 
# The Eclective:

_The Pride Collection_

Copyright © 2012 by the Eclective

Smashwords Edition

With stories by:

Heather Marie Adkins

Rex Jameson

P.J. Jones

Shéa MacLeod

M. Edward McNally

Alan Nayes

Jack Wallen

The seven authors in this collection retain and hold their individual respective rights to their stories.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

Cover Art by Jack Wallen

Interior Formatting by Heather Adkins|CyberWitch Press, LLC

Visit the Eclective at eclectivebooks.com

# The Usual Suspects

Title Page

Rex Jameson—Saving Suzanna

Jack Wallen—Shero: Glam, Bam, Thank you, Ma'am!

Alan Nayes—Gay Angels in Heaven

P.J. Jones—Moon Blossoms

M. Edward McNally—"Urbs in horto"

Shéa MacLeod—Be Careful What You Wish For

Heather Marie Adkins—Love & Disaster

About the Eclective

# A Note...

GLBT. Never before have four letters been placed together to create both incredible fabulousness and controversy. As a proud member of the GLBT community (I'll leave it up to you to figure out which letter applies) as well as the parent of a young, wonderful gay man, it has always been clear to me that the world is a much better place with love.

Love.

A singular word that transcends race, gender, religion, color and inspires music, poetry, laughter. Where would we be without love? And all the while, man tries to classify, gentrify, and quantify love, it just is — beautiful. The GLBT community thrives on love and shows us all that the quality of love, when strained, will always come back bigger, better, and with even more powerful jazz hands!

This collection of stories is to serve as a celebration of every aspect of the GLBT community and is our way of showing our love and pride for our gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, and transgendered humans. The world simply wouldn't be as fabulous without you.

The Eclective.

# Saving Suzanna

Rex Jameson

Sarah pulled Morgana's lips to hers as artillery shells ripped through a nearby apartment. Her partner's long scarlet hair tickled her bare shoulders. Her fingertips toyed with Sarah's straightened black hair before lingering on her dark tank top, palms against the tops of Sarah's breasts. She pressed her forehead against Morgana's before closing her eyes.

Sarah had lost track of the number of ruined homes and apartments they had hid in since early nightfall. It was nothing short of amazing that any buildings in the northern sectors of the capital remained standing. The Northern Organizational Militia certainly wanted them gone.

She kissed Morgana's salty hairline. Her thoughts lingered on her decision to leave the southern sectors, thinking the northern people to be more tolerant and less likely to buy into the Militia's divisive tactics.

"I love you, too," Morgana said.

The words washed away Sarah's fear and regret like a rogue wave. She opened her eyes and removed her father's Glock from its home in her waistband. She disengaged the integrated trigger safety and grabbed Morgana's hand, waiting for a lull in the firing.

Within an hour, the sun would rise in the east, and there would be no good hiding places for the rest of the day. The long-range artillery targeting was too precise, and this neighborhood would be ruined the moment the range spotters had well-lit views of the few apartments that had refused to fall down so far.

"We should've stayed in the southern part of the city," Morgana said.

Sarah sighed as she peered through a cracked window.

Another explosion shook the foundations of the apartment and a baby's cry echoed from the direction of a series of devastated houses across the avenue. Before Sarah could explain again that the southern part of the city was firmly held by the Militia, Morgana had released her hand and was bolting toward the door.

"What're you doing?" Sarah asked, squeezing her body between her partner and the exit.

"There's a baby over there," Morgana said, grabbing the knob. "We can't just leave it."

"It's someone else's child."

"Then why is no one shushing her?" Morgana asked. "She's all alone. I can feel it."

Sarah caressed her cheek and sighed. Her partner had been orphaned by a car accident when she was very young, and her foster parents had not been kind. The experience had driven Morgana to want to adopt her own lost children, and show them the love that had never been afforded her. That simple desire had put both of them on the Militia's lists.

"You can't go out there," Sarah said.

"You can't stop me."

Morgana kissed Sarah as she turned the knob and pulled the door. Sarah relented, as she always did.

She hopped down the steps after the red-haired woman with the Glock at the ready. Sarah swiveled to each side of the avenue as she ran, hoping a squadron of militia in brown-and-black camouflage didn't happen upon them in the open. The baby's cries grew louder as they leapt over the remnants of a red-brick wall.

Morgana grasped the frame of the door and used it to swing herself over a three-foot-tall plaster wall and into the house. Sarah followed her, checking every piece of broken furniture in the house with her gun like each hid a boogey-man.

"She's in here," Morgana said, shouldering through a door and leaping into the darkness.

Sarah wasn't far behind.

It took a moment to adjust to the absence of light, but when she managed to make out the outlines, her pale-skinned partner cradled a white baby. Its curly, sparse blonde hair framed a tear-stained face. In the corner, a section of the roof had caved in.

"Anyone here?" she asked.

"It's OK," Morgana said, cooing to the baby girl in the white, floral-printed dress. "You're going to be fine."

Sarah checked the closets for anyone hiding amidst the ruins. She moved to a pile of rubble from the attic and found a pale foot with painted nails sticking out.

Probably the mother.

"We've got to go, Morgana."

Morgana lifted the baby to her shoulder and held the young girl firmly against her chest. She nodded and motioned for Sarah to lead.

"It's too dangerous out in the avenue," Sarah said. "We'll see if we can't move through the yard. We can't be more than two miles from the city boundary."

Morgana kissed the baby above the ear and nodded.

Sarah lead with her gun, finger poised on the trigger and pivoting at each doorway as she made her way northward, toward the city limits. The approaching dawn filtered through the dusty windows as she checked the yard. She slowly opened a sliding glass door and peered left and right before leaving.

No soldiers were in sight.

She tiptoed across the grass and checked to make sure Morgana was still behind her. Along the way, a glimmer of metal in a dark compost heap of sticks caught her eye and she recognized the Kalashnikov by the barrel. As she stooped to pick it up, she noticed the sticks were bones, and the trash was anything but. Hours ago, this had been a person—just another casualty in NOM's targeted campaign against the unwanted.

Something tugged at her, and she turned to find the baby's fingers intertwined in her locks. She grasped the little hand, pale digits contrasting against her own dark skin and looked up to find Morgana smiling, which was always infectious.

The AK-47 made her feel much safer than the Glock alone, but it wouldn't do a whole lot of good if they ran into a patrol of heavily-armed, well-funded Militia. She offered the gun to Morgana but her partner shook her head.

Sarah placed the Glock in the back of her waistband before picking up the assault rifle. The magazine was flat and appeared to be a fifty-round clip instead of the stock thirties. She waited for another artillery round to hit somewhere nearby so she could try a test-fire.

Morgana pushed her after a few seconds. "Let's not stick around."

Her partner was right. In the middle of the yard, they were completely exposed.

"OK."

She kicked through a locked side door and entered the adjacent house. Her heavy combat boots clanked against the linoleum flooring as Morgana's tennis shoes squeaked behind her.

An exploding ordinance outside the home knocked Morgana down, but she managed to turn and hold the baby above her. The little girl screamed at first, but as Sarah checked the bedrooms, her cries subsided. She panicked as she imagined the worst case—a militiaman muffling the girl and carrying Morgana and the child to a secluded spot, waiting for Sarah in ambush.

Of course, that was just paranoia.

Morgana was in the hallway on the floor, pushing the baby into the sky and flying her around like an airplane. It only took a couple of playful drops before the little girl was giggling.

Sarah stared at her partner as Morgana disregarded the warzone that was all around them. She shouldered the AK-47 via its strap and lifted the baby from the airplane routine.

"Get up," Sarah whispered. "We can't stay here. Get up!"

Morgana leveled a glare at her, but Sarah pretended not to notice. She shoved the child back to her lover and climbed through an opening in the wall without saying another word. She looked back at Morgana as the baby began crying again.

As Morgana tried to shush her, Sarah rolled her eyes. She pushed away from the wall and sprinted across the yard. With every exploding shell, the baby buried her face into Morgana's neck and sobbed.

"You've got to keep her quiet," Sarah said as she checked the street from a window.

"She's probably just hungry," Morgana replied. "We can't just leave—"

"You know I would never say that."

She turned from her surveillance of the avenue and softened her eyes.

"We've waited so long...," Morgana said, tears welling and coursing over her cheeks and down her lips.

