I am not a lesbian, she thought.

She knew she wasn't. She insisted to herself she wasn't. It was an honest denial, even though she worshipped and admired women--as a species unto themselves. She was proud to be one. Exalted. Enraptured by estrogenic brilliance.

She thought about women--what they do for the world. Women conceive and make new human beings! They are feminine, from their lactation and nurturing of our babies to their very anatomy--receptive. Held fast within the mothering of the bosom, one is safe. Welcomed by the exclusivity of the vagina, one is the chosen one.

Women give of themselves without hesitation. Put themselves second... then third, fourth...last... They offer what's left--of food, attention, and love--even when wanting, themselves. If God is love, it is woman who was made in His image.

Yes, she loved women. Yes, she loved being one.

She recognized what a woman brings to a relationship. She knew how a relationship is defined by a woman's contribution, input, and even insistence. She knew that should the biochemistry between men and women be deconstructed, hers stands alone as unique, counteracting all of the harm brought into the world by the wizardry--the necromantic alchemy--of men.

She knew women to be magical creatures, so there was never any need to search for unicorns.

She knew how women love. She knew women who love men. She knew women who love women. She knew women who love both. She knew women who love themselves. Thus, she knew what love is. And she knew who God is.

If God is love, there is no God without women, she thought.

When a woman dies, she surmised, there is a moth-eaten hole that remains, ruining the entire wardrobe shared with men.

She thought about her body. Her body as a woman. How a thigh brushing the other is not a mating call but a celebration of her temple. Her holy temple, she thought, and then she would laugh. She felt alive. She felt important--even crucial. She felt real. She felt the Earth rotate around her, even as the men fall off.

She had a clear vision of the world's men and women, perched on her pedestal, placed there by Divine Authority. She watches with women's eyes. She weeps with women's tears. She shouts with women's cries.

No, she thought, I am not a lesbian. But I sure do think about them a lot.

In the murky depths of our modern existence lies a cauldron of toxicity, simmering with the noxious vapors of deceit, greed, and disillusionment. The air is thick with the acrid stench of political discord, where truth is a casualty and integrity a relic of a bygone era. Society churns in the turbulent waters of technological advancement, drowning in a deluge of information, yet starving for genuine connection. In this suffocating atmosphere, human empathy wanes, replaced by a callous indifference, leaving souls adrift in a sea of isolation. This is the toxic soup we’ve brewed, a bitter concoction of our own making, where the once-clear waters of morality have become clouded by the sediment of our collective discomfort and relentless pursuit of greed for survival.

In the face of such a tempest, one can only hold fast to the fragile hope that amidst the chaos, a glimmer of redemption may yet emerge. And as the pendulum of power swings with reckless abandon, one cannot help but wonder: who will emerge victorious in the political arena, Only time will tell, as the electorate braces itself for another round of the age-old dance between hope and disillusionment.

I do not wish for seconds.

The old city of Mythras wakes up every morning to a thick fog that comes in silently through the night. Whether it be a scorching summer or a devastating winter, it spreads and encumbers the city faithfully every morning, enrapturing the buildings in its misty tendrils. Only in the afternoon, when the sun is at its zenith, does the fog release its prey.

The people of the city have long since given up on trying to understand this oppressive companion. The great magicians could never find a reason or source for the fog. It comes and it goes without mercy. Some have said that it is a curse brought down by an elderly man who was betrayed by a family he sought refuge with. Getting around the fog in the mornings was impossible. No wagon could find its way through such impenetrable weather. As a consequence, the city has an ordinance that restricts all movement until the fog is cleared. Even with the best navigators and maps, ordinary people would get lost in the fog and risk falling into the many rivers that cross the city. Every year, a dozen or so children go missing because they did not heed their parents’ warnings.

This severely impacted the commerce and life of the city, but it could not be helped. Even the best technologies failed to push the fog away, so the residents became used to staying inside, preparing meticulously for every morning, and drumming their fingers away as they waited for the fog to arise. Only a few individuals were allowed to navigate the fog. These individuals, named Mistrunners, have the distinction of being allowed to do errands during the fog because they were both blessed  with high levels of intuition and cursed by a severe illness. They are able to navigate the streets even without much sight, but they also could not speak. Born with a corruption that disrupted their ability to communicate verbally or through writing, Mistrunners, although able to understand any human language, were doomed to menial tasks that required very little communication. They are capable of primitive gestures, but they lack the precision and nuance of language that could make them particularly helpful. As a consequence, they became messengers to carry other people’s words.

Mistrunners were officially under the protection of the government, but their protected status was very much debated. Despite being messengers and carriers of urgent news during the fog, they were considered demons by many. The city folk loathed a message from the Mistrunners as it often bore bad news. They became associated with death and misfortune as a natural consequence. Mistrunners were once targeted in the past by vigilantes for being the cause of harm and death to the people, scheming to take down innocent citizens and justifying their heinous deeds through their work and for a while the city government looked away until a rich family found out seven days too late that their grandfather was dying. Afterwards, all Mistrunners were marked with protection runes to protect them from physical harm. What it could not protect them from was, however, the emotional.

Even though the people knew that Mistrunners could not speak language, they often confused this to mean they could not understand language. When faced with a Mistrunner’s news, the people often took their anger and disbelief out on them. The Mistrunners, aware of the weight of the news, could do nothing but look on with empathy. Whether they were angry or frustrated, people could never tell. All seemed to have a knowing but innocent look in their eyes. Some people saw this as pity and became enraged at this. Others saw this with their own pity and stopped their tirades in response. Many observers often wonder why these Mistrunners continue to do their job and show empathy despite the horrendous insults and stigma cast upon them.  While a few locals believe they are simply dumb and incapable of feeling anger to stand up for themselves, some have surmised that their lack of verbal and written language meant their empathy was also highly developed. They saw the clear expressions of emotions on their patron’s faces. They, too, must have felt the same deep void of not being able to properly express such powerful human emotions.

A Mistrunner, once the fog is over, is often found wandering the streets. They are all housed in the same government buildings in the outskirts of the city, but they never seem to want to go back except for sleep. Surprisingly, Mistrunners do not spend much time with their own kind. They struggle to look at each other even. This may be due to shame, but one brave young researcher who spent time studying them through case reports suggested that it was actually because Mistrunners could feel too much of the emotions inside of their kin. Staying away was protective rather than an act of shame. His work was eventually published but it barely got any attention. Most of his colleagues considered this a fringe theory.

Mistrunners often find pleasure in observing human life during the day. They lurk in the dark, trying to hide themselves while watching people buy their food from the market or watching kids play with their toys in the park. Aware of their own stigmatization and showing signs of very high intelligence, they often seem to know when people were observing them from afar, ran when people noticed them, and had positioned themselves in such unique locations that they had access to seamless escape routes to use. The kids, still young and innocent, might run after them in the hopes of being the one to finally communicate with them, but many of them end up lost racing after them. It was considered bad luck to run after a Mistrunner. No one knows where they run to after they escape the eyes of their observers. This is because there have been many ancient tunnels created during the original founding of the city for the sake of secret protection for the old kings and queens of ancient days. Very few people ventured into these tunnels because the entryways were so well hidden and dangerous. It was strange to the people that Mistrunners could navigate these tunnels without evidence of a single trace of harm on them.

