The liquid made them become something they weren’t, but what they hoped to be. With a look in the mirror and a final smile to their reflection, they left their room and headed downtown. On the way there, they wondered if the driver realized what they had just swallowed - the droplets that made them feel like their true self while robbing them of the present moment. But they didn’t need to think of that. They felt on top of the world, and their new persona brought them great joy. People loved who they became when they drank the potion; some people lived their lives wondering who they would be each time they drank from the vial. On the other hand, some people lived their lives wishing they had never drank from it in the first place.

As they walked into the bar, they ordered another shot of alcohol.

My body is a numb, hollow husk of what it was before. Chills of hot and cold render me immobile, my vision a bleary canvas of colors and nothing. The transformation begun.

No one is in the room with me. The door is locked and a chair is placed under the knob. Even if they find out what I’ve done, it’s too late to do anything.

With trembling arms I push myself off the ground, throwing the glass vile to the other side of the room. I limp towards the divan by the window, and feel as the poison seeps into my veins. My mind. My heart, burning through blood. It doesn’t hurt as much as the first time, though.

Poison has a connotation that it will kill you. And a lethal dose will. But just one, two, three drops are enough to spark something else.

I haven’t told anyone I am cursed. I tried, right after the enchantress slipped into my chambers and whispered her last dying words as I plunged the knife into her heart.

“May your heart become a stone, unfeeling and unyielding."

I didn’t think it would work. But now, there’s no denying the heaviness of my chest. My heart, slowly rotting at its core. And I hate it.

I hate the numb, hollow feeling of not caring at all. I hate that one day I will become the queen my mother was. Cold and careless. I hate, that I love the feeling of not feeling anything at all.

So I take the poison. Every day, I take three drops, just enough to let me feel something for a little while. Even if he makes me a monster.

I don’t know what I’ll do when even that fails to work.

She felt a wild sense of liberty through her being, the despairing feelings fading away as her skin morphed from olive to a blood red. Her skin began to bulge and with it, came a sense of unfathonable strength. Seems of her simple modest dress began to tear, unraveling by each second. Dria felt her enclosure of a dormitory compress around her as her size grew, the walls crowding her. By her wardrobe stood a mirror, stepping forward to reveal her image. Coarse marroon skin, tracked by large black veins enveloped her. Dria stood a foot taller, barely able to allow herself to see in the reflection. Eyes with a ghastly glow were positioned upon he, beet red and voluminous.

   The sight was horrifying for her, although she was forewarned of the effects three years ago from Sarki. He had cautioned the young girl never lay hands on the elixir, for no reason in the thousand years of war and chaos was it ever used. If only that man had lived long enough to see her crowned, then maybe she would not have to resort to this abomination. 
    But as his ashes still blow in the breeze, she transformed into the final being capable of the protection of her family, at the cost of her smooth skin and youthful body.
  She became an earth-bound demon.

Her eyes opened. Despair.

She slogged out of bed. Put on her slippers. Let the dogs out.

“Feck this world and the horse it rode in on,” she grumbled to her partner.

Surely she couldn’t keep this up. I’ll quit. Empty my bank account. Run to South America. Anything but another day of this.

“Just hang on a minute,” partner said, cheerfully. “It’s almost ready.”

A mug was placed in her hands.

One, two, three drops of the hot fluid slid down her throat, followed by grateful sips.

And then the transformation began. Despair turned to resolution and then to acceptance and then to happiness.

She opened her eyes. Everything is better now. The dogs came in and greeted her. The birds sang. All was well.