Sarah checked the street once more but heard only muffled whimpers from behind her. She shouldered the assault rifle, turned and opened her arms. Morgana's head drooped as she shuffled into the embrace.

"Seven years...," Morgana said, sobbing along with the child.

Sarah kissed her forehead and then the baby's. She nodded toward a hallway. "Why don't you check the kitchen for some food? Maybe the family left something behind."

Morgana nodded emphatically. "Yes," she said, grinning for the first time since playing airplane with the little girl. As Sarah returned the smile, Morgana's grew larger. She stroked the child's back as she rushed down the hallway.

Sarah couldn't help but think of the dozens of social workers who had turned their backs on them at the adoption agencies. _Must have a strong male role model in the household_ , they said. _Must have a stable relationship and fiscal outlook_ , they explained. But she and Morgana had been together for over ten years, and their combined income was well over six digits. _Stable relationship_ was just a pleasant way of saying _you don't belong here_.

Around the fifth year of trying to adopt, Morgana had suffered a nervous breakdown. She couldn't take the longing—the pink cradle that went unfilled, the new clothes that were never worn, and the toys that had no playmate. Sometimes she would lay outfits onto the bed and claim that little Suzanna was going to put them on after she got out of the bathtub. Sarah didn't have the heart to confront her about it, and her inaction only made the delusions worse. It took the shrinks nearly two years to undo the damage, but here Morgana was now, holding a child amid the war-torn debris of a city that hated them.

"I found some milk," Morgana said, glowing from the hallway as the baby sucked and nibbled on the end of a straw. She kissed the child, dipped the end of the straw into the glass of milk, and returned it to her mouth where the little girl sloppily gummed at the plastic and slurped down the creamy goodness.

"Did you smell it?"

"Of course I did!" Morgana said, stamping her foot. "Anyway, she likes it."

Sarah's stomach growled, and she realized the baby wasn't the only one starving. "Was there anything else?"

"I didn't check," she replied, grimacing. "Sorry..."

Sarah briefly massaged her lover's shoulders and watched the baby feeding before ambling down the hallway. The first door on the right opened into a spacious kitchen with an island in the center. As she rummaged through the barren cupboards, another explosion shook the house, and she grasped the countertop and braced her ears for renewed screams from the infant in the hallway. But the little girl must have been preoccupied with her straw.

Sarah crossed the sink and looked out an eight-paned window into the side yard. A line of red roses masked a white picket fence, and smoke poured over them from the adjacent home. As she gazed into the grayness, a polished helmet bobbed through the ash. Sarah ducked and rolled along the countertop.

Did he see me?

She peeked around the cupboard and watched the soldier smash a window in the next house. Another soldier threw something into the building and both men sprinted along the side street.

Sarah crouched and bolted into the hallway. She put her finger to her lips just as Morgana looked ready to speak. Before her partner was even able to raise an eyebrow, a massive detonation shook the walls and assaulted her eardrums. She could see the baby crying but all she could hear was a hollow bell tone that reverberated against the walls of her skull.

Morgana recovered her balance from the violent jarring and reinserted the straw into the baby's mouth. Sarah's ears eventually regained their function, and new voices pierced the sonic blackout.

"Is anyone in there?" a man yelled from the porch. "If so, you better come out."

Sarah gripped the AK-47 and moved toward the door. With a free hand, she motioned Morgana to get behind her.

"It's got the mark on the door, Tom."

"That don't mean nothing."

"Leave it be," the other man said.

"But there could be—"

"I said, leave it be."

Outside, a heavy boot kicked at the dirt, and Sarah raised the gun until the sight was about chest level on the front door. Her finger lightly touched the trigger as she waited for the two militiamen to make their move.

"I'm telling ya," the disappointed man said. "We stop checking houses, and we're bound to miss some of them. What if they—"

"Gotta honor the signs," the other said. "One of these could be a board member's residence, and then it'd be both our hides for your stupidity."

Sarah inched forward, her footfalls seeming to make less noise than the pounding of her heart or the rapid filling of her lungs.

"Fine... whatever..."

"Let's fall out."

Heavy shoes shuffled and scurried down the cobblestone-and-asphalt avenue. Sarah peered out the window and watched the brown uniforms disappear across the street. She waited until another explosion ripped through the darkness and pushed the creaking door open.

"Sarah!" Morgana said, grabbing at her tank top. "What the hell are you doing?"

She nudged the oaken door inward so her partner could see the crimson paint. A long-dried, three-foot tall cross contrasted against the white paneling.

"Do you think they'll be back?" Morgana asked as she shut the door.

"Yeah. As soon as it gets light again, I think they'll come out in force. Cross or no, they'll make their way through this neighborhood."

"How long do we have until dawn?"

Sarah checked her watch. "Maybe thirty minutes."

"We should check this place for a basement," Morgana said, returning to her task of nursing the child through the straw. "Maybe we could hide."

"Maybe," Sarah said, surveying a spire that peaked through the reddening skyline. They were only a handful of blocks from Saint Margaret's Cathedral. "Or maybe we can find shelter in the Cross."

"They're not going to let us in. They never have."

She listened for boot-falls but could only hear Morgana's panting.

"The militia won't search a church," Sarah said. "And we can't hope to hide out in an abandoned home with a crying baby."

"But—"

"Stay close and keep Suzanna suckling that straw!"

She had used the name intentionally; she knew it had a special power over her partner. Morgana fell in behind her with the baby nestled on her shoulder and a straw in her mouth.

"Two blocks, sweetie," Morgana said.

They jumped from the porch and into the avenue before darting down a side street. They passed a stream of liquid pouring from an intersecting alley. The surface was too congealed and opaque to be water. Sarah tried not to think of the horrors that marked the source, and Morgana kept her eyes forward and pressed Suzanna into her face as she ran.

The houses were mangled with mortar craters and caved-in walls. Even some of the doors with crosses had been demolished in the shockwaves and errant fire.

"Sarah, they didn't—"

"I know," she said, sucking the cold, dry air into her lungs as she sprinted across the street. She could see the handles on the cathedral's front door, but the church would have to wait.

There were footsteps nearby that were not their own.

Sarah pointed to a nearby alley. Her partner followed her into the darkness and kissed Suzanna's cheeks repeatedly as she dipped the straw in the milk to proactively shush her.

"Don't cry," Morgana whispered. "Please, honey, don't cry."

But the baby was perfectly content with the milk and the straw. A cadre of soldiers in beige camouflage marched past the opening as the family dove behind a series of dumpsters. Two of the men pointed guns down the alley and stood like Greek demigod statues, poised to strike down some outmatched beast.

From the moment the men had raised their weapons, Sarah had held her breath and counted the footsteps. She guessed there were twelve to fifteen soldiers in the squad.

She hid the muzzle of her AK-47 behind the edge of the refuse container. "I dare you," she whispered. "I double-dog dare you..."

She peeked around the bin and used her gun barrel to move a piece of cardboard that hung limply from the lip of the dumpster. The men snapped to attention, turned, and rejoined their group. Sarah stood and walked past the containers.

"Sarah."

"What?"

When Morgana didn't answer, Sarah walked slowly backward until she could see her partner and the baby in her periphery. "You OK?"

"The dumpsters...," Morgana said, shielding the baby's face with her free hand. "They're not putting trash in the dumpsters."

The object that had been blocking her view hadn't been cardboard at all. It had fingers and polished nails. A trickle of blood dripped over a gleaming silver wedding band to the crimson concrete below.

"Breathe, Morgana."

"But they're—"

"I know," Sarah replied. "We've got to get to the church."

"But the church isn't protecting—"

"We have to try!"

Sarah checked the streets twice before beckoning Morgana out of the alley. She swung the gun wildly toward each window, doorway, and gaping hole—which were as numerous as any other apertures into the homes. Flares arced over the buildings three or four blocks away, and the booms from shells could be heard from much farther out. The heavy cannons of the Northern Organizational Militia had moved off this sector, leaving the stormtrooper squads to go house-to-house, targeting undesirables.

Sarah dashed between houses, trying not to look at the church because of the potential for tunnel vision. They were too close to potential safety for them to fall to something stupid.

Three houses to go. The white stairs in front of the cathedral gleamed. The flares bathed the lush red carpet on the church steps like a pulsing, narrow landing beacon for wayward planes. Two buildings. One building.