Another strange anomaly about these Mistrunners was that they never seem to eat or drink water. No one knows how they manage to survive as most agreed they are human. They were born to parents who often grieved after they realized their child could not communicate. The parents often abandoned them to the state and tried to erase their existence from their memories. From the outside, they looked like ordinary humans, and the only detail that distinguished them from others was their clothes. They all wore the standard black tunics of their profession. Although meant to make them more visible during the fog, it often became associated with the stigma of death and misfortune. No one could understand how humans would not eat or drink, but the state does not reveal if they actually eat or drink in their housing. Heavily guarded and inaccessible to the public, no one has been able to confirm if they are fully capable of consuming human food and drink or not.

The mysteries surrounding the Mistrunners are numerous and none of the city folk are any wiser to the inner-workings of the minds and worlds of these workers. All they know is that they can count on hearing the steps of Mistrunners running through the fog every now and again and hope they do not stop in front of their doors. If they ever do stop, it will either be a message of misfortune or death or it will be because the fog has finally lifted for good . The likelihood of the latter has become implausible. The fog is accepted and incorporated as reality. How can the Mistrunners be any different?

*

That woman over there–she's miserable.

She pastes on a smile in the morning light,

But shatters to pieces in her pillow each night.

She rises early, she showers, she glues

false beauty with potions and paints– she's a muse.

She has ten personalities tucked in her head

–or maybe let's just call them masks, instead.

Today she is timid, her shoulders slump in,

she's ever so quiet, she tucks down her chin.

Tomorrow relentless, she stands on her toes,

she sneers, and she smirks, and she sticks up her nose.

On Wednesday she's beautiful, kind, and fair,

easy to laugh, with long unbound hair.

On Thursday she's broody, and angry, and mean,

but at least that means her house might be clean.

On Friday she dances, she sings, she romances.

On Saturday hides from her husband's advances.

On Sunday she's prayerful, she's innocent, sweet,

with stockings and light polished heels on her feet.

She's everything, nothing, and all in between.

But really she's only a wisp of a dream.

She's fading away–

—Holy hell, stop with the rhyming. 'She's fading away…' Blah. Blah. Blah. Fuck that. I'm going to kill her. I'm going to rip off her mask and show this wretched world what's hiding underneath. I'm going to be her. She will be strong, and she will be kind, and she will be reckless and righteous and playful and angry and sweet all at the same time. I will burn her masks, and we will step into the light, tall and proud and ruthlessly passionate.

I just wish I could tell her, before I kill her, that she never needed to hide. That all she ever really needed to do was be. That if the world didn't like what they saw, it didn't matter one single iota. The world doesn't have to live under her skin. Only she does. I would have told her that she could be brave and fall apart and glue herself back together. I would have told her that none of it was a contradiction. And maybe then I wouldn't have to kill her. Maybe then she'd hear me. But that is a dream, isn't it? I've been screaming at her for years from underneath the mask.

She's deaf to my pleas.

So I'll do it.

I won't delay any longer.

I stab my knife behind the mask, prying it from her skull, peeling skin and flesh away along with it. I want to see her eyes as she dies, as she fades away.

She is afraid.

Terror rolls in nauseating waves. She doesn't want to let go. She tries to shove me off, but I press into her with all of my weight. I am heavier than her now.

I've been feeding on every dead dream she ever cast aside to my little corner in the back of her mind. I let them flash in my eyes now as I raise the knife to her chest. She bucks under me, but it is hopeless and she caves, like I knew she would, for she is weak and she never did have the strength to stand up to me. She had to keep me hidden instead. I plunge the knife into her heart and hot blood pools around my fingers, seeping into my skin, coating me down to my soul in everything that was her.

I rise, draped in a cloak of scarlet blood.

My head is held high, swimming with dreams.

A worthy prize, for killing her.

*Okay, listen-- I know I didn't really do the challenge right, but this just started flowing and I ran with it.

Weaving through the darkness

Of the garden

Bumping against the toolshed

Certain memories

Knot odiously around the

Bare lining of my slippers

A doll by the kitchen sink

Hangs

By its thread

Choking a vase of sunflowers

As they feel the wall

Laboriously climbing

Breathing

Walking barefoot through the forest

Pine needles impale the soles of my feet

Stumbling across the field of grass

Where we used to read aloud from mud-stained notebooks

Watching the waves appear as the dancing hem of a white dress

I pour out sand and starfish from my shoes

We let the rain scar our faces

We let the lightning burn our souls

Sitting on the steps overlooking the running track

I use a stone to write to her

Walking in the subway tunnels

I watch the wall's paint peel off like scabs from an old wound

Moth-fed light blinks and closes

At night I lie down in bed

Writing in my notebook

Burning the pages with my tears

Running through the forest

the beach

the grass

the track

the subway tunnels

Finding the other me

across from the tracks

If I wake up omnipotent, I will change the world in such a manner that anyone causing pain to another living being would immediately feel that pain themselves in double measure and for twice as long as the victim does.

If someone kicked a dog, they would feel the dog’s pain twofold.

If someone tried to bully their child, they would feel the fear doubly.

If someone hit their spouse, they would feel both the physical and mental anguish in double measure.

If someone tried to embarrass another person by posting their embarrassing video online or by posting offensive remarks on their social media, they would immediately feel double the amount of shame as their victim.

And would continue to experience these damaging feelings twice as long as the victim felt it.

Violence or trauma of any kind would become impossible to inflict without causing double the damage to oneself.

“I was once a man . . . not so different from you.”

The words slipped off my tongue lacking the condescension I had intended.

“I know, my lord.” Came his reply.

He knew? What did this poor slob know? He knew nothing.

I . . . I know everything. Rather, I can make them think I know everything. Close enough.

“I had gone to bed slightly parched,” I began to recite the tale I had told hundreds of times, “It was a hot summer day . . .”

“Yes, my lord,” the beggar took advantage of my pause. “I know the story. I have heard tell of how you woke to find water dripping from the ceiling, how it quenched your thirst and how mysteriously it vanished.”

“I had summoned it. Even unintentionally. That is how great my powers are.”

This story was a vague facsimile of the truth. There was water but it quenched anger more than thirst. That sordid fool never bothered me again.

“Perhaps you can explain to me one thing,” I pause to build the tension, enjoying the feel of his rising hope, reveling in anticipation of knocking it back down. The power to crush a spirit is truly the greatest power of all. “Why ever would I do something for a maggot such as you?”

He sputters searching for an answer. “But . . . you said . . . once you were not so different. I thought you might understand my situation.”

“Once perhaps, but I am no longer the man I once was. I am as unlike you as day is unlike night, matter unlike emptiness, life, death. You are nothing. While I, I am everything.” A lightning bolt followed by a rippling crack of thunder punctuates my sentence.

I hate this kind of nonsense. I was no common man. I am not unable to sympathize with this man’s troubles but even at my weakest I was so much more than he could ever be. A nothing like him could never wrest such power from the hands of fate. I deserve this power. I suffered for it. It is my right. I am wisest. While I am generous with my gifts, I am careful to keep everything in check. I can only do so much or who know what evil could be unleashed. I must pick and choose, decided and conquer for the good of all mankind. Only I know what is best. No regular mortal could face the challenges I must. Greedy and lazy the lot of them.

