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Gender-Bender (FORM)

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[b]Name:[/b]
[b]Age:[/b]
[b]Original Gender:[/b]
[b]Excerpt:[/b]

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"A fun little sex-exercise." [/pun]

[[That excerpt seemed to not need a gender except that the English language favors gender-specific pronouns over frequent usage of the proper noun. If I am not mistaken, in many stories and books roles that can be carried by either gender tend to be associated with male pronouns. I didn't catch any pronoun mistypes that would show that you or your fingers forgot the gender switch. I think that the character being female did make it easier to know who the word 'he' went with and who 'she' went with. Sometimes it can become confusing if both are of the same gender.]]

[[I didn't think that such was a bad thing. In fact, that probably means it was really well done.]]

Name: Gweniver Prodger [Geoffrey Prodger]
Age: 20
Original Gender: Male
Excerpt:


She sat at the vanity, its three mirrors angled to present her fair, youthful face. The light of her candle was faint and trembling, a weak yellow flame that darkened the shadows of her eyes and twinkled over the tears that she watched hatefully as they somberly descended the gentle slopes of her ivory cheeks. Tawny hair lay in severed clumps on the surface of her desk, each long silky lock reminding her that she was ruined. She bitterly sniffed and stared herself in the eyes, too proud to accept that she was scared, that she regretted taking the blade to her head. She had sheared it all away until her fierce young features were unmasked by the doll-like bangs she had had before, or the long, wavy tresses her mother had brushed obsessively in her youth.

The crop she wore hid nothing. Her face was strong, angled finely but with a delicateness that hurt her to see. She had thought she would look more like a man, had she simply cut away all of her hair. She found that instead, the plumpness of her lips, her smooth sloping nose and sharp eyes only stood forward to her as savagely feminine. The remainder of her hair stood up in rough tufts from where she'd gripped them in her fingers with violent frustration. The wells of hatred that had always pooled deep within her seemed to rage under the force of a silent storm the longer she stared into her own eyes. You're grotesque, she assured herself, and her lip trembled despite the critical eyes that surveyed her reflection, demanding strength. You're weak. She felt her chest constricting and longed to rip at the soft mounds of flesh that rose tenderly with every shaking breath. "If only I could take the knife to you rotten things..." Another score of tears flowed from her eyes, blinding her though she glared just as furiously.

She knew she would be beaten for cutting her hair. Her mother would slap her angrily, her father would throw her to the wall for embarrassing him. She would be hidden from public for months until she regrew what she had ruined tonight. And there was nothing she could do, no force inside of her that could avenge the pain and humiliation she would endure as these beatings assailed her. She would be thrashed, and whether she fought back as violently as she always had, in rejection of their harsh attempts at subjugating her, she would not be strong enough to wound them as easily as they wounded her. She would lose. Again she asked herself why God had cursed her so. Why had he given her such a fierce will and such a dainty body? Had it been one or the other, she would have lived and thrived, a glorious man or a docile lady. But to be both at once, a hungry man, a tiger caged by a delicate shell that couldn't be escaped, was an intolerable hardship. The cage was her bruises, her suitors, her tears.

She broke into sobs, no longer capable of fighting, no longer caring that she was too strong for this, too proud to let them hurt her. They were killing her with every word, with every dress they made her wear and every dance they made her dance with a gentleman who would go straight to her father and ask him, him, would she marry him? Gweniver lay her head upon her hands and planted her elbows on her desk. Her arms were slender and they shook like the legs of a newborn foal. She cried in the dark of her room, her breaths now so heavy and troubled that her candle light quivered and began to fade. She wished it all would end. Desperately, her mind began to question. Was it true what they claimed about God and Hell? Would a knife to her wrist place her in a hell more eternal, more violating than this?

Her eyes, glossy with tears and barely seeing, glanced to the blade she'd chopped her hair with. It had several glittering gold strands wilted over it. The yellow light flashed over its surface, and she watched hollowly. She wanted it. The end, the escape, the sleep. She wanted anything but her beautiful cage, her servile life. "But are you afraid of death?" She whispered faintly, her voice disturbing her with its cold, dry quality. There was nothing refined in her accent tonight. Her voice was phlegmy and thick with tears and choked by a tide of darkness. She took the knife and let her blood speak the good bye she didn't care to write.

Very well written Rab, I am having trouble imagining how that moment would have been for a male character.

I really liked this excrept, it was well written, and flowed smoothly. I'm a little curious as to what Lathe would have been like as a boy, so you seem to have captured the essence of the exercise well.