Sarah looked for a side entrance into the church but saw none. She motioned for Morgana to hide herself and the child while she searched for a back entrance off the main, well-lit street. Morgana nodded, and Sarah sprinted down the alley.

As she neared a T-junction with the back alley, an awful cacophony of synchronized boot-steps greeted her, and she hugged the wall and ducked behind an air-conditioning unit. She crouched and backed away toward her waiting partner and the infant.

"No luck?"

"Militia," Sarah said, shaking her head and looking at the crimson and orange sky that signaled the coming sunrise. "We're going to have to try the front door."

"But it's suicide—"

"So is sitting here."

Sarah grabbed Morgana by her arm, squeezing her bicep as she pulled her toward the short white steps. They leapt up the stairs two at a time, and Sarah let go of Morgana so she could swing her gun at any approaching threat as she backed up the last few stairs.

Morgana rushed ahead of her and rapped on the door. "Help! We need asylum! Please let us in!"

Sarah continued to ascend the stairs until her back was flush with her lover.

"Please," Morgana yelled at the door. "The militia are everywhere. We have a young child—an infant! You have to take us in!"

"Are you alone, senorita?" a weak voice asked from inside.

"No. I have a child."

The locks turned and clicked. After three or four deadbolts, a heavy lever slid into place, and the large, red door creaked open enough for a single eye to appraise them.

"Don't move," the man said. "I have a weapon."

"Please give us shelter," Morgana begged.

"We've been given strict orders by the Militia," he said, eyes flitting between her and Sarah. "If we break them, we'll be targeted too. They only want you. No one else."

"But we have a child," Sarah said.

"Her name is Suzanna," Morgana said. "And I am Morgana. This is Sarah."

His eyes bounced between them, and the door jostled back and forth as his mind undoubtedly wrestled between hiding and helping.

"I am Joseph—Joseph Alvarez."

"Pleased to meet you, Father Joseph," Sarah said, inching closer. "Now that we've been introduced, can you please let us in?"

The priest started to close the door, but Sarah stuck her left hand into the crack. He pulled hard, but she refused to yield.

"Father, that _does_ hurt like hell, you know?"

He relented but refused to widen the door any farther. His eyes pleaded with them to let him be.

"I can't endanger the parish," he said. "Please leave. If you don't go, they'll target us."

"Isn't the whole point of the church to aid those in need?" Sarah screamed back at him. "Didn't Jesus preach forgiveness and tolerance—even when his enemies were torturing and killing him?"

"I'm not Jesus," he said, whimpering as he resumed pulling on the door again.

"That's painfully obvious," Sarah said. She grunted as her fingers crunched against the frame. "Please stop crushing my hand."

"We have a child," Morgana reasserted, pushing Suzanna over Sarah's shoulder so the preacher could see her. A shell exploded nearby, and the child resumed crying for the first time since she had gnawed on the straw. "Suzanna's done nothing wrong. You must protect the innocent."

"Give her to me," he said.

"Are you insane?" Sarah asked. "Is this really your compromise?"

"The memos from the Militia didn't say anything about children," Joseph said. "They'll never know where she came from."

"No," Morgana said, clutching Suzanna to her chest. "You can't. I won't let you. We've waited too long—"

Sarah removed her hand from the door since Joseph seemed content to wait on their decision. She shouldered her gun and grabbed Morgana by the cheeks. "Babe—"

"Seven years, Sarah."

"I know."

"I can't—"

"I know," Sarah said as she stroked Morgana's face.

"She needs someone to look after her."

"We have food," Joseph said, widening the crack and exposing his finely-manicured beard and curly black hair.

Sarah lifted the gun and turned on him. "Of course you do! You have sold your soul to the devil for a moment's respite. They'll come after you next—you who are not like them."

"I protect my flock!" he yelled back.

"You protect only those who are easiest to defend. You think God is smiling down on—?"

"Stop it," Morgana said. "Just stop it!"

She kissed the child on the forehead and cheeks as she pushed Sarah aside and approached the door. She squeezed Suzanna until she stopped crying and giggled.

"You'll take care of her?"

"I'll protect her with my life," the preacher said.

"You coward," Sarah said as she shook her head and kicked at the red carpeting along the foot of the doorframe. "You damned coward..."

Morgana hurriedly kissed Suzanna a dozen more times before her arms had the strength to push the child any farther. Tears streamed down her face as the baby's small hands reached for her.

"Don't worry," Joseph said as he took the child into his arms. "I'll defend her with my life."

"You better," Sarah said. "Because once NOM's moved onto the next group in their crosshairs, I'm coming back to this church. You can count on it."

A sobbing Morgana backed away as the priest accepted Suzanna and pulled the child into the church.

Sarah's eyes bounced from her crying partner back to the priest. "She better be here when we come back."

The priest nodded as he shut the door.

The sound of synchronized boot-steps echoed down the street. They were not alone.

"Come on," Sarah said, pulling her inconsolable partner back down the stairs and into the alley as the sun burst over the horizon, bathing the avenue in brightness.

*

Joseph grabbed a blanket from a nearby pew and wrapped tiny Suzanna into it. The baby cried as he carried her down the aisle toward the stairs that led into the kitchen, where milk and baby food were still in supply and two dozen parishioners quivered. As the familiar _ratta tat tat_ of an AK-47 pierced the stone walls, Suzanna screamed despite his attempts to mollify her.

"There, there," he said. "Your mothers will be back soon."

She seemed unconvinced. Bullets ricocheted from nearby buildings and guns and grenades joined in as men wailed and screamed.

Joseph dashed into the stairwell with the child tucked snuggly into his armpit. As the darkness enveloped him, so did quietness and a sense of immunity from harm that he had always felt in the church before NOM had begun their assaults on the undesirables.

"You're safe," he said, more to himself than the child. "You're safe."

Author's Note

In recent years, conservative groups like the National Organization for Marriage have been waging a war against civil unions and marriages amongst same sex couples—generally under the banner of protecting biblical ideologies and the sanctity of marriage. To further pollute and polarize the conversation, these groups have proposed such agendas as  placing all lesbians and gays into an electrified pens,  planning to drive a wedge between ethnic minorities and the homosexual minority with divisive tactics, and actively preventing homosexuals from seeking civil unions, adoption, tax breaks from such legal unions, and the life every human being deserves to pursue.

Fortunately or unfortunately, this conflict has made its way into the 2012 Presidential Race at a time when  thirty of the fifty states in the United States actively prevent marriage, any type of union or adoption by same sex couples. But the issue is by no means an American-only one. It is routinely estimated by surveys that the homosexual population amongst human beings hovers between 3-5% of the world population, with only 1-3% willing to report their sexual preferences. And the rest of the western world doesn't do much better with the issue than we do. Recent polls have shown that 89% of Polish voters disagree fundamentally with allowing same sex couples to adopt, and I have no doubt that they will continue to vote accordingly.

But as an American, I hope we can do better. We are a great country—one of innovation, freedom, and tolerance. We overcame our prejudices in the 1960s and returned the natural rights of African Americans. As a southerner, it pains me to think that we could have once been so backward and used the Bible to defend our prejudices, malice, and oppression.

And yet here we are, in the twenty-first century, proposing to place lesbians and gays into electrically-charged fences to ensure they starve to death—as if the problem was homosexuals breeding more homosexuals. The truth is that homosexuality has been a part of humanity  throughout our historical record, and it will continue to show up in our children and our children's children thanks to evolution, natural selection, and the methods in which populations adapt, grow, and mature.

And just as we pass down our features to our children, so do we often deflect our problems to them. Perhaps my generation will fail in this great civil liberties problem. We may not be strong enough—financially or politically—to effect this monumental change in national mindset, of which our parents and their parents are such strong supporters. But I hope we are made of sterner stuff, and if we are not, I certainly hope the next one is—because oppression, intolerance, and persecution should not be our continuing legacy. Let them be our past—another lesson in a long chain of parental hand-me-downs that define who we were and not who we will continue to be.

#

Rex Jameson wears pink cowboy hats to get free beers in conservative Texas towns.

Find more information on Rex and his books at www.rex-jameson.com, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter

Books by Rex:

Lucifer's Odyssey (novel)

The Goblin Rebellion (novel)

Angels and Demons: Perspectives of a Violent Afterlife (novelette)

Elves and Goblins: Perspectives of a Father's Rebellion.