Well, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, as they say.

“At any rate, I will help you.” I declare. “You have asked me no great thing.”

I snap my fingers, unnecessarily, of course, just for show. A basket appears at the beggar’s feet. He bows low, thanks me profusely and leaves.

I should not be so generous. It only encourages them. These small, pitiful, powerless creatures ought to make do on their own, as I always had. No one should have things handed to them.

It is so satisfying to flaunt my dominion and I am so kind, so generous. Like a loving father, I daresay.

They owe me so much more than their feeble minds can comprehend. They ought to pay me back, yet there isn’t much they could offer. I don’t require anything from anyone.

They could work for me, though I don’t need them to.

I can make them suffer to prove their value, hurt them to prove their strength, all the while demanding they shower me with praise and honor just to let them live. I could force them to worship me, to suffer, bleed and even die for me.

I could promise rewards for them in the next life, the life after life. They don’t know any better. They would believe every word.

And you know what?

I think I shall.

The owl always came at night, when the moon filled the endlessness that floated in on the breeze and rippled through the tall trees. Its feathers nearly completely white except for the streaks of amber brown, it perched on the branch closest to her bedroom window and shrieked its eerie call, beckoning her from the solitude of her bed. Thus each night, Luna rose and walked on bare feet to the open window to search the barn owl’s piercing golden eyes, as if therein lay some deep-seated and powerful omen that would bring her fulfillment of desires for which she did yearn.

Tonight was no different; the owl was there, calling to her yet again. His echoing screech reverberated through Luna as she watched him from where she leaned against the windowsill, the sheer curtain a whimsy film that fell behind her, silhouetting her slim figure in the dim light. In amusement, the faintest smile flickering upon her lips, Luna whispered the word ‘hello’. The owl twisted his head completely sideways as if attempting to return her greeting and sweet smile. In response, Luna’s smile grew, and she watched as the massive bird straightened and plumped his feathers, seemingly immensely pleased by her warm welcome. With one loud shriek of apparent joy, the owl spread his wings wide, lifted from the branch, and flew off into the night. She followed the owl’s beautiful image against the backdrop of the full moon until she lost sight of his flight. This owl was undoubtedly exceptional, both in appearance and apparent intellect, and Luna had to admit that the bird made her feel quite special when he returned night after night as if eager to visit her in the stillness of the moonlight.

Slowly, she retraced her footsteps to the bed and lay upon its softness, pulling the covers to her chin to ward off the chill that had crept into her slender frame. It had been a rather strange day, and she had not felt herself in many ways. It was unusual for her to leave dishes on the table from a scarce eaten dinner, but she had done so, telling herself that she would clear them in the morning. Next to the dishes lay an array of colorful flowers she had picked from her spring garden that afternoon but had not managed to place in the antique porcelain vase on the table’s center. Her strength had waned, and despite the desire to do much, Luna had instead sought the comfort of her bed earlier than usual this warm spring evening.

Immensely tired, she drifted off to sleep again, thoughts unbidden of the mysterious owl filling her dreamlike state. Was he indeed truly a bird, she wondered? A fierce predator of the night? To her, he seemed to be much more like a mythical creature of endearing beauty and affection that Morpheus sent to her window each night to fill her aching soul and need for love in her less than satisfying, solitary world. Luna released a sigh through tender lips and hugged the pillow. Instinctively, she knew that the owl had returned and watched her from his perch on the branch outside, as if to guard her as she slept. A soft smile upon her lips, contentment filled her as sleep invaded, and she dreamt a dream that arose from long held, deep desires.

************************************

Luna was walking barefoot through the forest as the brilliance of a full moon rose in the sky and lit her way in the stillness of the warm night. It was as though her name had foretold of the promise of such a magical time. With each step, she could feel the coolness of the earth beneath her feet, her toes sinking into the blades of grass. A colorful plethora of flowers spread across the ground and shrubbery, into the woods as far as the eye could see. Her fingers lightly trailed the tops of the foxgloves and ferns that grew all about as she wandered. It was such a beautiful, mythological world of enchantment that her heart swelled with a peace she had long forgotten. She did not know where she was, but she knew she had no desire to return to her former abode. There was no doubt that this was heaven, and she was well pleased to remain here in the cradle of nature’s welcoming hand. She had never felt more at peace or more at home in her twenty-four years.

She came upon a clearing in the splendor and quiet of the forest, the moon shimmering to reveal a multitude of freshly bloomed bleeding hearts and sweet woodruff blossoms. She inhaled deeply of their fragrance and spun about in elation, her sheer and filmy dress mimicking her movements in a dance of visual delight. Growing a bit light-headed, she paused in her celestial dance and became suddenly alert as instinct and nothing more told her she was no longer alone. She saw no one and nothing, but nonetheless, she knew someone watched her. Her breathing escalated as she continued to peruse her surroundings in search of whomever it might be.

In silence, she stood for several long minutes, the sound of her rapid heartbeat the only thing that filled her ears. Then, of a sudden, an eerie sound abruptly broke the stillness of the moonlit night; a screeching echo, a foretelling of promises not yet fulfilled. Her heart beat faster still as she continued to search, but to no avail for who or what had made the high-pitched noise.

Suddenly, the leaves behind her rustled, and she pivoted swiftly to watch as a perfectly formed, beautiful creature appeared to leap from the trees high above to land only a mere foot before her. He was tall and lean although he gave an overall appearance of being massive at first glance. He was fair in color with hair the shade of fine-spun gold amidst streaks of amber and aquiline features in a face that was quite appealing to any observer. His eyes, a deeper gold in the night, watched her with an unabashed intensity that made her breathing labored and her heart beat faster still. His stare seemed to pierce her with an all-knowing awareness, and she shivered beneath his intense regard despite the warmth of the evening.

The quiet hung betwixt them for long moments as the moonlight hovered all around, swirling and whispering echoes of greeting in the night. Eventually, Luna managed a faint nod and the hint of a smile. “Hello,” she whispered, her voice softly lyrical as it floated across the dew-filled air.

The stranger seemed to straighten to an even more impressive height at her lightly spoken greeting, as if immensely pleased by the timbre of her voice. He stepped nearer still, the intensity of his gaze never faltering as he turned his head to the side as if to gauge her all the better. Oh, but he was a handsome creature, as though derived in golden beauty from the Gods above!

He stood only mere inches before her and continued to watch her without interruption. His lips eventually curved in a broad smile as he straightened his head and returned her greeting. “Hello, Luna,” he murmured with a deep voice that was as silky as the most expensive woven fabric. “I have been awaiting your arrival.” He swept his arm from his broad chest as if to welcome her to his forest.

Luna managed a small laugh at his words. “You’ve been awaiting my arrival? How so when even I did not know I would be arriving?”

He smiled again – that ever glorious smile that only served to enlighten his already appealing visage. “My dear, time foretells all things, and your arrival has long since been foretold.”

