My God, It's Full of Stories!

My God, It's Full of Stories!
A Few Stories & a Poem or Two

by Laika Pupkino


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"So when exactly does this experiment start?"

"Maybe it's already started. Maybe it will never start. I'm afraid
that time as you understand it doesn't have much meaning here...


by Laika Pupkino

She knew she shouldn't change from first to third person in the middle of a sentence, but what else could I do? This is something that I hardly dare suppose," this person thought as the waves of disorientation washed over me.... Some people some blues. Experimental Katra Displacement Formula #27 or so they called it was like a hall of mirrors arrayed in blacklit zero gravity, panning explosively outward in any direction I looked. So they would just have to excuse these inconsistancies in my report ............ should she ever reach the present to write it.

This was the time. And this was the record of the time. Microphones, camera over there on its tripod, and who tha hell knows what they need that oscilloscope for ........In other words with that bitter no-color nostrum from the little paper cup ingested---chin-chin, here goes nothin' and down the old hatch---it is/was/will be just a few seconds 'til that the long echo "how are you feeling?" tweaks the universe, viewpoint perception causality the whole enchilada. Rewriting my past. But in the world where I never was him, then I never took place in the experiment and turned into me. Thus begins the looping. Stop time/stop it!

I grow up a farm girl, looks like Nebraska or some place. Hauling heavy buckets of well water. Somebody whittling. Do people really live like this or am I remember The Waltons? I grow up my male self, the "official version", including my unheard of scolarship to the Cordon Bleau and subsequent getting kicked out for starting a food fight, only now it is fading into some boy I'm imagining, him doing stuff so dumb, God I can't believe that stuff is important to him. Stuff. But suddenly without words for it, stuff is all just stuff. Some other life now. Much much younger. Staring uncomprehendingly at a screen. Colors. Canned laughter over a snidely cartoon voice, "Stuff me no stuff, Chumley!" And it would only get worse...

AUTHOR NEEDED FOR PHYSICS EXPERIMENT, reads the small ad down in the corner of the t.g. fiction site, right below the one for Bi-Curious George t-shirts; intriguingly terse & cryptic, that block of small text dangling there between two rows of $$$$$$$$$ dollar signs, and with my situation being what it was, recently laid off at the umonium mine, and having made a few bucks before drinking strange brews offered up by dour veiny-foreheaded android types in labcoats, with no ill effects ............ Christ, they must've really seen her coming!

And so off to that strip mall, park, a nondiscript little office, rented it looked like by the hour, the sign on the door just a sheet of paper taped there reading WTF LABORATORIES.

You write both "TG" and Experimental Fiction? They got very excited when I mention this, the other applicants all sent packing. Forms to paruse.

"This is a lot of small print here..."

Never mind all that. The important thing from your perspective is that you might well change genders. At least from your online interview you, ahhhhhh- indicated having desires along these lines...

"Would I be me? I mean will I look like this only female? Or..."

I think the one thing we can safely say is that if it does happen you won't be "you". In this flesh. Any resemblance to the body you have now would be purely coincidental. You could be young and quite attractive. Or ......... I'll admit it's a bit of a gamble on your part.

"Well I do need the ......... Tell you what. Throw in that nice stapler there and you've got a deal!"

The tall one smiles. Agreed. It looks like you're our guinea pig, Mr. Prima.

"Hey, watch that 'Guinea' stuff!"

Roll up your sleeve they said.

"But I thought I DRANK this drug I said, and they smile knowingly.

That was last time...

"I've been here before?"

Hush my dear, don't go getting theosophical on us they told her, and then things get all kinds of weird. Every time she thinks things are stabilizing there I go again. The little side room, appointed, sit anywhere, the couch if you like. That big wall mirror, it's pretty obvious they're behind there. The plastic wheels atop the tape recorder spinning, casting a random hilight here/there across the wall, I hope I'm talking, testing testing, because I do so want to be useful to humankind's search for knowledge. Gosh that's a nice stapler...

I don't believe Experimental Fiction means what they think it does, but they were undeterred. "Uniquely situated" was how they phased it, her talent for imagining other lives; But nothing had prepared you for this, and even in my transformation stories I sometimes had to fight for every inch of a notion that I could inhabit this body, a real leap of faith, I mean am I for real transgendered? Did she feel like a woman or like someone who felt that I felt like I was a woman? Without a true basis of comparison who really knew how real this transgender stuff was, how much of it wishful thinking, some imaginary ideal, something perhaps NOT THIS SELF but not necessarily what it's really like to be a girl?