# Shero: Glam, Bam, Thank you, Ma'am!

Jack Wallen

And it came to pass, on this day some thirty years ago, that our hero was ordained to minister to the wounds of the fallen. His mighty sword would seek vengeance upon all those who dare festoon themselves in a blackened cloak of evil.

Hey! Who are you and what in the Hell are you doing narrating my story? Get the... oh, pardon me my lovelies, but I have to oust this crusty old, moth-ball-smelling wind bag. Now, where was I? Oh yeah... Do you think for one second you gots what it takes to tell the story of Shero? Hmmm? I don't think so. Now get your ascot-wearing ass outta my chair, and hike it back to Kmart and buy yourself some knee high socks ta go wit 'dem sandals!

Go, I give you leave... zzz zzz zzz!

Thank you for hanging around while I gave that dust bag what for. I take it he didn't really get into the story yet. No? Good. Let me paint a picture for ya, m'kay?

BAM! POW!

Chapter Now!

"Ladies, ladies, listen up. We have a lot to get through tonight, so we don't have time for the usual cat fights, panty line sissy fits, wig pulling, make up drama, coke lines, and... bitch, please, don't tell me you have your tranny phone outta yo purse and up in your ear?"

Della Catessen was, in fact, crying into her mobile. Her sugar daddy had just kicked her out of the house for tramping it up with the neighborhood watch — the entire watch — all at once.

Dayam!

"Baby... please don't..." Della wailed and dropped to her knees.

"Bitch done fucked up the las' man that'll have it. That ol' man-snatch ain't evah gonna see it some meat again." Sugah Brown snapped her fingers, turned on her ballet stilettos, marched up stage to the MC, and grabbed his mic.

"Honey, it's time you done moved on wit' yo life. And if you can't do that, leave us the fuck out of it. We gots ta get our glam on and we gots ta do it now! You unnahstand what you messin' wit'? Dis is the show a shows for us wanna be hos. One of us is gonna walk outta hur tomorrow night the Queen a Queens, and I'll be damned sho if I'm gonna let some raggedy ass pair of meat curtains like you fuck up mah chances. Now git yo ass up off dat floor and show us all ya still gots some dignity in that pussy."

The theatre went silent, save for the sniffling of Miss Catessen and the puckering lips of Sugah.

"Ladies please... " The MC started.

"Bitch, please! This is my moment."

Sugah Brown testified to the heavens to bring yet another silence to the room.

"You may proceed."

"Thank you... Miss Brown." The MC waited for the inevitable interruption from one of the queens. When none came, he continued on.

"As you all know, this is the rehearsal for the big event. You've all made it to the final round and tomorrow one of you will be crowned Miss Trans World."

"Tell us somethin' we don't know cutie pie!" Kitten Kaboodle waved a flirtatious hand before pulling her fake tail up to her mouth and giving it a good tongue bath.

Rowr, kitty — I know a narrator that could use a good tongue-ing.

Oh...ummm...back to the show.

The MC cleared his throat (of whatever was delivered into it the night before) and continued on.

"Well, ladies... " He almost braved an 'air quoting'. "There is something you do not know about tomorrow's event. We have lined up a rather special judge for the competition."

Jean Pool rolled her eyes so hard her falsies stuck. Three queens came to her rescue. They saved her just before she was lost from the story entirely.

Whew! Would hate to see the great Jean Pool cleared out.

Anyway...

"Our special guest is none other than... "

"We already know, ya whore! It's the God damn tranny-lovin' mayor again. Am I wrong? Fuck me up the ass if I'm wrong." With her eyelashes unstuck, Jean Pool was getting nasty.

"Wrong-o-matic, Miss Pool. Anyone else care to take a guess or should I just lay my cards on the table?"

Cricket. Cricket.

"It's Shero!"

And the crowd went wild. Bras and panties flew in three hundred and sixty degrees. Cindy Lauper dropped down from the ceiling and sang a rousing 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun'. It was mass hysteria.

Meanwhile, in...

Chapter Shoo

There are villains, and then there are _villains_. Deep in the heart of teeming beasts lay the darkest of hate, the maddest of men. And few, if any, men were nasty enough to want stand between a drag queen and her pageant.

There's always one.

Mr. Mayhem was that man. Or, should I say, was once that woman?

Bwahaha!

Mr. Mayhem was born Nancy Newcum. She knew from an early age that she despised womanhood. Every aspect of the double-X chromosome filled her with a rage she couldn't shake. It wasn't until she turned twenty-one, and had the funds for the hormone therapy and breast reduction that Nancy Newcum became Mr. Marvin Mayhem.

But, like all good stories of evil, that hormone therapy didn't go as planned. Thanks to an ironic switch in vials — Newcum was injected with dirty, evil hormones taken from none other than Adolph Hitler.

Dum, dum, dummmm!

And Mr. Mayhem was born.

With the odd mixture of Hitler Hormones and bitterness of one too many rejections, Mayhem set out to destroy those that pranced around in celebration of all things female. And who better than to start with than drag queens? No one celebrated femme more than trannies.

As Mayhem sat at his dressing table, penciling in his Roger Water's-thin moustachio, his Boy Friday appeared at his side — clad in nothing more than two tiny strips of electrical tape across the nipples.

Mayhem had a bit of a phobia against nipples.

"Your dasterdlyness... I have news for you." The BF bowed his head in deference.

Mayhem looked on at the bowing boy, admiring the abdominal muscles and bulging quads. He desperately wanted a little nomity nom, but refrained.

"Do tell, my good boy."

"Apparently Club Conjunction Funxion has brought in Shero to judge tomorrow's drag queen finals."

Marvin Mayhem sucked in nearly every molecule of air from the surrounding area until the Boy Friday was unable to breathe. After a good, long sucking — Mayhem caused the boy to pass out.

"We have much evil to do and have no time for your desires of the flesh." Mayhem stood from his dressing table and walked off.

Sometimes evil could be so clueless.

"I can kill two disgusting birds with one stone of righteousness. Both Shero and the largest collection of falsie-wearing, catty bitches will be in one place during that pageant. Their destruction will be my coup de grâce, my Sistine Chapel, my..."

Say it Mayhem, say it!

"Bette Davis Eyes!"

Not exactly what I thought you were going to say.

The Boy Friday hopped back up from the floor. His hot body left behind a perfect outline of sweat. As the sweat cooled to steam, the boy crossed to Mayhem and handed him his silk kimono.

"We must prepare for battle, Boy Friday. Fetch me my slippers."

Mayhem looked deep into the camera eye, and a twinkle appeared as a wicked, evil smile spread across his lips.

Fade camera out. Fade up dark, evil music of doom.

Chapter Me

The loveliest of alarms pinged and chimed as the glorious sun dared peek into the boudoir of none other than...

Are you ready for it?

Just... giddy with excitement?

Let's all say it at the same time. Are you ready? One, two...three.

SHERO!

That's nice.

A perfectly manicured hand snaked out from under the pink and black satin sheets and softly tapped the alarm off. The hand slipped back under the sheet and ventured into other satin-y places.

"Oh!" Fiend's soft voice broke the newly formed silence. "Good morning to you, too. And just what is it that Princess wants so early in the... oh my!"

George Takei?

No... just me.

Anway, back to smexy time.

For those that haven't read the first Shero book, let me digress. Fiend was one of the single most gorgeous women on the planet, and just happened to be madly in love with our superhero.

With a snap of the fingers, a disco ball dropped from the ceiling. The room was glistening with polka dots of light that danced about every wall. The soundtrack to Star Wars started... oh wait, wrong fantasy. Strike that. The sounds of Barry White were heard from a distance. Pheromones were pumped into the air. Sex was about to happen. Big, funky sexy.

Oh baby. We're knee deep in it now.

"So, my sexy Queen, what are you going to wear to the pageant tonight? I say you go crazy and wear little more than a matching bra and panty set. Of course, I'd never be able to keep my hands off you."

Shero blushed — in all the right places.

"No woman could resist a man in bra and panties." Fiend tossed a wicked little smile down at Shero. He returned the smile in kind. That smile would have melted any resolve left in Fiend's heart. Fortunately, as far as Shero was concerned, Fiend had no resolve. All Fiend had for Shero was the purest and truest of love.

The smexy time the two shared was felt around the neighborhood, nay, the entire city. Men and women broke out into sweats of passion. Teens dropped to their knees to worship some great god of self-satisfaction. Tweens went through puberty.