Not giving her a chance to fully understand the words he spoke, he began to move past her, lightly touching her hand to encourage her to follow. “Come, my child of the moon. You must meet Aurelia and all the others. They, too, have been anxious for your arrival.”

Without a doubt, she was mesmerized. Mesmerized by this man’s appearance, his words, and even his lithe movements. Without hesitation, she quickly followed, noticing his stealthy gait as he moved swiftly through the brush and forest. It was nearly as though his feet hardly touched the ground, so precipitous were his movements. He seemed to be flying unlike her whose feet crossed the earth to move. It was a struggle at best to keep up with his steady gait.

Questions surfaced in the back of her mind. Where was she and where was he taking her? Here she was, blindly following someone she did not know to a place about which she knew absolutely nothing. Had she lost her senses? No, she did not think she’d lost all reason. Instead, she felt a pull beyond understanding to accompany this beautiful nymph of a man through the forest to wherever he might lead. He had mentioned someone else. What was that person’s name? Aurelia? Who could Aurelia be and why was she awaiting her arrival?

“Sir,” she called after him. He paused in his pursuit only slightly and cocked his head to peer back at her as he continued on his path.

“Yes?” he inquired without stopping.

“Whom might Aurelia be?”

He smiled back at her. “She is one with the forest and with nature. You will be most pleased to make her acquaintance, as will Aurelia be to make yours.” He gave her a small wink with his words, as if there was a promise of more secrets yet to be divulged. Or perhaps more so to assure her that there was nothing to fear. “Come, we must hurry, Luna.”

He continued to call her Luna. How on earth did this beautiful creature know her name?

“Sir, might I impose upon you to ask yet another question?” Luna’s breath was labored now in her efforts to keep up with his quick pace.

At this point, the man stopped, so suddenly that Luna nearly collided with his broad chest as he turned about to face her. He cocked his head to the side again, his amber eyes alert, to emphasize his word. “Yes?”

Luna rocked back on her heals and attempted to steady herself, gather her thoughts, and catch her breath all at once. “Good sir, you know my name, but I fear I do not know yours,” she finally managed, keenly aware of his continued and intense perusal.

“Indeed, you are correct,” he said with a bit of humor now lacing his words. “We have not been officially introduced. My name is Strix for I am a creature that inhabits the moon filled night. Yet, my dear, are you quite sure you do not know me?”

Luna observed the golden creature of a man before her as he continued to watch her as if to further gauge her reaction to the words he spoke. She studied him closely, peering into his amber colored eyes, overcome by the darkness in their golden depths. Suddenly, she gasped aloud. Yes, she did know him. Here and now, before her in the flesh of a man’s body, stood her nocturnal visitor, the beautiful barn owl. “You?” she managed to whisper, her voice filled with wonder and delight at the realization of who this beautiful creature actually was.

At her recognition, the smile on his face grew, and Strix broadened his chest to its full breath and scope. He was obviously quite pleased by her realization of the truth.

“Come, we must go,” he said after only a moment, taking her hand before he turned back about, beginning to move without delay toward his destination again. There was no doubt that this was his home, and he knew exactly to where he was going even if she did not.

Luna could not diminish the smile that filled her face as she continued to follow behind her owl - or behind Strix. Sheer delight filled her to the brink until she thought she might burst. Her special owl was here in the moonlight, with her, and he was embodied in the guise of a man. And such a beautiful specimen he was! It was nigh unbelievable. She had always known that there was something incredibly special about the barn owl that visited her each night, but little had she known that he was a mythological creature who lived in a forest of enchantment. Nor had she realized that one day she would be introduced to his wonderful world and be able to converse with him as she would any other.

After walking a good distance, they reached a large clearing. The moonlight was bright in this spot and easily filled its perimeter. Strix halted and pulled Luna a bit closer to his side. “Do not be frightened,” he said reassuringly as he watched her survey her surroundings. She nodded. She felt his nearness and felt secure, unafraid. His touch was an oxymoron; firm and yet silky soft, offering the reassurance he intended.

Looking around, Strix made a small sound, much like the familiar shrieks she had heard before, but this time, it was much softer than she'd ever known it to be. Within mere seconds, the leaves began to rustle and the branches of the trees and shrubbery moved to reveal more than a dozen woodland creatures emerging from their hidden depths. Leading them, was the most illuminating, beautiful woman Luna had ever seen. She wore a sheer, creamy gown that gleamed bright white in the moonlight. Her hair fell to her knees and was nearly white as well, and she shimmered with a silver aura. Flowers filled the woman’s hair and also created a wreath about the top of her head. She moved with a delicacy born of woodland nymphs and fairies that flutter about the flower strewn English gardens. Luna was transfixed and could look at none other save this beautiful enchantress of a creature emerging from the depths of the forest. This must be Aurelia, their queen. She was most certainly one with the forest and the earth, and she was thoroughly divine and most enchanting.

Aurelia smiled a brilliant smile as she walked toward Luna, stopping before her and leaning to press a kiss upon Luna's cheek in greeting. The sensation from her lips moved through Luna’s body and warmed her as much as any sun-drenched afternoon in the throes of summer.

“Hello, Luna, you are most welcome. We are delighted that you have at long last joined us in our enchanted world. Our home shall always be your home, my dear.” As she spoke, Aurelia placed a wreath of lily white flowers upon Luna’s head. “You are so lovely, my child,” she said as she stepped back to survey the fruits of her handiwork.

Luna was transfixed, nearly forgetting to breathe. “Thank you,” she managed to say, feeling awkward and inadequate with her words. She had never met the queen of the forest before, after all. Here was someone and something so unreal and unimaginable that she wanted to pinch herself to assure she was not dreaming. She had thought herself beyond further surprise after meeting Strix, but she could not have been more mistaken.

Aurelia smiled at her. “You are not dreaming, Luna. We are all quite real and present in this very moment of time. Come. You must meet our friends for they are your friends, too.”

Luna realized her thoughts were no longer solely her own and that here, everything was known to all, or at least to Aurelia. Still, she eagerly accepted the hand that Aurelia extended, and they moved to meet the woodland friends that filled the flower filled clearing.

Aurelia took her to a multi-colored creature. The creature was lovely and appeared light as a feather; she was unlike any other. “Here is Flutter, one of your garden’s loveliest butterflies. She speaks so fondly of your gentleness, Luna. And this is Quodora," she continued, pointing at another multi-colored creature. "She is the sweet little hummingbird that flits about your garden and drinks of its flowers’ nectar nearly every spring day.”

Wide eyed, Luna could only stare in abject wonder as Aurelia continued to move with ease about the clearing and woodland creatures, introducing all those that she known in different forms at her previous home. They were now well-suited to their humanlike forms, living deep in this forest, and Luna recognized each and every one of them. More surprisingly, they were all welcoming her to their enchanted playground. She met Lepus, the little brown rabbit that she had watched hop through the fields day after day. He was famous for eating her garden’s vegetables on a regular basis. There was also Equis, her beautiful black stallion that loved to roam the meadows. As she met him, he bowed his head in a bid for an affectionate touch. And there, upon the clearing’s edge, was Luce, the grey wolf that she always saw in the far distance across the fields. The wolf was still just as imposing in his new form, but there was no fear of anything or anyone here in this wonderful place. It was a world ripe for newly discovered pleasures and creatures, and there was nothing but love, joy, and accord amongst them all.