Was it the chicken or the egg, some unseen mover's excuse for banging out some sophomoric dada on a badly tuned banjo of a world, or finally through the Gumby Barrier into a once past renewal; Only this time waylaid into vistas of inwardly folding fractal deleriums, even as the flood of new sensations amazes her, twin tracks stuttering together faster than an automatic card shuffler. Somewhere an intercom buzzes. Yes? Call Decker and have him check my blink rate...

My feet. How could anyone walk on such small feet? Only even as I think this-

The most likely scenario, they said, is that she would experience being a girl briefly, which if nothing else would give some great insights for her stories. Far less likely was this body-switch lottery, that he would land right back here a new woman. Less likely still was never returning to this space again, getting stuck "out of phase"-


I probably shouldn't have said anything. I mean it is only hypothetical, and probably as unfounded as Denham's Wormhole/Reincarnation Theory. Because if anything along those lines does start to happens you'll more than likely just get spit out again," they told her. It was that old joke that went MALKOVICH MALKOVICH MALKOVICH and then falling plop into a field by some nowhere zen New Jersey turnpike or wherever.

I look around. This ad hoc office. Skeptical. "Old joke maybe when you've got nothing at stake. So when you say 'more than likely' ........ Exactly how likely is more than likely. I mean percentage wise. Your best estimate."

Look, we have some coloring books. And these crayons. Would you like to color in the coloring books Veronica?

"Wow, I nebber SAW some of dose color before! Otay!"

Good! Go color over there at the table, Princess.

"Before I sign these liability release waivers, I should probably have someone look at them," she giggled adorably as she skipped across the room. I stopped, scratched my stubbly chin, thinking: That's odd, I usually don't turn into a princess until about the third drink.

Thinking: Gotta shave again dammit! I hate it. That daily reminder, always there, I...

Thinking: This sensation of falling is one of the drug's less pleasant side effects!

He never saw the trap door.

Now glowing? Like that melty moonsong I'm Beginning to Be The Light? No. More like that old sawhorse I am me as you are he as they are we and we are all together; laudably ecumenical perhaps, transmelding people into undifferentiated STUFF; But try that at twenty flips a second! Pouring into one flesh and then ejected, into another! Terrified??! I will probably pee myself if my bits ever settle into one or the other, with chest cycling through valence states of cup size---A, B, C, D, OMG!---like that loopy neon sign atop the Breast Expansion Archive building. It was later rumored however that the drugs real effect was to induce multiple personalities accompanied by intense hallucinations...

So I should have heeded what had obviously been my Angel. That old bum confronting me yesterday, ARE YOU RONNIE PRIMA? grease-caked talons clutching my arm---"H-how did you know my name?"---the raspy voice and his face all akimbo, NEVER MIND THAT! LISTEN UP, DUMMY! Hoary yellowed admunitions about forces best not tampered with by mortals!

Houri? Whorey? So of course she broke free and fled, red heels clacking...

No puh-puh-place like home, the subject wimpers; voice stuttering from this reality's flipbook multiverse leaves no glot clom fliday our unfortunate wondering was she a guinea who dreamt that she was a pig, or a pig bedreaming guineadom?" you reflect as you gaze vertiginous reeling into the evershifting mindmaze mirror. And all for $95, a cookie a glass of orange juice and a little I GAVE MY ALL FOR SCIENCE sticker. That's not the lights that are dimming. Now you've done and gone it...

Underwater without breathing apparatus like this, you would think it would be trouble, but you don't seem to need to breath. Oh I get it, you get. It's because I'm hooked up to this cord thing. A steady booming, a giant heart someplace. And okay so we follow the signs, THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS, until wow it's a tight squeeze thru here; Hey, what th-


Someone hefting me up, everything a blur, lights blazing everywhere, I seem to be forgetting how to think, memories whisped off into the violet lacuna, and how did people all get so