That's as far as we'll take that one.

When the sex was done, the world released a sigh that would be heard for years.

"So?" Fiend looked over at Shero, who was pulling a silky, black stocking up his right leg. "What _are_ you wearing to the pageant? Something special? Something so insanely sexy it won't be possible for anyone to tear their eyes from you?"

Shero released a laugh so musical, birds went silent in shame and jealousy. "Honey, the last time I stole the show from a group of Queens, a flavor of Hell I never want to taste again broke loose. I think I'll stick to my uniform. Besides, they're expecting Shero — not a bedazzled version of Chris."

Fiend wrapped her arms around her, dare I say it (lest you've not read Shero 2: Zombie A GoGo), husband. "You'll still be prettier than any girl there, Princess."

"Awwww, honey, you know just what to say."

Shero pulled on his other stocking, snapped his garters, and slipped into his Little Black Battle Dress. Once his feet slipped into the heels of justice, he was on his way down the stairs to retrieve his purse, his katana, and his keys. Fiend was right behind him, dressing along the way. Shero slid behind the wheel of the Pink Phantom and, once Fiend was seated beside him, put the car into reverse and sped out of the driveway.

Fiend reached out and turned down the music. "The publicity on the pageant has been crazy. Are you concerned about that?"

"The thought had crossed my mind. You have one of the most gorgeous gaggle of queens gathered together and a superhero judging their beauty. Certainly no single group would find reason to get huffy about that. Right?" Shero looked over at Fiend and winked. He knew these sorts of events brought the crazies out in droves. "Honestly though, I'm just glad these girls are getting their moment in the spotlight. All that tucking and plucking has to pay off at some point, or why bother? But, the big question — should I do a number? The subject was brought up when I spoke with the owner of Conjunction Funxion. What do you — "

Before Shero could finish the question, Fiend found a song and had it blasting out. The song? _I Want to Break Free_ by Queen. The image of Shero dressed as Freddy Mercury with a vacuum was a fantasy of Fiend's. She made it clear, every chance she had, that she would someday see her man dancing with a Hoover.

"You don't give up, do you?"

Fiend just shook her head and smiled.

The Pink Phantom sped down the street, the sounds of Queen dancing out of the windows. When Fiend's squeal of delight was heard, it was clear she had her way.

Again.

Go figure.

Women.

Shoo.

One, two, Shero's coming for you. Three, four, it's time for...

Chapter Whore!

And the narrator was caught with his hands up his skirt. Bad, bad narrator. I should so be punished. Who wants to punish me? Anyone? No one? Seriously? Lame.

Where was I? Oh yes... back at Conjunction Funxion. It's almost showtime! Everyone — check your jazz hands. Call Bob Fosse! Someone whisper Macbeth back stage, stat!

The dressing room was nothing more than a cloud of hairspray and powder. The sounds of duct tape and bitches were almost deafening.

"Shoo, bitch done put its hands on my shit. I will cut you, girl!" Sugah Brown cried out.

"Honey, I just need to borrow..."

"Kitten, I don't care how much innocence you gots in that cooch a yours, you ain't borrowin' no nofin' a mine. My shit is my shit, and yo shit is ho shit, so back the fuck down from yos truly, Sugah Brown."

Tears immediately streamed down Kitten Kaboodle's cheeks.

"Oh, hookah no. Now damns it all ta Hell, you knows Sugah has a soft spot fo' tears. Ah, shit. Comes ta momma."

Sugah Brown wrapped long, chocolate arms around Kitten Kaboodle. Her sniffling and sobbing subsided.

"Look at that bitch — acting like she was the Queen of Somethin' Else. Girlfriend, I'd love to take Miss Thang down a trick or two someday," Tastey Cakes whispered into the ear of her confidante, and ex lover, Sharon Sharalike.

"That ho hears you, and you'll be permanently tucked. Don't fuck with her, Sharon. That bitch is Mean Girl defined," Miss Sharalike warned Tastey.

The door to the dressing room flew open. Emma Sea blasted through, already in costume and smoking like a French Whore.

"Girls, our superhero has arrived. I want everyone out on the stage in five for a little Shero meet and greet. Get those falsies in place and your shit strapped in. Chop chop!"

Boos and hisses rang out.

"Hookah, you know you don't say those words in a Queen's dressing room. We all gets jealous and starting weeping at the thought of those little man things between our legs," Sugah barked.

"Chop chop, bitches!" Emma hissed and exited the room.

"One of these days, that woman is gonna get her tits pinched."

Everyone broke out laughing at Kitten's innocent threat. She was the pure one of the bunch. Youth could afford such naïvity — even among a bitter bunch of Queens.

Sugah Brown stood and started for the door. "Let's gets ta steppin' bitches. We gots a supah hero ta meet and eat."

As soon as Sugah Brown stepped out of the dressing room, the rest of the queens rushed the door. Although they refused to admit the fact, each and every girl was pink with envy over Shero. Jealousy was a dessert fit for a queen, and the queens at Conjunction Funxion did dine on that snack sticky sweet daily.

"Nevah fear, Sugah Brown is here. Open up your arms, you big hunka superhero man and let me fold you into my love."

Sugah stood, center stage, her arms spread wide waiting for Shero to fall into her embrace. When no man came forward, Sugar opened her eyes and looked about.

"Where's mah man? I said, where in the fuck is that man? Ain't no one make a fool of Sugah Brown and stand ta tells about it."

The entrance to the theatre swung open. A blazing light of glory filled the room. Angels swooped down from heaven to sing an exalted tune.

The narrator puked up the six-cheeze calzone he had for lunch, thanks to the heavenly schtick going on in the story. The taste of bile and ricotta was not heavenly.

"Shero!" Kitten Kaboodle purred as she ran across the stage and practically fell into the arms of Shero.

"Oh my God, you are my hero! Would you sign my gaff?" Kitten hiked up her dress to reveal a pink gaff thong.

"Bad kitty!" Tastey Cakes ran over to Kitten and smacked her paw. Kitten dropped her dress and ran back to the corner of the stage to lick her wounds.

"I'm sorry, Shero. Kitten is a bit anxious. Actually we all are, what with meeting you and the pageant. But I want to say, for all of us, it is truly an honor to have you here to serve as the judge for our little show."

It was Sugah's turn. She cat-walked to the edge of the stage and slinked down to the house floor level.

"Bitch, ain't nothin' 'bout this show is little — 'cept maybe your talent. Now git yoself back up on the stage before Sugah has to melt you down and turn you into a broach for her shawl."

Tastey took off and ran to Kitten to calm the youngest of the Queens.

Sugah and Shero stood, practically nose to nose, tit to tit.

"So, the great and powerful Shero, as I live and bleed. I gots a question I wanna axe you. If yous so supah, why we still having to hide out in the darkest of nights? Why is it Sugah Brown can't mosey on out in the middle of the day without fearing for her life? Riddle me that, Shera."

The superhero looked deeply into Sugah Brown's dark eyes.

And pulled out his katana and sliced her throat!

I kid! I kid. There was no throat slicing. I promise. Just a stare off and a conversation. Is that better? Wouldn't want to have violence in a story about a superhero.

Sheesh and/or shoo!

Shero looked into Sugah Brown's eyes and spoke softly — making sure Sugah knew there was a line to cross and to use caution when crossing.

"It's such an honor to have been chosen to preside over this auspicious occasion. I will do my best to uphold the class and the truth you have all struggled so hard to provide our wonderful city. As for your question, Sugah Brown, I fight every day for your right to be who you are. But I cannot win that fight alone. I may be a superhero, but I am not made of miracles. I need your help to open the minds of the good people of this city."

Sugah Brown laughed. But before she could open her mouth to begin a new tirade, Jean Pool stepped in.

"Ladies, you're both pretty. Now, we have a show to put on and it's getting close to curtain. Sugah, please... " Jean gestured back toward the dressing rooms.

Sugah turned her nose up and walked off, shakin' her groove thang to the left...

POW!

To the right...

BANG!

And back again to the left...

PATING!

"I'm so sorry, Shero. Sugah Brown can get kind of intense before a big show." Jean batted her eyes at the superhero in the super dress. "Do you have any special requests, before we all retire to the dressing rooms to prepare?"

Shero smiled wide. "Well, actually I do have one tiny little request."

The two 'ladies' walked off together so that no one (not even yours truly) could hear the request.