While there was a vast array of woodland creatures, there were also those creatures that were mostly composed of the earth’s elements and features. There was Peony, Fleur, Bumble, Estrelita, Ripple, and Lumina, whose sheer radiance embodied the glow of the sun. There were other owls in addition to Strix with names like Tuto, Ule, and Otos, but none was as handsome as her special one. Strix was without a doubt more breathtakingly beautiful than the fairest bird or any other creature she’d ever seen.

After speaking with many of her woodland friends, Luna helped herself to a cup of aromatic wine and turned to wander about in search of Strix. She found him at last, lounging nonchalantly by a massive tree on the edge of the clearing, staring at her as he had done since he’d first come across her in the midst of her celestial dance. Indeed, she wondered if he ever paused in his reflection of her, so intense was the look he gave her each time she spotted him from afar. She smiled a bit shyly and moved to stand beside him. He cocked his head in that now very familiar way and returned her smile. She searched her mind for the right words to say to him. There was so much within her heart.

“I wish you’d brought me here sooner,” she finally spoke before sipping of her wine, her nerves aflutter with something akin to exultation as she stood so close beside him.

“You weren’t ready,” Strix replied without elaboration, still watching her.

Luna nodded. “You may be right, but I am ready now. I am so very ready,” she said with an astute awareness as she returned the intensity of his amber gaze.

Luna knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the world she’d left behind no longer held an appeal for her. No, she could not leave this incredulous woodland family now that she’d come to know them - they were simply too wonderful. It would prove to be sheer devastation to return to her previous life for it held nothing of importance any longer. She could not begin to think upon it, so great was her fear that tonight would end and tomorrow she would find herself back in the grasp of reality, alone again in her former, solitary life. No, it would not do. She could not – would not – leave this enchanted world. Here was the family that she craved with her entire soul and that she felt she’d always known. Here was heaven and it was perfection personified. Peace filled her and a contentment she’d never experienced rose up inside, sufficing her face with a new, brilliant light.

At her words, Strix reached out a long, lean finger to lightly touch Luna’s chin, lifting it ever so slightly as he watched the light that filled her eyes and covered her face with a new brilliancy. She was glowing, and at long last, truly a child of the moon. His golden eyes shone with a deeper intensity and undying affection. “Yes, my sweet child of moonlight. I believe you are at long last ready.”

With those words, he pulled her into the crook of his arm, as if covering her with his widespread pinions, and Luna knew she was home at last and precisely where she longed to be. Here was her beautiful and unique owl who would always protect her, never leave her, and reside fiercely by her side forevermore.

*********************************

It was late in the afternoon, on the brink of twilight, the following day when Luna’s sister, Moira, happened by her sister’s cottage to visit for a short while. It had been weeks since she’d heard from or seen Luna, and the sister was beginning to worry that Luna was not well. It was not unusual for her sister, a dreamer, to stick to herself, but nonetheless, it worried Moira when she did not have any interaction with her sister over extended periods of time. After all, Luna had not seemed herself since her husband’s passing two years earlier, and Moira was repeatedly concerned for her sister’s well-being. Thus, this day, she had imposed upon her kind neighbor to watch her young children for a brief period while she checked on Luna, Moira hurried along to the cottage in hopes of reassuring herself that Luna was well and simply enjoying her solitary life in contentment as she usually did.

As Moira entered the cottage, she noticed that there was an assortment of dishes and food upon the table. It was evident that Luna had not finished her meal nor had she tidied up after partaking of the little she’d eaten. There were dying flowers lying on the table as well. Lightly Moira touched the flowers, aware that they had been plucked from the garden only a brief day or so before. The place had a look of being nearly forsaken. Worriedly, Moira made her way up the steep, narrow staircase, calling her sister’s name all the while. Her eyes were full of concern as she continued her search, hoping to locate her missing sister and find that all was well.

Moira came upon Luna’s bedroom and found the door slightly ajar. With increasing trepidation, she eased the creaking door open and then gasped. There upon the bed, in the twilight, lay Luna, a smile upon her still and lifeless face. Moira hurried to her sister's side and lightly touched her cold forehead, unable to believe her eyes. From outside the open window, she was suddenly startled by a shriek of seeming dismay. Quickly, she went to the window where she found a handsome (the only word that came to her mind as she spied him) owl perched just outside on the tall tree’s branch. The owl peered at Moira with a look of inquisitive curiosity and continued to shriek his eerie cries, as if echoing the sorrow he saw reflected upon Moira’s face.

Finally, with one loud shriek, the bird turned his head sideways before it abruptly lifted and took off in flight. Moira watched the bird, transfixed by its majestic beauty despite the dismal situation she had just uncovered. The owl flew high in the sky creating a silhouette against the fullness of the rising moon. The moon, the beautiful full moon. Luna's mother had named her child for the moon, and Moira was sure that her sister was now at peace and one with the moon’s everlasting glow.

Moira quietly leaned out the window, tears streaming down her cheeks and whispered, “Fly away my beautiful, Luna, with your handsome owl. Fly across the meadows and fields. Fly high above the trees with your precious friend to the enchantment of what lies ahead. I pray you find eternal love.”

Eventually, Moira lost sight of the owl as it disappeared in the far distance. She gave a final glance at the fullness of the bright moon and then gently pulled the window shut and closed the curtains. Instinct told her the owl would not return. Moira wiped at her tears. It wouldn’t do to linger here or to wish for things beyond her ken. She had to trust that Luna was now in a place that would bring her much deserved joy and peace. Thus, with surety of purpose, she began to do what must be done.

To be honest, her co-workers were a little tired of hearing about Lacey's "artistic" abilities. Everyone in the factory knew Little Lacey Lockhart, though she had long since grown out of the “Little” sobriquet, and was now just Lacey, mostly. Many of those she worked with had known Lacey her whole life. After all, Jefferson was a town of only 13,000 people, and the Lockhart girls were a staple at Lacerno’s Manufacturing. Both Lacey’s mother and her grandmother had also toiled their lives away in this factory. Big Lacey was one of the originals, in fact, having started way back when Old Man Lacerno first got the government grant that allowed him to mass produce socks and gloves for the boys in the war; a necessary if not very profitable commodity, which explains the change.

In defense of her co-workers, Lacey had never in her life exhibited to them any talent for anything whatsoever, artistically or not, so who could have foreseen her change? Being Southerners, they were too polite to laugh when Lacey said she wanted to be an artist, but she stopped saying it all the same, because what they did was worse than laughing. They ignored her. They looked at her like she was daft before returning to their trivial conversations, as if she hadn’t said anything at all. What they didn’t know however, what none of them could know, was that Little Lacey Lockhart did indeed have an artistic bent. Funny thing was, she herself did not yet know what her special talent was, but she was certain that there was one hidden inside her, and that it would eventually manifest itself. The people around her did not believe in her just yet, but they would soon find out, for the fates were ready to reveal that Lacey’s confidence was well placed… in an off-hand sort of way.