“Good morning, everyone!” ☕️

Their products were dangerous by design. Western & Sons Rifle dated back to 1847. Their guns gained a foothold during the gold rush. They soared in popularity during the Civil War. And the Western Rifle rode into American history with the transcontinental railroad. The deposition room was sumptuous. Velvet cream curtains flanked the floor to ceiling windows. With swirls of gold, navy, and crimson, a thick hand tufted wool rug cushioned the expansive walnut table. The law offices of Constant & Blaise, the attorneys of record for the Western & Sons Rifle, didn’t scream money it bellowed. A rifle is a tool. In the right hands, it’s a lifesaver. This was Western’s latest tagline. It accompanied the latest promotional materials, press releases, the multimillion dollar gun safety gun rights program, and the new line of handguns marketed to women aged 23 to 47. Nicholas Western liked the old tagline Real Men, Real Guns better, but he knew his big brother Hew was right and times change. In a slim pencil skirt the secretary entered the room with glasses and a pitcher of ice water. Alf Constant waved her in and motioned towards the conference table. Hew drummed his fingers. Gulping excellent Scotch, Nicholas paced the length of the deposition room. The secretary set down the tray. She froze as she caught Hew’s eyes. “Human, leave.” Hew’s voice rasped, the words dry as cemetery dust. The woman backed up slowly. Nicholas crackled from the corner and she ran out the door. Constant shook his head and reached for the squat cobalt bottle in his vest pocket. One drop, two, three. The potion slid down their throats and without fail the transformation began. The brothers had buried the memos on the defective trigger mechanism and the report on the 7 cent product repair. The quick and the dead, the injured and the families of the dead had been quietly paid off or completely discredited. The patriotic charm campaign was gaining traction despite the occasional school shooting and sales were trending up. “Once this pesky class action suit is squashed we need a long vacation, brother,” Nicholas said. His skin already plumping. Hew rolled his shoulders as his eyes shifted from the color of blood to a twinkling blue. Tall, handsome, vibrating with rugged individualism and good looks, the brothers were ready for the cameras. They shared a glamoured endearing smile as Ras Blaise entered the deposition with the video crew and the opposing counsel. “Yes, my brother, it has been too too long.”

Their mouth and nose fused together, hardening, and for a moment they couldn’t breathe. Then the stiff front of their face curved and split open again, allowing them a breath of cold air.

A prickling sensation spread across their body. They looked down - short, brown hairs sprouted from their skin all over their torso and limbs, and white feathers had begun to cover their neck and chest. An itchiness all over their head told them that the feathers had begun to grow there, too.

Something jerked both of their shoulders backwards at the same time the joints of their legs suddenly shifted and stretched. They stumbled forward, their hands melting into tough yellow talons just in time to catch their fall. The weight of new growth settled onto their back, and they shook themself, catching glimpse of long, white feathers out of the corner of their eyes - their eyes which now brought the world into sharper, closer, more vibrant image than ever before.

They had no mirror here in the cave, but as they stretched their wings and flicked their tufted tail in the air behind them, they knew the transformation was complete. They were a gryphon, as the witch had promised.

“You sure about this?”

Karen’s countenance didn’t change, as she patiently said again, “Of course, guuurl. It’s the same regiment I’m on. Yer all good!”

“Okay,” Monica said, trying to sound trusting, her voice unsteady anyway. “I guess, what can it hurt?”

“Nothing. In fact,” Karen said, through a too-white smile, “it will do the opposite. You’ll feel so much better. Better than you have… ever! At least since we were in high school.”

That made Monica feel better. Not the assurance, the reference to their long-standing friendship. They had known each other since elementary and were hangout friends all through high school, losing touch in pre-social media times as they went opposite directions to university. That’s why she had been so glad to see the little red notification of a friend request, to get back in touch. They discovered quickly that, for nearly a decade, they’d been living only a few miles from each other. One wine-based get together and a common mom-bond was all it took to reignite their friendship.

“Okay, yeah. Good. Let’s do it. So what do I do?”

“Well, first, we’ll mix a couple drops of this—“

“What’s that?

“It’s called Vitiver. It has properties that will improve your overall well-being. Then, we add a single drop of this guy,” she looked at Monica, anticipating the question. “If you can believe it, this is Frankincense!”

“Like, from the Bible. The manger?”

“Exactly. And if it’s fit for a king,” she said with a wink, “but be careful, you only need juuuust the slightest, there we go.” She replaced the cap and grabbed another small vial. “Now this…”

Monica watched as Karen carefully added a single drop of viscous liquid to the mix. She wasn’t positive, but it almost seemed to… glow.