Now that's just rude! Bitches.

Chapter Jive

...is so alive, with the sound of evil! Mwahaha. Mwahahaha! Mwahahahahaha!

Sorry, sorry. I do so get carried away when it comes to evil. And why shouldn't I? Their costumes are always soooooo sexy. So much vinyl, rubber, and fishnet. Yum!

Marvin Mayhem rubbed his hand up and down the phallic shifter of the Mayhem Mobile. The roadster was cruising at a smooth ninety-five miles an hour — in a school zone! Soooooo evil! Just as he zipped by Mother Saint Mary Catholic School, a red rubber kick ball bounced under his car and was flattened by one of the wheels. The popping sound was the death of a child's happiness. Poor, dear childhood dreams, squashed under the wheels of the machine.

Sound familiar? Eh? Eh????

His plan was in full swing. It was a simple plan. Gain access to the show, open up a can of Mayhem Spray (Patent Pending), and rid the world of enough estrogen to power the entire cast of the Vagina Monologues through menopause.

His weapon of choice? The Jizz Lobber (Patent also Pending) was his most delightful of inventions. It was the perfect of weapons. Delightful to the touch, delicious to the taste.

Mmmmm, smell the love.

The Mayhem Mobile pulled up to the curb at Conjunction Funxion. Marvin Mayhem stepped out, his steel-toed work boots ready to kick some tranny ass. He tossed the keys to the valet and slipped the shirtless, wunderkind a ten pack of condoms to park it with grace and love.

Everyone within the club was blind to what was going down. Not a soul understood that doom was about to walk into their den of iniquity, their womb of wanton, their...

Over-indulge much?

Shoo.

Had anyone held the slightest of inklings, the Elvis impersonators would have left the building long ago. Instead, the gay boys and gay girls went about their gay business as if nothing bad could ever happen in gay town.

Bow chikka bow wow!

Oh my, so Takei!

Stop!

"ID, please." The six-pack at the entry way held out his hand and requested Mayhem's ID.

"Oh, how cute. Does the over-stuffed cock sucker need to see my driver's license so he knows I'm old enough to know a whore when I see one?"

The bouncer stood and flexed every muscle in his body. What the man didn't know was he had just been shot with a fine mist of estrogen. Even before the flexing could evolve into something worse, the bouncer was reduced to tears and chocolate-fueled piques of passion. As the overly-muscled, zero body fat hunk of sex appeal lay curled up on the floor begging for lipo and a lip job, Mayhem walked casually through the door. The Jizz Lobber (patent still pending) rubbed up against Mayhem's thigh, begging for release.

Marvin rubbed the package underneath his denim. "Soon, my dear, so very soon."

The ego-sized posters of the drag queens adorned every wall of the "Palace du ChaCha". But none of the queens' likenesses compared to the nearly 3D (2.5 D? Double D?) image of Shero standing watch at the entryway to the Funxion Theatre.

The party was on and it wasn't going to stop. Glow sticks, abs, and thongs were everywhere. Every flavor of drag could be seen. Liza, Cher, Barbara — the holy trinity of tranny was represented on every level. Straight boys, straight girls, bi-boys, and tri-girls; everyone and everything collected together, under one roof, to see who would be crowned Queen of the Ball of Balls.

Little did they all know. Little. Did. They. Know.

Marvin Mayhem made his way into the theatre. His idea was to find the perfect spot with which to unleash his Jizz Lobber (patent leather — and still pending). But to his dismay, the theatre was already jam packed. It was standing room only. Even then, the 'room' was hard to come by. Eventually Mayhem found a spot near the bar to perch himself. He ordered a Donkey Punch and prepared himself for the wait.

Chapter Sixxx

Warning to all parents: This scene, as you can tell by the chapter heading, is rated XXX. Please stow away your children in the compartments above your seats. You may retrieve your children once the flight has landed. Thank you for traveling TrannyWorld Air.

"Remember girls — dicks in, tits out! Let's knock 'em dead and show 'em who's all woman!"

Kitten Kaboodle was all nerves, but was still the cutest cheerleader of the queens. Her positive attitude was infectious to all but the most jaded of girls.

"Honey, I'm gonna smash yo overies back to nevah nevah land. When Sugah Brown is done sexin' up that stage, they won't remember another girl stepped a size eleven pump across the boards. You can take that to mah bank!" Sugah snapped her fingers and flipped her head in recognition of her own favorite phrase.

"Okay ladies! It's show time! Shero, are you ready for your number?" The MC had her hand on the curtain, ready to step out into the limelight and announce the surprise song.

Shero had battled the most evil of villains, the most dastardly of mad scientists, the most stubborn of stains — but never before had this super fabulous superhero been so afraid as he was once he knew it was all very real. He was about to go out onto a public stage and perform a drag number. If this didn't ruffle feathers of the superhero leaders at SENTINEL, nothing would.

"Don't worry, sister, you're gonna knock 'em dead." Sharon Sharealike had her satin-gloved hand on Shero's arm. The feel of the satin alone was enough to soothe Shero's inner beast.

Shero smiled wide and winked a glorious false eyelash. He remembered that Fiend was out in the audience. Having his love to support him made everything easy. Even the most challenging of obstacles seemed trivial so long as his darling love was nearby.

The MC opened the curtain and stepped a stockinged heel out. The crowd when nuts. Catcalls and dollar bills flooded the stage.

"Oh darlings, darlings, we don't even know each other's names! Let's take it slow, shall we? You show me yours, and I'll show you mine!" The familiar opening line never failed to bring the audience to their feet — granted it was only to see them dropping their pants and waving their little boys in the air, but it worked every time.

"Ladies and girls of Conjunction Funxion, we have a lovely surprise for you tonight. Our opening act is not on the ballot, but is in each and every heart among you tonight. This girl needs no introduction, but to be kind, I'll at least give you her name. Everyone, I give to you — Shero!"

And the crowd went wild. Literally. It took nearly five minutes before the crowd managed to bring it down a notch enough for the sound engineer to pump out the tunes without them sounding overly distorted. When the audience realized the strumming guitar belonged to that of Brian May, they knew what they were in for.

Or did they?

As the pink velvet...

...curtain lifted, the sight of Shero, clad in a frumpy robe and house slippers, brought the entire mass of people to their feet. With his vacuum in hand, Shero reenacted the Queen video to perfection. At one point, every voice in the theatre sang along to the beloved tune.

All but one. That long voice sat in silence, fuming at the joy being shared in the name of mockery and pageantry. It had to end, and it had to end now.

Mayhem stood and pulled out the Jizz Lobber (Patent, from the Latin _patere_. Pending, from the French _pendant_.).

"You are all powerless and will kneel and kiss my boots, else you suffer the sticky sorrow of my Jizz Lobber!" Mayhem screamed out. To his surprise, no one screamed, ran, wet themselves, or bowed down. The reason was clear — the music was too loud. Instead of repeating himself, Mayhem raised the Jizz Lobber and fired. The sticky white goo shot out over the crowd, an epic money shot. As soon as the creamy liquid emulsion splatter-painted the audience, their muscles locked into place. The screams of terror went silent. Freddy Mercury's voice faded away. Shero stood on stage, staring out over the audience, his eyes nearly blinded by the spotlight.

A low laughter crescendoed into a maniacal cackle.

"It's the very Queen of Embarrassment herself — Shero. Do a dance for me, freak. Lift up your skirt and show us that massive cock I've heard so many stories about. Or better yet, unzip that dress and show us all the tits you don't have. Actually, why don't you just drop to your knees. It's a position I'm sure you've assumed plenty of times before. I just need to be able to see over your freakishly big head when your fellow embarrassments arrive on the stage. I want to see their faces as I shoot each and every one of them with my Cum Gun. Oh, I know... my language is so vulgar — it probably hurts your sensitive ears. That's okay. Those ears won't be hearing much more soon. I'll have my hands cupping them as I chicken neck your head until the original Jizz Lobber (that patent SO NOT pending) empties a — "

"Enough!" Shero ran across the stage, kicked off at the edge, and flipped into the air. As he flew into the space above the house seats, he struck a pose so incredibly beautiful, Ang Lee wept openly. The pose was new to the repertoire of Shero — the Crouching Tranny. It was as much an homage to the girls he would be judging tonight as it was a tribute to all things femme.