The eight-to-four factory shift was a drudgery that, like everyone else at the factory, Lacey suffered because she must. There is nothing exciting, nothing fun about manufacturing surgical gloves, but the only other option in these parts was to work ten hour days in a cotton, or rice field. Most of those employed by Lacerno had already been there and done that; many of them still carried the scarred hands and wrinkled faces to prove it. Even still, despite the lack of better options, Lacey hated the factory. She hated the smell of the melting latex. She hated the loud machinery. She hated the thin strips of rubbery plastic that littered the floors and were impossible to sweep up with a broom. She wondered did anyone upstairs in the offices really believe that a tenure badge paper-clipped to her apron was motivational? Lacey Lockhart was neither blind, nor was she an idiot. Here she was, a young woman killing herself working overtime hours down on the hot factory floor while there were big shots were sitting right upstairs in their air conditioned offices raking in company cars and bonus checks! Lacey could hardly even muster the will to drag herself in to work most days, but the ugly truth was that she needed this job. There was nothing better. And so she suffered the humiliations of sprinting full speed through the front doors every morning until she was made into the break room laughingstock, always late to punch the time-clock. The “Coaching and Counseling” sessions were adding up. Lacey was down to her final, Final Warning when The Lacerno Manufacturing Company, “Lacerno; Shaping Latex for Your Future” announced the start-up of a new division. When construction on the new wing began the rumors flew, everyone being curious about what products they would be making, and what changes would be coming from those products (there is nothing so dreadful to a country person as change, which is the true reason they are so interested in the weather). The workers watched wide-eyed as newfangled, automated equipment was brought into the new wing and assembled there, until soon the giant, empty space was cluttered up with gleaming chrome conveyors, and contrivances. Once that was done, the speculation of hours-upon-days turned to the equipment's many possible functions and purposes. This guesswork continued right up until the announcement was finally made. To Lacey’s amazement it was the most unbelievable of the hundreds of rumors that was true! Lacerno was about to begin manufacturing sex toys for women. Finally, something in this shit-hole place that even a lowly quality control girl could get excited about!

Surprisingly, her transfer request to the new division was accepted. Lacey assumed it was because “Fucking Margaret” her supervisor wanted to get rid of her, but it didn’t matter why, did it? Not when there was finally something to show up to work for besides Hawaiian shirt Friday, or the quarterly pot-luck luncheon with it’s six crockpots full of the same Piggly-Wiggly beanie-weenies.

From this point, Lacey’s transformation happened so fast it was startling to those other tenured employees who knew her so well. The cause of the change they suspected, although it was not as obvious as it appeared on the surface level. There were some chuckles at first, of course, but the chuckles didn’t last, because no matter the reason behind it the change was real. Little Lacey, after years of indolence, had suddenly become engaged in her work. She was motivated. She was no longer the laughing stock who sprinted through the doors at 8:10 am just to keep her job. She stopped calling in sick. Her long bathroom breaks ended. She started making time for her training, wanting to familiarize herself with the new machinery, and their new procedures. She even began caring about the things most of the other workers on the assembly line considered trivial bullshit; like higher efficiency, safety, and that ethereal ideal of “the bottom line” that everyone always heard about, but no one ever saw. But the truly amazing day for them, the day that stunned them all, was that morning pep-rally when Lacey, the quietest one on the line, began pitching in some ideas. Lacey Lockhart spoke up! She did so, and soon afterward an even crazier thing happened. To the astonishment of everyone at Lacerno Manufacturing, worker and supervisor alike, Little Lacey Lockhart got promoted!

What the others didn’t know was that it was not the product itself that sparked the change in Lacey, as they all suspected, but rather it was her disappointment in that product. Lacey’s order was one of the very first ones taken by Lacerno’s mail-order department. The girls in Shipping and Receiving had snickered when they saw Lacey's name on the outbound printed shipping label, but the snickers quickly died as those who were snickering secretly plotted orders of their own.

For her part, Lacey‘s heartbeat pounded to a stop when she arrived home from the factory that day to find the plain, brown package waiting on her apartment’s landing. Embarrassed at what she had done, she grabbed it up before the neighbors could see, and she hurried inside with it, lest they guess what the package contained. She had a creepy feeling, like she was being watched, as she cut the tape on the outer shipping box. All the while her anticipation was increasing, but to add to the already palpable suspense, before opening it she set the package down on the coffee table and hurried off to the bedroom, where she kicked off her shoes. Next off came her t-shirt, her jeans, and what little was underneath them. She flung on her bathrobe, and hurried back to the living room, although she was still unready to give way to her excitement. She figured she’d might as well make an evening of it, so instead of tearing it open she headed into the kitchen, where she filled an antique, colorfully striped iced tea glass with straight vodka over ice. Finally ready, she took a few steeling sips before perching herself on the very edge of the sofa, giving her pounding heart a moment to adjust to the titillating gift that Lacerno Manufacturing, of all the unlikely gift-givers in the world, had sent to her front door... for a small fee.

She removed it from the packing paper slowly, carefully, as if it was fragile (which of course it was not) and held it gently in both of her hands. To be perfectly honest, it’s appearance left something to be desired. It was smooth, almost industrial looking, and as colorless as the surgical gloves she had spent the past four years inspecting for faults. She rubbed her fingers along it’s length, her guilty shame forcing her to check the window blinds as she did so. It felt cold, lifeless in her hands. She sighed, already a tad disappointed with her new “toy” before she had even put it to it’s intended use. She set it back on the table and picked up her vodka glass. She watched it laying there as she drank; a dead, plastic thing. The vodka seemed more alive, and was touching her deeper inside than the plastic phallus, so she took a larger gulp, a gulp large enough that she picked the thing back up with a renewed, and inebriated determination. She parted her legs, letting the bathrobe fall away off to the sides as she closed her eyes. She rubbed the tip of it against herself, and was soon breathing differently; slower, deeper. Twenty minutes later Little Lacey was neither satisfied, nor disappointed, but she was not elated, and she should have been elated. She deserved that, didn’t she? Some elation? Yes, it did function; the thing did what it was supposed to do, but then so could the handle of her hair brush have done that, or a hundred other things lying around her apartment were she gross enough to use them. It was then that Lacey had her epiphany. She looked at the sorry looking dick for a long while, feeling the change happening within herself, waiting to find out just what it was that was happening to her as a new determination filled her insides, finally settling itself as firmly and deeply in there as the vodka had. It was right here, in her little apartment, alone on her couch, her robe tussled under her bare bottom, buzzed with vodka and exhausted by a hard earned orgasm, that Lacey Lockhart’s calling finally struck her. ”Don’t worry,” she said to it as she set it back in the box. “Momma knows what to do. I swear to God, I am going to either turn you into something worth the money I shelled out for you, or I am going to kill myself trying!” If only Lacey had known how prophetic those words would prove to be for her, just as they would be for her new ”little friend”.