Last thing me know damb cheeky doctor I believe it is hauls off and slaps I onna poop butt. The Universe becomes my screaming. Air! Sweet Life! And something wonderful called Mommy that me am buying unseen. Somewhere some voice somewhere, above I maybe baby, going "Congradulations Mrs. Smith, it's-"

~~~Laika Pupkino, perhaps not sound of judgement but stone sober Friday May 13 2008~~~
[A doo-dad. A bit of self-indulgent playing around with the "rules"...]


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I wrote this disturbing, debauched sequel to the classic fairy tale in 1985. I'd forgotten all about it, and only remembered it upon finding it as I cleaned out my file cabinet today. The title character is not t.g. but her husband is, although it's a pretty facile treatment of the subject. I share this more or less a historical artifact, how & what I wrote back then, something I almost tossed out before I saw what it was...

Cinderella: Happily Ever After
by Laika Pupkino



"...and they lived happily ever after."

But happiness is highly subjective. Some people can't be happy unless they're miserable and complaining all the time, dragging everyone around them down. Others find happiness in the most unspeakable practices. Cinderella was a little of each...

There is a saying, as the twig is bent, so grows the tree. And you can probably imagine how life under the two cruel step-sisters might have affected the young woman. She was never the most stable of individuals, and now suddenly she found herself queen of the entire land. Dolled up, poised, her regal smile, the acres of white teeth, being constantly deferred to in hushed and regal tones ......... while her inner foliage was stunted and twisted around itself like some geeked out little banzai tree.


The old king had conveniently passed on, just a month or so after the wedding, and one of the first things Cinderella did as Empress was to have her two adopted sisters guillotined in the public square. Leaving them in the dungeon a few weeks to let the fear of death sink in; and to stage her daily dramatic visits wherein she would read them long inventories of their sins.

It was a fantasy she'd been playing for herself since adolescence, rewriting and perfecting it in her mind during those long nights on her bed of cinders. But in coming true the thing went wrong---and felt wrong---from the start. The one sister refused to show fear, and maintained her superiority even when chained and ridden with lice. And the other, the slow one, wailed and begged shamelessly. Hadn't she always shown the girl kindness when the other sister wasn't watching?!

She hadn't, not often, but still it was the new queen's first murder and the abject display of wretchedness haunted her, ruining what she had imagined would be the ultimate thrill of despotism- the godlike power over life and death.

Still, the slim sable-bound volume that had been left to them was adamant in its contention that a monarch must never appear indecisive. And the prince---now King Charming---was all for it; saying that he didn't need those two wiley old shrews hanging around the castle, that they'd be out to make trouble, or might hook up with dissident elements. And he maintained that the public needed a little crimson spectacle now and again---a bit of cathartic bloodletting---to take their mind off their own troubles.


The prince had showed the sort of stuff he was made of---in the decision making department---when he decided to get married on the basis of a few dances together and a peek at some cleavage, and of a delicate pink foot smooshed down into a tiny glass shoe.

This kind of sums up his sexual interests; highly specialized, object oriented and not much fun for his new bride, who liked much rawer stuff. He loved donning his fancy white cavalry uniform, waltzing with her amid the mirrors and blazing chandeliers of the ballroom, and then re-enacting that famous second meeting- the shoe on, the shoe off, the shoe back on, the shoe halfway off---in a lame parody of that act for which (with the exception of his dutiful and uninspired, astrologically-timed attempts to knock her up) she had to go elsewhere.

Nor was there any real communication. He never seemed to see or hear her as she was, her inner complexities, but only some stereotyped ideal of "Cinderella" that he carried in his head. This wasn't suprprising, given the extremes of narcissism implicit in going around introducing yourself as Prince Charming. Big on surfaces, there really wasn't any room for two in his erotic pantheon.

But although Cinderella thought of him as the Royal Freak, she was not without a few kinks in the wiring herself. After years of being told that she was lower than tapeworm shit, of total derision being the only kind of attention she had ever gotten, the fact was that under certain circumstances she rather liked it. The elegant floor-length robes she wore were convenient for concealing the various bruises, welts and brandings that she was beginning to accumulate over the course of those meetings with her hard-core lovers.


As obsessed as he was with having an heir, King Charming was heartbroken when the Royal Physician informed them that the high uranium content of the granite stone of the fireplace she'd slept in from nineteen years had rendered his bride quite sterile.

This was a turning point in their relationship. Unbeknownst to their subjects they moved into seperate bedrooms- he with his collection of uniforms, shoes and glitzy ball gowns; outfits that he soon became adept at wriggling into and peeling them off in a vaudeville quick-change frenzy. The victrola of Strauss waltzes, the growing cocoon of mirrors...

Evesdropping outside his door (as the domestics were wont to do) one would swear that one heard two people talking-

"Oh Prince, my Prince!"

"Yes my fairest, my turtle dove..."


