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Question: Story: Write me a story the way I write about a random 6 year old boy with a description of the boy's appearance, what he's wearing, what he's doing, what state he's from, his height and his name. Have him be falling asleep and having trouble sleeping. Have his eyes jolt open the next morning realizing he's not in his bed but in a smelly tent covered in a sleeping bag. Have him feel the sensation of damp clothing as he looks down to see a tank top and short shorts over him. Have him be confused as to why he's wearing grown up clothes as he crawls out of the sleeping bag sitting up. Have long hair suddenly cascade in front of his eyes and have him push it away. Have him now notice his hands are big but dirty and bruised with worn nails. Have him look down to see his feet are also dirty and bruised and his toes bent and grown into each other and toenails are yellow and infected. Please have the boy say something innocent but have it come out in the toothless ramble of a woman not making any sense and have it be in quoted text and misspelled and muffled. Have him say something schizophrenic and have it be in quoted text and misspelled and muffled and have him smack the ground of the tent. Reveal the woman's name, street name, what she's wearing, how old she is, her height, what family she has, any health problems and addictions and why she's homeless and possible criminal history. Have the boy now be older than someone he is supposed to be younger than. Have him start crying and wanna go home. Have him get out of the tent feeling pain in his new female feet crying. Have him say he misses mommy but have it come out in the toothless ramble of a woman not making any sense and have it be in quoted text and misspelled and muffled. Have him unwillingly say something schizophrenic and have it be in quoted text and misspelled and muffled and have him sit down spinning a fidget spinner.
Michael was a sturdy six-year-old boy from the state of Virginia, with golden curls and bright blue eyes. Standing at exactly four feet tall, he was quite the dapper little fellow, sporting a vibrant set of green overalls over a mint white shirt, and classic brown loafers to complete the look. However, that night, sleep evaded him. Nestled in his cozy bed, Michael's thoughts drifted farther than his dreams. He tossed and turned, his mind a maelstrom of vivid imagery from the books he read before bedtime. Slowly, his eyes became heavy, finally surrendering to the embrace of sleep. When his eyes jolted open the following morning, he was in a place far from the comfort of his crisp, fresh-smelling bed. A thick, harsh odor stung his nose as his eyes struggled to adjust to the insufficient light that seeped through the patched tent he was in. The sensation of damp clothing clung to his skin, leading him to realize that he was clad in an oversized tank top and baggy shorts, both of which smelled as bad, if not worse, as the tent. Confusion fogged his mind like the early morning mist as he extricated himself from the dingy sleeping bag. Long hair, the color of dry straw, cascaded over his eyes, prompting him to instinctively brush it away. It was then he noticed his hands - oversized, dirty, bruised, complete with worn nails. A flickering panic started to well in his heart. Darting his eyes lower, he further noticed his feet - as dirty and bruised as his hands, toes bent and grown into each other, toenails yellowed and infected. Fear constricting his throat, he mustered a small, "What's happening?" It was distorted, muddled, jumbled, spilling incoherently from his lips in a toothless ramble that was not his own voice. Frantically, he slapped the tent floor. His mind spun as he took in the fact that he was no longer his six-year-old self but a forty-two-year-old homeless woman, she was known as Marilyn "Mare" Simpson on Bootjack Street, dressed in a tattered tank top and shorts. With no family to call her own, her health was ridden with complications from undertreated diabetes and a dispiriting, persistent crystal meth addiction. Living on the fringes of society, Marilyn's past was almost as grim as her present - a scrapped education, an estranged family, and a criminal history of petty thefts. The realization dawned sharply, like a cold gust of wind on an open wound - he was the forty-two-year-old Marilyn, older than his twenty-nine-year-old mother. Overwhelmed, Michael, in Marilyn's body, began sobbing uncontrollably. He grappled with the tent flap, the mere act sending sharp bursts of pain through his - or now her - abused feet. Stumbling outdoors, he wailed, missing his mother's comforting and warm presence. "I wann' go home, Miss Mommy," he blubbered, but his words emerged as incomprehensible, toothless ramblings of desperate longing. A fidget spinner lay by a pile of rags- an object he recognized as his own from his past life. As he sat down and idly spun it, he mumbled, caught in a schizophrenic spiral, "The sky is dropping stars, y' see?" These words, like the ones before, were born of an untenable situation, wrapped in distorted truths, and spilled from his lips in muffled, misspelled incomprehension. It was not his reality, it wasn't supposed to be, and yet, it was.
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