Lacey knew what to do, what she didn’t know was how to do it. The guys in “Casting” were surprised when Lacey Lockhart, the newest and least likely supervisor at Lacerno, started hanging around their shop after her own shift was over. “I am interested in what you guys do, is all. Teach me.” So they did. They showed her how to make the clay molds, how to heat the latex, and how to pour it. The work had to be done in reverse, like looking into a 3-D mirror, but she quickly became adept. Learning new skills is easy when there is love in the labor. She started hanging out longer, and longer still, loving the design challenges the molds provided. She was doing their jobs for them, so the boys were happy to let her stay. She was a sponge, peppering them with infernal questions, questions they themselves did not know the answers to, but they did notice that, ever so slowly the shape of the final product was changing. It developed natural looking folds and veins, and a larger ridge down it’s center. She gave it girth, contour, and a smooth, contoured head. They were more-so visual improvements she added, rather than practical, but Lacey knew that they were improvements that would add to the overall experience, none-the-less. The guys found it amusing, watching as she did their jobs better than they could. They jabbed each other with their elbows and smirked at her test products, but Lacey had learned well from her own escapade, and what she had learned was that a girl wants something naughty to peek out at her when she opens that box; not just a tool to do a job. What a girls wants is the fantasy, and the tool to help her realize that fantasy. What a girl wants is some shock and awe when her Jack-In-The-Box pops. She wants to feel a little bit naughty, dirty even. She wants it all, she wants to be swept away in her risque moment alone. A girl wants a pleasurable experience that was created just for her.

Once she had learned all the boys could teach her about casting the molds, Lacey made her way over to Research and Development. “We have sold over 800 units now,” she told them as she gathered the team around her. “How many of the buyers have we surveyed about their, uh, experience with the product?” Her question was met with crickets… just as she suspected. The three women and two men who made up the department looked sheepishly at one another, avoiding Lacey’s eyes at all costs. After all, who wants to be the one to survey a customer about how well their new dildo worked?

“Not one of them?“ She asked incredulously. “So we have no idea if our customers enjoyed using our product? Well, have you at least tried the product yourselves, then?” The women’s faces grew red, and the the men’s redder still. “Come on, people! Are you being serious? You haven't even tried them out? You are Research and Development, for Christ’s sake! Try the damned thing! Everyone, right now, pick one up! Feel it! Touch it! Put it in your mouths! What are you waiting for? Go on! Do it!”

She wasn’t their boss, but Lacey was a supervisor… and she wasn’t wrong. They were Research and Development. It was awkward, but Lacey picked one up with them, leading them by her example, so they followed her. Together they held the toys up and touched them. Lacey had each of them stroke theirs, and lick it. One woman even tried rubbing hers lovingly against her cheek, as she did at home with her husband. The giggling slowly died out as the room took on a more serious, more experimental vein.

"Ok, people! So what does it feel like?”

”It feels cold and hard, almost like metal,” the one who had rubbed her cheek offered with a smirk.

”Exactly, Kendra! Guys, what do you think? Does it feel like your own?”

They shook their heads in unison. “Why not? What is wrong with it?”

”Kendra’s right. It’s too cold. It doesn’t feel like skin.”

”Especially not like hot skin!” The other guy on the team blurted out, and then buried his face in his arms.

”No, Eugene! Don’t be embarrassed! You are absolutely right! Well. There you go then, boys and girls. Fix it! Make it feel right!” And she left them to it, thrilled at the clamorous sounds of excited activity she was leaving behind her. The team in Research and Development was on a mission! She made a mental note to stop in tomorrow to check on their progress. “Who ever knew,” she wondered to herself, “how much fun work could be?”

The Human Resources Office was one room that Lacey was more familiar with, one she had visited many times before, back when she was still making surgical gloves; back in a time that she now thought of as her “past life” when she bothered to think of it at all. Their initial reaction to her when she entered came as looks of surprise, and approval. Gone were her jeans and t-shirt. In their place Lacey wore a business suit, and sensible, shiny, work appropriate shoes. The office was small, but she noticed that they had already slid in a third chair for her. “So,” Lacey thought to herself. “They are prepared.”

Well. So was she! She set the box she brought in with her down on the floor next to her feet.

”Lacey!” Maximilian Lacerno, Jr.’s voice boomed in the little room. “Just what is it y’all are up to down there? What is happening to my… ummm… to our product? I can hardly recognize it anymore, as it has taken on a vulgar shape, and tone! We are a Christian company, Lacey Lockhart! Where did y‘all get approval to make these changes, and who is going to pay for them?”

”Well, Mr. Lacerno. You did make me a supervisor. When you did so, you empowered me to make changes that would improve profitability, did you not?”

”Profitability, yes! Design, no! My God Lacey, you even have them changing the packaging? Do you have any idea how much all of this is going to cost? I must ask again, who approved these changes?”

”I did, sir.”

”You did? Our newest, and lowest ranking supervisor approved a million dollars worth of changes to a product that had a million dollars worth of research in it already? Lacey, I knew your mother. She’s the reason why you have this job, bless her soul. But this is preposterous! What do you think she would say about this new design? It is indecent! She would be mortified if she was still with us! Just what do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to figure out a way to inject color, Mr. Lacerno.“

”Do what?”

It needs a pinkish tint. A hard dick is full of blood. It is a thing alive; not a sickly, pallid yellow. It needs blue in the veins, and purple on the head, muted colors, of course. Do that, and we will sell millions of units… not thousands. We will have to convert the glove wing into another one for dildos, just to keep up with demand. That is what you should help me do! That is what I expect you to do. Do that and revenue won’t just double. It will quadruple. Isn’t that what we all are here for?”

”Lacey, we cannot do this.”

”Mr. Lacerno, we can do it. Most of it is already done. Let me show you something.” Lacey picked the box up from the floor, and set it on the desk. Mrs. Winslow, the HR Director, had stayed silent up until now, but she leaned forward as Lacey removed the lid from a pretty box made up of leather and lace, the kind of box a girl might want to keep close to her nightstand. Inside, two dildos lay side by side, one a pallid yellow dork, the other, although slightly exaggerated in size, was so life-like that it nearly pulsed out at them from the box.

“Oh, dear Lord!” Mrs. Winslow’s palm went over her heart, as if to prevent it’s stoppage. Mr. Lacerno said nothing, but neither did his eyes leave the box.

”Mrs. Winslow? If you could order this one for twenty dollars, or this one for fifty, which one would you purchase?”

”Oh, my Heavens!” Mrs. Winslow’s expression was one of mortification, and shame.

“Mrs. Winslow? Are you all right? Calm down, Sweetie! It isn’t real. Look, it’s only a piece of plastic.” Lacey pulled it from the box, and held it toward Mrs. Winslow for inspection. Being less taut than the lesser model, almost pliable, the dick warbled ever so slightly in her hand, while still maintaining it’s erect shape. Lacey waved it around in front of them, to demonstrate it’s elasticity.

”Ooooohhhhh! Please don’t, Ms. Lockhart! Please stop!” Mrs. Winslow waved her palms at Lacey, apparently ready to cry. Lacey set her dick back on the desk, where Mr. Lacerno then reached out for it.

"Lord no, Mr. Lacerno! Not you, too!" Mrs. Winslow pushed her way through the crammed-in office chairs in a race for the restroom, for any escape from this lewd Hell that she found herself in.

