were as blue as the clear summer sky. Rosie’s husband, June, was a man whose dedication towards his work made him absent most of the times. A 23-year-old Leo, standing at 5 foot 9 inches, weighing 160 pounds, his hair, unlike the jet black of his family, was a rare shade of red. His birthday, 10th August, 1998, made him the most mystical member in their family, with his golden brown eyes adding to his alluring charm. Then, there was the eldest of them all, grandmother Mary. At the grand age of 65, born on the 15th of January, 1956, she was a stalwart of strength and love. Mary stood at 5 feet even and had lost much of her original weight, now down to a frail 110 pounds. Yet, her spirit was as vibrant as ever. Her short, greying hair comfortably sat on her shoulders, and her eyes, soft baby blue, held within them the wisdom and experiences of decades of life. One particular day, limestone clouds hung overhead, and Jackson was walking home for the first time. He chose the quickest path, which wound through an eery patch of woods. His shoes and socks had started to chafe against his little feet. With a grimace, he halted to remove them. His keen blue orbs spotted a rolling bag nearby, thrown haphazardly against a gnarled tree trunk. Boldly, he approached it. Popping it open, he found himself immersed in a frantic array of peculiar items. There were clashing clothes of varying sizes, unidentifiable objects wrapped in crumpled foil, a lighter, a spoon, a bag of bizarre trash, and a pair of inviting, yet revoltingly filthy, women's flip-flops. "Th-this is st-starting to get sc-scary, I w-wanna go home," he whispered, lisping over his words due to the sudden fear that had begun to gnaw at his guts. In his fright, he made the extra effort to walk faster, keeping his head up high, his gaze refusing to meet the foreboding grime underneath. Suddenly, he tripped, his small frame landing on an even smaller pair of women's flip-flops. In his confusion, he managed to slip his feet into them. The few pieces of clothing he was wearing began to dissolve, evaporating into the grim air around them. He looked on aghast as the skin on his feet began to crack and age, the toes bending unnaturally - sprained, bruised, morphing into the feet of a woman. "I-I’m g-gonna miss mommy and g-grandma so m-much. I d-didn’t do anything w-wrong. I j-just wanna go h-home. I d-don’t wanna be a icky g-girl," Jackson stuttered, his voice shaky with alarm. Suddenly, memories belonging to a woman much older than his mother bombarded his small mind, causing him to shake and sob. To soothe his racing heart, he began to sing, his small voice trembling, “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” Before his terrified eyes, his own shoes and socks disappeared, replaced by the grotesque flip flops. As his body began to morph and mature into the image of the older woman, his once vibrant clothes transmuted into rags - torn, matted, and skimpy. His mind was a whirlpool of confusion and fear - his memories blending with those of the woman, his voice roughening into hers. In his fright, he continued singing - more forcefully now; yet as his transformation continued, his song evolved into an alien monologue about rainbows, murmuring and prattling away about an ominous 'they' lurking in the darkness. She, the woman that used to be Jackson, wandered through the woods aimlessly; a toothless smile spreading across her face as she neared her possessions - her flip-flops, her rolling bag, her abandoned purse. Her name, he realised with a start, was Gretchen. Fifty-nine years old, born in 1962 – making her years older than his mother Lilly and his aunt Rosie. Utter terror exploded within as the realization crashed down on him - he had turned into a woman more than double his mother's age. Gretchen was a woman of average height at 5 foot 4 inches, weighing around 160 pounds. She had suffered through homelessness for more than a decade now, battered by life, wandering the streets and woods, draped in rags. Her unkempt hair, a dirty mousy brown, curled wildly around her face, obscuring her hazel eyes – eyes that held a depth of sorrow that a 6-year old boy could not understand. Ensnared in her new-old habits, Gretchen disregarded the return of her belongings, focusing instead on rooting through her rolling bag, chattering away to herself in a language that seemed to be understood solely by her. There was laughter, there was paranoia, and there was sorrow too. "Nobody’s gonna get me!” she exclaimed out loud, convincing herself. “I can see rainbows, see them there!” she tried to point out into the void, gnawing at some unknown edible, putrefied long ago. Like a runaway train, her trance was unstoppable, her motions feverish. Now she needed to answer the call of nature. She abandoned her purse and ran to a nearby tree, proceeding to relieve herself without a shred of modesty before sauntering back; her air pungent, yet untouched by self-awareness. Still engrossed in her psychosis she approached a tree, her toothless mouth moving, saying, "You’ve got to help me. They’re coming, they think I'm invisible, but I'm not!" All traces of a 6-year-old boy named Jackson had washed away - she was Gretchen, living in her own world, walled with paranoia and dilapidated dreams.