While the suite a few doors down the hall saw a succession of strange comings and goings. Dark and sinister bearded men bearing heavy clanking overnight bags showing up at shadowed hours of the night, then the muffled sounds of ecstatic agonies.


For a time they were anxiously secretive and discrete about these practices, until it dawned on them that there was really no one on Earth that they had to answer to. The old king was no longer around to pass judgement on his son; And the two stepsisters wouldn't have mattered even if they'd been allowed to live to see it (there seemed to be some potential in a situation like this, perhaps Cinderella had acted too hastily...). The implications of their absolute power lie before them like some shining uncharted Disneyland of decadence. The King stepped out in gutter-wench drag and---doubly incognito---began to haunt the waterfront bars. More and more fond of his tube tops and miniskirts, he eventually eschewed the uniforms altogether...

So let the mentally fettered rabble be shocked and scandalized! As long as the army and the palace guard were happy with their fat paychecks and their extralegal status, and were to that extent loyal, who cared? The church lost the main part of its vocal and conscience-ridden leadership with the first few crucifixions.

Queen Cinderella overcame her initial squeamishness about these purgings and could now be seen at every one, lounging vamplike on her velvet divan there in her private box at the new colosseum, puffing her hookah and stroking a leather-clad teenage boy on a leash.

By the end of her reign she was staging festivals of depravity that would have made Caligula cringe. She and her husband became the best of neighbors, extending such civilities as were necessary as were necessary to maintain their joint rule.

And they lived happily ever after...


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Some folks call it a Kaiser Bag. But I call it a...

Sling Bag
(a slight reworking of Billy Bob Thorton's Sling Blade)
by.Laika Pupkino


Well they let me outta there. I dint have hardly no money, and no place to stay, but i knowed one thing. After 8 years of them tellin me i had to dress like what they wanted, which was a boy, i needed some purtyin up.

Then I seen it. MIMI'S SALON...

I axed, you do hair stylin? Kin ya do mine?

The gal sayed well whatcha want? Ya got this nice thick long hair.

I sayed i dunno, what's good?

She sayed how 'bout a french braid?

I sayed i like french braids.

She tole me have a seat. Uhuhn...


The gal put my head back, started warshin my hair. That felt nice. Jesus she sayed, what ya been warshin it with, lye?

Well I dint like her takin Our Lord's name in vain, and almost went for my bag right there. But that's what got me inta trouble in the first place, so I dint. Sayed i been usin institution shampoo.

She like jumped. INSTITUTION?! Are you that fella caused a ruckus couple years back goin around smackin folks with a tote bag?

I sayed it warnt a tote bag, it was a sling bag. And i aint a fella.


Well mimi---that was her name---she gets a phone call halfway through doin my braids. So i go ahead and finish 'em up.

Where'd ya learn to do that, she axed?

I sayed i just watched you.

Then a lady come in for a poodle cut. Mimi whispers you watch what i'm doin here. Then says lady, my cousin Gigi gonna finish you up.

That lady looked scared of me but sayed okay. And I could see how it should go. Did her hair real nice, and she was happy.

And that's how I come to work for mimi.


So me and mimi was cuttin, warshin and stickin fingernails on gals and gabbin. Her gabbin, mostly. And then it was five a'clock.

Closin' up, mimi ax what i wanna be a woman for.

Well why you wanna be a woman, i axed.

She sayed 'cause i am one, silly.

I sayed well so am i.

Oh, mimi sayed. I think i heard of this. Anyway go home and be here nine sharp.

I stood, wonderin where to go.

She axed you aint got no home, do you?

I sayed no.

And mimi sayed a bad word, but nice like.


We walked 2 blocks to mimi's house, her mutterin about how crazy this was, takin in some crazy transvegemite from the nuthouse.

Mimi axed you won't go psycho on me, willya?

I sayed yer bein so good to me, I reckon not.

She showed me her garage. A mattress in there. Sayed sorry it ain't much.

I sayed nobody's tellin me what to wear, who i "really" am. I reckon it's perfect.

She axed you got somethin to sleep in? Yer a big, uh ...... girl, but so was my sister Katie. Here's her nightie.

I slept real good that night.



"It's Christmas Eve, why isn't Grandpa here with us?"

"Well I'll tell you, child..."

Grandpa got made over, he's insane Dear,
Runnin' round as girly as you please;
Said that no one understands his pain, Dear,
That's why he's not invited Christmas Eve.

He'd been reading that transgender fiction,
Spoke, he said, to the gal he was inside;
If my age warn't one hundred and seven,
I'd haul him to the shed and tan his hide.

When we all walked in on him last Thursdee,
Chiffon gown and wig on his bald head;
Said from now on we should call him Shirley,
And dear old Auntie Gertrude fell down dead.

Seen him the other day down at the feed store
All dolled up and struttin' round with pride;
Nail extensions and a tongue stud there's no need for,
It's obvious to us his mind is fried.

Grandpa got made over he's insane Dear.
Doin' all this without a lick of shame,
That's why you're to never speak his name here,
He's ruining our fine proud family name.

Used ta be we was so proud of Grandpa,
Killin' all them Krauts t' keep us free,
But there's such a thing as too much freedom,
Someday when you are older you will see.

Go ahead and call him if you wanna,
Said he'd love for you to shop with him downtown;
But if you choose to see him I must warn ya,
He's awful touchy 'bout them damn pronouns.

Grandpa got made over, he's insane Dear,
Runnin' round as girly as you please;
We're telling folks he got run down by a train, Dear
And that's why he's not with us Christmas Eve.


Great TG NOVEL by Geoff Brown:

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