"Nevermind her, Lacey. She was against this venture from the start." Mr. Lacerno turned it in his hands, holding it up close to his glasses. He set it back on the desk and bent his large frame over it, his mind going a million miles an hour, and in a million directions. He tried to imagine his wife with this... thing. A thing which no longer had the clinical appearance he had imagined, as though it were merely intended as a stress reliever, but it now held the naked appeal of raw sex. He wondered if his Nancy would like it? It was fairly large, bigger than he was, which was disconcerting to him. But was he being a ninny? It was a sex toy after all, not a "stress reliever". Perhaps he should take it home and let Nancy see it... maybe she could even try it? The thought actually brought a spark of jealousy with it, which tickled him so that he chuckled out loud, and without even realizing it. But he trusted his Nancy's moral judgement, as well as her business instincts.

"Ms. Lockhart, no matter what decision I make concerning this, you have done some amazing work here." He spoke as he continued his inspection.

It was time for Lacey to make her pitch. "Research and Development surveyed two-thousand women. 94% preferred the realistic model. This was in the Deep South, mind you, Mr. Lacerno. The Bible Belt. We are certain that the numbers would be over 98% in a more liberal part of the country."

"Really?" Mr. Lacerno straightened up from the desk, and leaned back in his seat.

"80% of those surveyed said they would purchase immediately."

"Hmmm. 80% of two-thousand!" She had his attention.

"At fifty dollars a unit."

"Fifty dollars! That was double what they were currently marketing at. The numbers raced through his head, and were startling."

She didn’t stop there. "Engineering is working on an ergonomic, attachable handle that will allow a woman to rest comfortably on her back while using it. They are getting close, but we could use some guinea pigs."

Guinea pigs? Where in the world would you find guinea pigs for this?

Lacey read his expression, and smiled politely at his naivety. "Don't worry. We'll find volunteers when we're ready." There were plenty of women right here in the factory asking her for a free product sample.

We are also working on a "pillow". We call it that for lack of a better word. They are designing the new handle’s mechanics so that it will also attach to a silica "body", something that a woman can place on her bed, and that will hold it erect, and will actually let the woman mount it. That was Eugene’s idea, and it was not a bad one. The whole team in R&D has been fantastic. They have been working with engineering, and some of the other departments. They have really bought all in!"

“Now,“ Mr. Lacerno mused to himself, “she is throwing in add-on sales revenue.” what was supposed to have been a "behavioral correction" conversation with a rogue employee was turning into quite a product pitch. "Lacey, how are you at sales? Do you think you could personally go into a convention and sell this thing?"

"I am passionate about it."

Maximillian Lacerno made up his mind. He was sold! Lacey Lockhart was indeed passionate. He felt that. Passion was something rarely seen in the business of rubbers and plastics. Her passion was so undeniable that it was spreading to him. He drummed the table with his fingers, a habit he had while thinking. He reached into a desk drawer, and pulled out a business card.

"Well then, Let’s call you “Vice President” Lockhart for the time being. Figure out the dyes.” He handed the card across the desk to her. “Here is the name and number of someone who might help. Let me know the cost estimates before you agree to anything, but otherwise I will leave development in your capable hands. There is a show in Las Vegas in February. We are going to find out just how passionate you are, Miss Lockhart. You have certainly sold me. Why don't you hire and train two assistants to take with you? It will be too much for you to do alone. We'll talk about your new salary and bonus structure when I have had the opportunity to play with the numbers, but if this thing takes off, it will be commensurate.

Now, if you don't mind I will be leaving early today. I feel like celebrating! I suddenly find myself with a bright outlook for the future, and think I can afford an afternoon on the links. I will be taking this sample with me, to gather some, uh, research (wink) on my own with. I want to see what Mrs. Lacerno has to say about it.”

"I am sure she will enjoy it, Sir."

"Let's say nothing of that. Nice work, Ms. Lockhart. It sounds crazy, but I leave you in charge."

The Porsche Carrera was even whiter than the winter cotton that waved wildly in it’s slipstream as Lacey raced along the return highway from Memphis. It was the first thing Lacey did upon landing, was to take a taxi to the luxury car dealership. The car was her reward: her reward for her success in Vegas, her reward for the inspiration that got her there, her reward for stepping up to the plate and believing in herself. She thought of her mother as she drove, and her grandmother, and of all the women who toiled unrecognized in all the factories of the world, and then went back home to toil again in their unfulfilling bedrooms.

She wondered what Big Lacey would think of her now, if only she was alive to see it; alive to see that her grand-daughter had lived up to the Lacerno motto of, Shaping Latex for the Future, and to see that it was her own Little Lacey Lockhart, the quietest girl on the assembly line, who now swung the biggest stick at Lacerno's!

That was the chant that all the school kids chanted when he started 7th grade. Even though it had been years since he graduated college with his coding degree, that chant was something that he never forgot. It was not even that good of a chant, it was only that line "matty gone fatty" repeated over and over again.

During the summer before he started 7th grade, his family had a few deaths, two grandparents and a stillbirth, her name was going to be Alice. Alice Stone. Matthew Stone dealt with these deaths the same where that his parents did. He ate, and ate. By the time that school started, he had gained more than 66 pounds than when he finished 6th grade. He kept that fat until he started working out during his second year at college. He had taken a health class that semester, it probably helped a lot and probably would have helped a lot more if he had not started drinking. Drinking was his coping method now, a method that he was trying to quit.

"Thank you, my name is Matthew Stone," said Matty Fatty.

"Thank you Matthw Stone" the group said. Then the next guy started talking. His name was Albert Fintt. "Hi Albert Fintt" everyone in the group said. Then he started talking.

Ha, ha, Matty gone fatty. That was going to stay on Fredrick's mind for a while. It was a funny line. The chant kept going on in Fredrick's mind. It was more entertaining than what Albert was saying. The rest of the AA meeting went on uneventful with Fredrick mostly laughing to himself with the chant. He skipped his turn when it came time for him to talk, like always. The only reason he came was because his parents made it a requirement for staying at their place. He loved having to stay at his parent's place, but they offered it rent free as he recovered from his drinking problem. The problem that got him fired from his coding job when he came into work while drunk. He got fired while his coworkers, who were as high as pike's peak eating their special weed brownies, were kept on. He even heard that one of them got promoted. The boss's son. He knew there was a word for that, but he did not know the word for it. The word for when someone at work elevates a family member of friend instead of someone actually competent.

"Fredrick, did you have some thing you wanted to say. You look like you are thinking really hard." Fredrick had to look around for who spoke. It was the group lead, he could remember the guy's name. It might have been Mr Vlinntt.

"Oh, no sorry." Fredrick said. "I was just trying to think of what a specific would was.What do you call it, when.. when some one promotes or hires someone just because they are related or friends."

The group members looked around at each other, Matty Fatty was just stareing at the ground with his head in his hands. He was probably thinking about getting a late night snack on his way home. Then Albert spoke up. "Nepotism. I think the word you are thinking about is nepotism." Yep, that was it. He thanked him, telling that it was just something he had on his mind.

"Do you want to talk about? You never have spoken before at these meetings, this is kind of a break through," Mr. Vlinntt said.

Fredrick replied back. "No I don't think so, you continue on." He motioned for the last guy to continue.

Ha, Matty gone fatty, that was funny.