For three years (2019-2021), I signed up for an annual writing challenge, ‘Like the Prose’, which involved writing a short story every day for the whole of June – each day, a writing prompt would be sent out at midnight and participants had 36 hours to write and submit a story. Last year and this year, Like the Prose didn’t run their June challenge, but a friend of mine took up the mantle and devised her own prompts every day in June. Although I’d signed up to receive daily prompts, she forgot to add me onto the mailing list until Day 18, so I decided to keep all the prompts and do the challenge in August (school holidays so more time), keeping to the same rules. Every day, I’ll post the story inspired by the previous day’s prompt.

Happy reading!

“Today’s prompt is inspired by The Midnight Library by Matt Haig. … Write a story where you wake up in a different life.”

Author’s note: I took my inspiration for this one from body swap stories such as Freaky Friday, but I couldn’t resist a few tongue-in-cheek references to Barbie and Ken as well. (Thank you, Greta Gerwig.) This story clocks in at 1, 089 words but is more of a first chapter than a self-contained story.

If you think this would make a good YA romcom, please let me know – I already have a few ideas about how the rest of the story will pan out, so I’d love to know if anyone would be interested in reading the full-length version.

I’m a Barbie girl

Ken: Friday, 7am

It seems like only seconds since I closed my eyes last night, but my alarm’s going off already, reminding me that there’s still just over a week left to go until school’s out for the summer. Trying to ignore the persistent beeping sound, I huddle deeper under the covers, trying to recapture the dream I was having. I know it was a good one.

I can’t ignore it any longer. Poking my head out from under the quilt, I yell, ‘Off!’, relieved that voice activation means I don’t have to open my eyes let alone sit up. The irritating beeping sound continues. I curse, and fumble for my cell phone. It’s not where I left it.

Swearing enough to qualify for a lead role in any Tarantino movie, I finally force my eyes open and try to work out where my phone is. Only… This pastel pink boudoir isn’t my bedroom, and the boobs I see peeping up at me from beneath a Minnie Mouse nightshirt definitely aren’t mine. Somehow, while I slept, I seem to have turned into a woman – and not just any woman either: unless I’m very much mistaken, the body I’m inhabiting belongs to Barbara Finsterson. But if I’m in her body, who’s in mine?

Friday, 7.15am

I still have no idea how I’ve managed to morph into Babs. (She hates it when people call her that, but not as much as being called ‘Barbie’ instead of Barbara.) What I do know is that I’m the only boy in school who’s seen Barbie Finsterson in the nude. Yep, that’s right – I checked out my new body about ten minutes ago. Who would have thought that underneath those prissy little button-through sweaters and conservative shirts was a set of curves that could give Jennifer Lawrence a run for her money?

I don’t know how long I’ll spend in this body; what I do know, is that I don’t want to forget what Babs looks like when I’m back to being the real me, so I’ve taken a few naked snapshots of myself as Barbie and emailed them to my Ken address. I can think of plenty of guys at school who’d pay good money to see those.

Friday, 7.25am

Uh oh. Barbie’s phone’s just pinged with an email alert. It’s been sent from my email address but I didn’t write a word of it.

What the hell do you think you’re doing?

She sounds pissed.

Sorry. Who is this? I decide to play dumb.

You know exactly who I am, Ken Masters. You’ve just sent a naked picture of me to yourself – only since we seem to have swapped places, you’ve sent a naked picture of me to me.

No! I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. I sit there a while longer, precious seconds ticking away whilst I wonder what to say next.

Uh, sorry? I hazard at last. She doesn’t even dignify this last attempt with a reply.

I try again. I apologise for my behaviour, Barbie-

BARBARA! she responds, the capital letters leaving me in no doubt that she’s yelling at me.

I’m sorry, Barbara. I promise I won’t show the photos of you to any of my friends.

You’re damn right you won’t. Because you’re going to delete that photo of me from my phone right now, and I’m going to delete it from your phone.

For a brief moment, I toy with the idea of sending her photo to Todd or Jackson or one of the other guys. They’d think Babs sent it, but still…

Is it deleted? Because if it isn’t, I can take a photo of your junk right now and send it to your friends via What’sApp. I have all your contacts right here.

She wouldn’t – would she?

It’s deleted.

I’m expecting her to say thank you, but the response she types back surprises me. I didn’t realise Barbie Finsterson knew any words like that.

Friday, 7.35am

“Barbara! Have you overslept?”

I guess the voice I hear through the bedroom door must be Barbie’s mom. School starts at 8.30 and I can drive there in 5 minutes, so I don’t know why she sounds so snarky.

Hold on – Ken can drive to school in 5 minutes, but I don’t know where Barbie lives or even if she can drive. “I’m getting dressed,” I call back, opening the closet to grab some clothes.

A sea of dull, muted colors greets me. This girl needs a makeover – she’s got a hot body but she hides it all the time in oversized shirts and long skirts that make her look like she’s trying to be an Amish wife. I pull piles of folded clothes from the shelves. This girl doesn’t even own a pair of jeans.

“Your oatmeal’s getting cold.”

I hate oatmeal. Breakfast for me is usually pancakes and waffles. I have a stay-at-home mom and four younger siblings, so there’s always a stack of food on the table.

“Not hungry,” I call back, struggling with my bra clasp. How do girls manage to fasten these things behind their backs?

Conceding defeat, I decide that today Barbie will go braless. It’s not as if anyone will know – the shirt and pants I’m wearing completely disguise my shape.

Friday, 8.35am

It takes far longer than 5 minutes for Barbie to get to school. For one thing, she lives about 10 miles away from Edgemont High; for another, she can’t drive. I’ve just had to endure forty minutes in a car with a woman who acts like she’s auditioning for ‘The Stepford Wives’ – and not the comedy remake with Nicole Kidman. From stuff Barbie’s mom said as she was driving me to school this morning, I’ve learned three things: 1. Barbie’s parents are divorced and her mom thinks her dad doesn’t pay enough alimony; 2. Barbie’s mom drives her to school every morning because she’s convinced Barbie will be murdered if she takes public transport; and 3. Barbie’s mom treats Barbie like she’s still 12.  I never thought I’d feel sorry for Barbie Finsterson – she’s always so aloof – like she thinks she’s better than everyone else; but spending just one car trip with her mother has made me realise how crap life is for that girl.

Wait up – that girl is currently me. And unless I can figure out how Barbie and I swapped places and how we can change back again, I’ll be stuck with her life – mom and all – for the foreseeable future.