When Shero landed, he was feet from Mayhem, his katana in hand ready to fight to the death.

"You are no match for my jizz lobber (...nah), Shero." Mayhem's voice was low, it reached a depth of tone almost unnatural.

Shero waved his katana around in front of him, the steel singing a song so beautiful it went back in time and replaced Celine Dion's song as the Titanic's timeless anthem. Celine joined Ang Lee and wept openly.

Mayhem raised the jizz lobber as if were nothing more than a flesh-colored sword. When the katana of righteousness met the tool of evil, a dissonant music was played to shame John Cage. Shero and Mayhem backed on another around the audience.

"You go, girl!"

From the stage, the familiar chant for Shero could be heard. Shero backed Mayhem around so he could see who was serving as his cheering section. It was the show girls — with Sugah Brown leading the way.

"Smack that bitch up, Shero! Wooo, honey!" Sugah cried out over the din of the transvestite Rice Krispies.

Pow!

Crash!

Go down, you white trash!

Mayhem managed to squeeze out a load from the Jizz Lobber (patent...meh), just missing Shero's hair. The smell of the salty fluid enraged Shero as it splashed down on an unsuspecting victim behind the superhero.

Shero held his Katana of Might above his head and began spinning it in a perfect circle to make those around him weak and powerless. The blade spun down and began making figure eights around Shero's body so fast, it was nothing but a silver blur. The hum of the steel was a sweet song to anyone who had witnessed Shero fight — which was everyone.

"Come to momma, big boy. Dare you shoot your load at Shero now?"

The look of fear and confusion melted over Mayhem's face. But before he could collapse onto his knees, in a position of supplication to Shero, he pointed the Jizz Lobber (patently delicious) toward the oncoming superhero. When Mayhem pulled the trigger of the JL (PP), the love juice shot out and all ... went... into... slow... motion.

Read that back again, this time very, very slowly.

Now, wasn't that sexy? Yum!

The trajectory of the lob of jizz was perfect. Mayhem knew, with one hundred percent certainty, Shero was about to get a money shot he'd never forget.

Or so it would have gone, had the narrator not intervened.

Bwahaha!

Mayhem forgot to take into consideration the katana was spinning so quickly it was, effectively, a deadly fan. The sperm bullet came within five feet of Shero before it was summarily sent packing back to the shooter. Before Mayhem could call out to God, it rained man-juice all over his torso. The gooey liquid instantly hardened, trapping Mayhem's arms.

Mayhem made to run, but Shero was ready with a cocked fist.

Glam!

Bam!

Thank you, ma'am!

Three punches from Shero's satin-gloved hand, and Mayhem was out cold.

"Oh, bitch done got hisself a cream pie deluxe!" Brown Sugar's booming voice punctuated the moment with the much needed comic relief.

Now wasn't that sweet of Sugah Brown?

*

After Sentinel's cleanup crew removed the mess that was Mayhem, everything in Conjunction Funxion returned to, as they say, normal. The drag queens put on one hell of a show, but when it came time for Shero to announce the winner, it was Sugah Brown that stepped to the front of the stage. At first everyone assumed Sugah's ego had taken over (as usual) and she was merely saving Shero the time of making the big announcement.

Sugah had much different plans.

"Hookahs, ya'll just bess settle yo snatches down. Sugah Bown has something special ta say. And when Sugah Brown talks... "

"Every bitch bess listen!" The crowd finished Sugah's famous tag line.

"Now, we was all up in this house ta pick which of us queens out-queened all other queens. But I thinks we all knows they is only one real Queen in this town and that, mah pretty babies, is Shero. So girlfriend, I don't give a twelve inch dildo what ya'll wrote on that piece of paper, we can only crown one true woman tonight — and that is you. Shero, you is the Queen of Queens."

Annnnnd the crowd went wild. Stockings flew up in the air. Silk panties rained down from the heavens. It was a miracle. A transgender miracle!

Fade up Queen's 'We are the Champions' as the drag queens hold hands and take a bow. They all gesture for Shero to stand in the center.

Shero bows solo and then steps back to take the hands of Sugah Brown and Kitten Kaboodle.

Company bow.

Everyone does their best royal wave.

Curtain.

The End (patent pending)

#

Jack Wallen is the pen behind the saucy narrator's voice in the Shero series as well as the mad bastard who came up with screamers, moaners, and boners in the I Zombie series.

Find more information on Jack and his books at www.monkeypantz.net, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter

Books by Jack:

I Zombie Series:

My Zombie My

Die Zombie Die

Fringe Killer:

A Blade Away

Gothica

Endgame

Shero

Shero

# Gay Angels in Heaven

Alan Nayes

The chair is positioned just right, in front of the window and just below the wood ceiling beam. A rope is coiled on the carpet. In a few moments the morning sun will show its orange crown above the eucalyptus trees. The sky is clear, not a wisp of clouds anywhere. Only a crystalline sheet of blue. Yes, a perfect day.

A perfect day for a hanging...

Isabella touched the tiny gold crucifix hanging around her neck. Briefly, her eyes settled on the anguished figurine of Jesus Christ nailed in miniature to the cross. The church symbol had been a gift from her mother two months ago on her seventeenth birthday and Isabella wore it religiously, though more for her mother's sake than her own. Isabella had never considered Jesus a significant part of her life. But she couldn't deny the necklace's delicate metallic beauty.

She stepped into a crosswalk just as a Mustang convertible zipped by, forcing her to leap back to the sidewalk.

"Watch it, assholes!" she shouted, angry at how close the speeding vehicle had been to clipping her. Didn't the driver see her? She recognized Joe Bob and his football cronies—the studs of Metropolitan High. None of the athletes even acknowledged her as she gestured angrily with one finger. Which was nothing new really. Isabella had been pretty much ignored her entire high school life until she and Eileen had become an item. Yeah, well, fuck 'em all. So what if she was gay, a dyke, a lesbo—she'd heard it all the past several weeks, ever since she and Eileen had been caught making out behind the school auditorium. Some girl had snapped a photo with her cell phone and now the entire school was aware of the "gay odd couple." Fuck you, Facebook.

Isabella reached the high school a few minutes early. The last two days had been a blur for her, and she couldn't figure out why. She didn't do drugs and drank only at parties so why were the last forty-eight hours of her life an empty slate? She wanted to find Eileen and see how her best friend—and lover—was holding up under the ridicule. Damn, she hated school now. Even the teachers were looking at her differently. Let them look. What she and Eileen had was special, and if others didn't understand then fuck them too.

Isabella approached the front courtyard where students congregated before the bell to first period. She seemed to float over the ground and the odd sensation gave her a vague queasy feeling dead center in her gut. Though the sun was up and the concrete bathed in sunlight, Isabella found herself shivering. Her entire body felt cold, like she'd stepped out of freezer. Except for that tight ring of skin around her neck that burned like fire. Weird. Just nervousness, she told herself. What she needed was Eileen by her side. They were so perfect for each other: understanding their common desires to be together in spite of what Eileen's parents, the school administrators and the other students thought. Isabella's English teacher had even recommended counseling. For what—because they were in love?

Ahead near the entrance, Isabella spotted two students that, until the now infamous photo had spread across the student body like a runaway virus, she'd considered her friends. Becky was a cheerleader, and Isabella had never held it against her that she dated Joe Bob. Next to the pretty blonde, Rose, a brunette, was dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex.

"Hi," Isabella said, attempting to be cheerful.

Both girls ignored her. _What's with this? All we did was kiss_. Isabella gazed a moment longer at Rose. Why was she crying? Hey, Mondays were bad but not worth weeping over. Try going through what she and Eileen had been subjected to. It was enough to make a girl want to—the queasy sensation squeezed more at Isabella's midsection making her feel as if she'd been sucker punched. A cold steely feeling followed in its wake. Did she have breakfast this morning? She couldn't recall. This memory lapse was irritating. It was as if Saturday morning to today had become a blank void in her life. She'd find Eileen and together they would share a snack before first period. Which reminded her—there was something she needed to talk over with her girlfriend. But she was having difficulty concentrating even on that. She just knew she had to hurry and it was important. _Very important_.

Isabella adjusted her pack and strolled on past the two girls. "Bye," she said.

Still the girls didn't look her way, making Isabella feel all the more like a high school pariah. Screw 'em both. Whatever was upsetting Rose wasn't her or Eileen's problem.