“This is the secret. It’s called Aspvane. Very rare. They have to actually milk a snake to get it.”

“How do you milk a snake?!”

Karen laughed. “Oh, sweetie, no. Snakes don’t have teets, Silly-Willy. It’s what they call it when the get venom from the fangs. I guess they have to, you know, coax it out. Sort of like milking it.”

“It’s poison?”

“Oh, no-no-no-no. They put the venom through a whole process—it takes a ton of steps, over weeks and weeks—until, finally, it’s no longer a poison. Just an oil. But, and here’s the secret, it has a ton— A TON—of benefits. It will literally transform your life. The only reason it stayed a secret is that they just didn’t have a process to extract the good stuff without the bad. But, lucky for us, we live in extraordinary times!”

Monica watched as her friend grabbed one more bottle. “So… so, it’s not, you know, dangerous?”

“Oh, sweets, no. Not at all. I do this everyday. And I’ve literally never felt better. Now, we just need three drops of this—“

“What’s that?”

“This is the most magical thing of all. Orange!”

“Orange? What does that do?”

Karen winked. “Makes it taste good! I mean, if it doesn’t taste good you won’t like taking it. And if you don’t like taking it, how will you ever be able to sell it to your down-line, silly goose?!”

Monica laughed. It felt good, took away more of her uneasiness. I mean, she thought, Karen does look great. How bad can it be?

“Alrighty, you’re all set.”

“What do I do?”

She watched as Karen took out a small glass tube, squeezed the small rubber ball at one end, sucking the mix into the other.

“Just press this, open up, yep, right on your, yep, there you go…”

One, two, three drops. The potion slid down her throat.

She felt… nothing.

Huh…?

As if anticipating her confusion, Karen added, “Just give it a—“

What was happening?!

Monica felt a surge—every nerve in her body was alive with, something… what? Energy? No, it was different. It felt like…

Dissatisfaction.

She crumpled to the floor, her legs giving out momentarily.

“That’s it… it’s working perfectly,” Karen said.

Monica looked up at her friend, and with a gritty, guttural moan, she screamed, “What did you do?”

Karen looked down, satisfied, smug. “I freed you.”

Monica felt her body changing. First, her long, dark hair fell out in clumps. Terrified, she reached up to feel what she assumed would be a patchy, bald scalp. No, something else. Hair. But it was different. It was shorter in the back—like it had been clipper-cut!—and longer in the front, framing her face, with long bang-points aimed at her chin. Her fingernails were next. They grew out longer, longer, but felt different, disconnected from her body. False. And they were covered in tacky decorations, like little fake jewels had somehow become attached.

She stood.

She wanted to cry out, to strike out, but something else was changing. Her… pants? The jeans she was wearing suddenly became boxier, acid washed, the waist-line creeping higher, higher, until it was above her belly button.

She had to move, to see what was happening to her with her own eyes. She bolted from the living room to a closet that had a full-length mirror.

Monica looked at herself, unsure, confused.

What had, how did…?

She looked like… Karen!

“Your transformation is nearly complete, Monica. Welcome.”

“What did you do to me?! What happened?!”

“I already told you, Monica. I freed you. I let out your essence.” Karen moved closer—so close that Monica could smell the Starbucks grande-two-pump-vanilla-oatmilk-latte-Frappuccino on her breath. “That’s what these oils do, Monica. They release your essence. Why do you think they’re called Essential Oils, Monica?”

“You keep calling me that name. Monica. That is not my name.” What was she saying? Monica struggled to fight it off, but it was too powerful. She could only watch her reflection from somewhere deep within her own mind

“What should I call you, then?”

“Call me… Karen.”

Her best friend—Other Karen—put an arm around her, letting it rest on the shoulder pad that had somehow self-generated during the transformation, and said, “what do you want to do now, Karen?”

New Karen looked at her own eyes in the mirror. She could feel it. Feel her purpose, the reason she existed.

From deep, deep inside her—from some hidden, dark place—she said with more conviction than she’d ever felt, “I want to talk to the manager.”