Only 2 problems:
1) Behind doesn't have an e after it.
2) "Leena!"The voice called again, "I said I was on my way, didn't I?!" <-- This excerpt became a little confusing. If not for the color-coding, I would have assumed it was the mother still speaking. A good way to fix that is either, simply:



or


But otherwise, very well done ;'3

Name: Lilly / Louis
Age: This is my character from the Babylon RP here in Classes. However, since I don't think a male would have gotten to the career she did I'll do this as a 14-year-old, in highschool.
Original Gender: Female
Excerpt:
His head throbbed slightly, a dull pain that emanated from a central point - the bruise around his left eye. It was lunch period, one of 4, that broke up the middle class block. He sat at a table, void of companions and chairs, with only a centerpiece of napkins, salt and pepper and his own tray, barely touched if at all. The bruise was hidden by a book, a sci-fi novel entitled Ender's Game; a librarian had recommended it to him, and he was certain that that person had a good laugh over it too. He was also chewing on a straw that protruded from a small and empty bottle of orange juice.
A glance over the book as he turned the page proved very useful. The clock on the far wall appeared to be approaching the end of 2/3rds of this period, and a handful of boys were also aware of this, looking at it, him or another boy. It seemed that the telephone game was bringing the news to others in the room too. His left ankle rolled once, and behind the book he lips flickered a smile. Good, he hadn't forgotten it today. He looked back to the book and waited, there was no sense trying to read more. Instead he put the bottle on the tray, picked up the whole apple and took a bite. The book, still held in front of his face, was read for three characters, and those were read over and over until it was time to stand. 168, 168, 168 It would really suck if he couldn't begin at the spot he left off, but he couldn't just put the bookmark in and set the book down early could he?
The boys counted the seconds until there was just a third of the lunch period remaining, that was the most time they could have because the only way to get out quickly was as part of the crowd, but if they began sooner the adults would break it up just in time before the lunch was over. One flung mashed potatoes at the other, who, in turn, whipped a piece back, but to hit someone else. So, a food fight distraction that also serves and a way out, so they can think. He placed the book in his bag, ducking a whole orange that was whipped at him, can't have the book getting caught up in this, it was from the public library. When he looked up a boy two-years-older towered over him, and pulled him up by his shirt.
"You little p***k, you think you can mess with Greg and get away with it?" demanded the boy, with agreement chimed from his gang that had encircled the table.
"Isn't a p***k little by definition? How could a p***k, say a pin p***k, be large?" asked Louis, who was promptly thrown on the floor away from the table. His back was to the boys, he moaned and pulled his knees to his chin. On the the other guys walked over to Louis, laughing about how little it took to get him beat. When the boy was right behind Louis, Louis twisted his body and swung at the boy's knee, the thick piece of wood made a good crunch sound upon impact and the boy fell forward crying. Louis stood up.
"Wha-What the HELL man? That was a dirty trick!" said the boy who threw him.
"And 5,6,8? to one isn't? and when he wasn't looking too.." said Louis, not thinking well enough to not piss them off further. Granted, he had a weapon, that meant he must be all or nothing.
The boy ran at Louis with a fist; Louis stood still except for holding the short board out enough to dig into the boy's stomach before the punch hit. He would normally dodge it, without touching the boy, which would have been better. The board rammed into Louis' body as well, and the punch hit him in the forehead because the board caused him to bend over. Louis fell again, panting at the blow. The other boy was shocked, but not in pain.
Forcing himself up, Louis looked to the boys standing way, noting that the food fight was in full swing and faculty had begun to try to break it up. The boys saw the end nearing as well, the food fight had worked against them and they wouldn't have the full 10 minutes to play with him and send their message.
"Greg didn't do nuthin' to ya!" said the boy beside him, ready to call the others over.
"Wrong," said Louis, flinching but not mentioning the poor grammar. "he was listing the ways to torment a cat and implying that he did some, and that he wanted to do so to mine." He was sizing up the situation, and suspected that there wasn't a way to come out better than no path of action was better than another. "I like my cat."
He held the board as if her would hit the boy, but as the others rushed him and the one near him backed away he ran at the group. He took one swing, dropped the bat, and did his best to not have anything broken. He was being stood back up by a boy about to punch him in the face when his collar was grabbed and pulled back. Looking up Louis saw the face of a very disappointed teacher who saw fit to walk quickly out of the lunchroom, but very slowly to the nurse.
"I'm going to have to write you up for this." said the man. Louis could still hear shouts and bickering from the cafeteria. "fighting... again!" he said, shaking his head with the first word, then glaring at Louis with the second.
Louis was silent, staring forward unless prompted to stare at the speaker.
"You're a bright student, but you get into fights once a week, sometimes more! You don't even bother to not get caught. Your grades are slipping because there is no where for them to go. You read in class, can't answer a thing when called on, and only seem to work on homework in your innumerable detentions." the man paused to breathe. If Louis could think of an instructor as more than professional he'd have described the man as fuming. Instead he assumed something along the lines of 'frustrated past professionalism'. They stopped in front of the door to the nurse's office and the man lowered himself just enough to have his gaze level with Louis'. "What do you have to say for yourself."
Louis met his gaze, while struggling to not scratch his cheek where he was sure a bit of blood was trickling from a cut, responded with, "My backpack is still in the cafeteria, and I stopped in the middle of a chapter..." he let the sentence trail off.
The teacher, unable to find any words to be of even a remote use, opened the door for Louis and walked away.