The Peterson family’s kitchen buzzed with the low hum of life. The clatter of silverware, the occasional burst of laughter, and the faint sound of a baseball game playing softly on the TV in the other room. It was a normal Tuesday dinner. Bob carved into a thick piece of roast chicken with practiced hands, his forearms corded with muscle, fingers stained slightly from years of carpentry and oil changes. He wore an old gray T-shirt tight across his thick torso, sleeves hugging his biceps, and a pair of jeans worn thin at the knees.
Across the table, Lucy barely made a sound as she poked at her green beans. She was a wisp of a girl, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail that swayed when she moved. Her arms were thin, delicate, the sleeves of her unicorn-print shirt drooping slightly past her shoulders. She giggled quietly at something John said, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
And then everything began to shift.
It started with Bob’s grip loosening. His fork dropped onto his plate with a sharp clink. His breathing slowed, then stuttered, then hitched. “Hold on…” he muttered, voice low and gravelly. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand — a habit — but his touch lingered. His brow furrowed. “Something’s… off.”
Lucy froze at the same moment. Her fork hovered midair, then clattered to her plate. Her eyes widened. Her shoulders stiffened. She looked up at Bob across the table, lips trembling. “Dad?” she whispered.
Then it hit them.
Bob’s head jerked back. His spine arched with a sudden crack that echoed across the table. A low grunt escaped him — half confusion, half something primal. His skin broke out in a cold sweat. His thick, calloused hands trembled as if rejecting their own existence. His eyes bulged, bloodshot, as he grabbed the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.
Lucy’s mouth fell open in a silent scream. Her shoulders rose up sharply, and her whole body convulsed with a jerk that nearly threw her from the chair. She clutched at her chest, small hands clawing at her shirt as though trying to tear something out of herself. Her breath came in shallow, panicked gasps.
Bob’s arms began to shrink first. The dense, muscular mass deflated like a slow, invisible hand was pressing against him. His fingers thinned, bones creaking audibly as joints restructured, nails smoothing. His shoulders collapsed inward. His heavy frame trembled as it began to contract, muscle drawing back, body shrinking. His chest caved in slightly, waist narrowing, hips tightening as the bulk of his frame diminished.
At the same time, Lucy’s back arched sharply. Her limbs lengthened with unnatural speed, bones stretching and thickening under her skin. Her delicate arms became broader, gaining weight and definition rapidly. Veins appeared beneath the surface, muscles bulging, skin paling and roughening. Her shoulders broadened in real time, shirt tearing slightly before reforming, morphing into the texture and shape of Bob’s worn gray tee. Her legs lengthened, thickened, toes cracking inside shoes that rapidly changed to size-thirteen work boots beneath the table.
Bob’s face was changing now — the strong jawline softening, cheeks hollowing into a childlike roundness. His beard thinned rapidly, vanishing like melting wax. His eyes, once small and weathered, grew wide and youthful. His thinning hair receded further, then grew forward again — this time fine, blonde, and semi-long, settling into Lucy’s familiar ponytail.
Lucy’s expression twisted as her cheeks broadened, jaw squaring, mouth widening. Her hair retracted, darkening, receding until her scalp was dotted with the same short, balding pattern that had defined Bob for years. A roughness grew across her cheeks — stubble emerging. Her neck thickened, Adam’s apple forming, and her voice, when it finally came out, rumbled with a deep, confused groan.
Their clothes had followed the transformation in real time. Bob’s jeans shrank into soft purple leggings, his heavy belt melting away. His shirt clung loosely to his now tiny torso, sleeves hanging over his thin wrists. Across the table, Lucy’s unicorn tee had become a sweat-stained gray shirt pulled tight across a broad, hairy chest. Her leggings became jeans, fabric stretching with a loud seam-pop as it matched the weight of her new form.
The transformation ended with a strange, shuddering stillness.
Lucy — now in Bob’s body — stared at her own large hands in horror. She ran a thick hand across her balding scalp, eyes wide. “W-What… what is this?” she muttered in a voice not her own.
Across from her, Bob blinked. His eyes were glassy, his now-small body trembling. “No,” he said — and the sound of Lucy’s small, high voice coming from that mouth hit everyone like a punch to the gut. “This… this isn’t…”
Kate stood up abruptly, nearly knocking her chair back. “Is this—some kind of nightmare?”
Joe looked between them, pale, breath shallow. “Dad? Lucy? Which… which one are you?”
John’s fork hit the ground with a loud clang. No one flinched.
Cindy clutched the table, staring between her husband’s child-body and her daughter’s broad-shouldered form. “This isn’t possible,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone else.
Bob — or Lucy, now — was crying. Small hands covering her face. Lucy — or Bob — stood, stumbling slightly, legs too strong and heavy for her to move naturally. “Damn i'm sexy” she said again. “I'm strong!”
And still, outside, the world kept turning. The streetlights buzzed to life. A dog barked somewhere down the block. But in the Peterson household, reality had just cracked open — and no one knew why.