Just before Isabella walked out of earshot she heard Becky say, "Supposedly they'd made some sort of love pact."

"God, how could someone do something that crazy?" Rose asked, visibly upset.

"Now we'll never know," Becky frowned.

The two girls vanished! Whoa, what just happened? Isabella froze, staring around her. She was in the school hallway in front of the locker she and Eileen shared. How did she arrive here so fast? One moment she was standing outside getting the cold shoulder from Becky and Rose and now she was here. She didn't even remember walking in. That was really strange. But Isabella's momentary confusion was rapidly replaced with anger when she began to turn the combination lock. "Shit," she cursed. The lock had been manually busted open. _Our notes_.

Isabella looked up and down the hall. Students moved past her without giving her a second glance. She tried smiling at a boy from her homeroom class, but he stared right past her. "John," she called, thinking she could ask him if he'd seen anyone messing with her locker. But he didn't even slow down to greet her.

Isabella tried telling herself that perhaps he hadn't heard her. But how could he not see her? Blowing it off, she turned her attention back to the locker. Inside, she found what she'd always feared the most since her relationship with Eileen had bloomed. All the private notes she and Eileen had written to each other were missing. Damn, the bastards. Why couldn't the school just leave her and Eileen alone? Isabella sensed her eyes watering. It wasn't fair. Those letters were theirs to read and share—no one else's. If the romantic missives showed up on Facebook she would sue for sure. And poor Eileen. She was so sensitive and sweet. Isabella wasn't sure how Eileen would respond. More than ever, Isabella needed to find her and talk to her, before Eileen did anything rash—another wave of freezing cold washed over Isabella, causing her to shiver strongly. Again, that worry was back, like she was supposed to warn Eileen about something, but her mind was blank. Was it regarding their love notes?

Isabella folded both arms over her chest squelching a momentary tinge of panic in her midsection. They were just notes, she reminded herself—very private, yes—but not enough to make her feel so utterly despondent. And where the hell was Eileen? They always met here before class. _Administration_. Yes, Isabella would report the locker break-in at the principal's office, then she would go find her friend and lover.

"Oh crap," she muttered. Sauntering down the hall came Joe Bob and a buddy. She tried to stare daggers at him but he simply looked past her. _Hey, dumbass, you almost hit me out there on the street_ , Isabella wanted to scream at him. But she kept her mouth shut. Why stoop to their level?

"Yeah, rumor is one on Saturday morning and the other one yesterday," the jock was saying.

"Just a couple of lesbians," his buddy said.

Joe Bob shrugged lamely. "Still, maybe if everyone had laid off them..." then they were out of earshot.

Puzzled, Isabella stared after the demeaning football players. Had Joe Bob actually just sounded remorseful? That would be a first. This day was really turning out strange. She couldn't wait to tell Eileen. Maybe the school would finally leave her and Eileen alone. It wasn't like they had some disease—they were gay lovers, that's all. Isabella still hadn't confided in her parents, and she wasn't looking forward to their response. Eileen's father had not taken the news well. But it was Eileen's life to live as she chose.

And my life too.

The sick sensation in Isabella's gut refused to leave on the way to the office. What was wrong with her? And on top of her upset stomach, a burning in her throat was making it difficult to swallow. Damn. Shitty Monday was taking on a whole new meaning.

Isabella lurched. It happened again! She gazed around her. She was standing outside one of the school counselor's offices.

I didn't even open the door!

Inside the office she heard two voices—Ms. Jenkins, one of the counselors and a man's voice she didn't recognize.

"No, they were both good students , As and Bs," Ms. Jenkins was saying, though her voice sounded upset.

The man cleared his throat. "What about this pact?"

"That they would go together?" The counselor paused a long moment. "I was told the two girls were gay. And recently they'd been subjected to some unflattering comments and bullying."

Isabella imagined the man nodding because his next statement came out somber and heavy. "Could that have caused them to..." His voice trailed off.

_What the hell were they talking about?_ Isabella strained to hear more but was overwhelmed by a wave of lightheadedness. She needed to sit down before she passed out. Finding the nearest chair, she slumped into it and waited, gathering her thoughts. Bits and pieces were returning—a clear blue sky, a scimitar slice of orange sun, green trees, a rope, then...nothing. Except this overpowering desire to find Eileen. And warn her...but about what? Were the students planning some mean joke on them both? _The love notes!_ That must be it. If the other kids tried to publish them, she would kill.

Isabella looked up just as the man in a suit and Ms. Jenkins walked out of her office. Isabella stood but neither the counselor nor the man looked her way. _How fucking rude is that?_

"I'm going to try to talk with the parents again," the man in the suit said. Damn, he sounded like a detective, Isabella realized while the sinking sensation returned to her chest.

"I so wish this could have been averted," the counselor was saying and only now did Isabella see the woman had been crying. Ms. Jenkin's eyes looked puffy and red.

_My breath!_ Isabella tried to inhale but it was like the air had become thicker, almost like glue. She stood and reached for the counselor and found herself in the auditorium. _How the hell?_ —she looked around her. The lights were off but she knew where the far aisle between the seats led. Out back. Slowly, hesitantly, she began walking down the gradual declivity toward the empty stage. At least her lightheadedness had left her, but in its place a black cloud of dread settled around her. _Eileen_. Suddenly Isabella knew where she would find her lover. Out back where they always met—their secret rendezvous, the only place on school grounds they could call their own. No longer walking, but running, Isabella dashed up the side steps onto the stage and raced behind the curtains for the rear exit. She reached to push open the door, but instantly she was standing outside. Panic and confusion ripped at her as she looked around her. She saw two empty employee maintenance vans and a brick wall, beyond which was the athletic field. Only last Friday, right where she stood now, she and Eileen had shared a long passionate kiss. How she wanted to hold her friend in her arms now. She whirled sensing someone behind her. _Eileen!_ No, Isabella was alone. Her gaze found the wall beside the exit door and anger blasted through her like a deadly poison.

DYKES.

"You bastards!" she screamed in rage at the spray painted graffiti.

Yet when Isabella clawed at the crudely written message on the wall, she froze in absolute disbelief as she watched her digits passed right through the cruel word and the brick underneath.

Panic tore at her insides. Without even taking a step, Isabella was suddenly inside a dark room. Clutching both arms across her chest, she shivered wondering why the darkness was so damn cold. Even colder than the high school. Deep inside her, a new fear had taken root and she was powerless to stop its growth from crawling under her skin like an out-of-control thorny vine. She could feel the prickly sensation of goose bumps spreading over her forearms. Suddenly she remembered what she'd wanted to warn her friend about. _Don't do it. Please, Eileen, my love, don't do it. It's not worth it. Don't—_

The pair of coffins sat on two separate tables at one end of the room. A single ceiling light shone down on the open caskets like a forlorn beacon from an old lighthouse. For a split second, Isabella stared down at the tiny gold crucifix. In intricate detail she could see the Savior's tiny hands mercilessly nailed to the cross. But He hadn't saved her. Nor had He saved Eileen.

Isabella took a slow, deliberate step toward the light. Waves of intense gloom washed over her, making her feel like she was drowning. _But you can't drown a dead..._

Their pact had started out innocent enough. If the two girls could not spend their lives in this world together without being exposed to such emotional cruelty, then together they would leave to a place where peace and tranquility would be guaranteed—or at least that's what she'd been told the Bible promised.

"I always want us to be together," Isabella had vowed to Eileen. And her lover had repeated the vow. Last Friday after they had been discovered kissing, Eileen had been more emotionally distraught than Isabella could stand to see her. So they'd made their pact to _leave together._

Isabella moved nearer the caskets, dread eating at her insides like starving termites. What had she told her best friend? _I'll go first_. First? What had she meant...suddenly she knew.

"No!" she screamed. Had she really done it? The constriction encircling her neck smothered her cry of terror. Isabella flew toward the first casket. Please, God, make this be a mistake, she pleaded, squeezing the crucifix so violently she pierced her palm with the points of the tiny cross. She stared down into the open coffin at the pale face with closed eyes. _Her own face. No! No! No!_

"Hi, love," a gentle voice said.

Isabella gaped at the figure as it sifted through the solid mortuary wall. A petite nose, a chin, lips, pretty blue eyes, hands, feet, torso—Eileen appeared in a dark dress and walked over to her. "So you finally arrived," she said. "I was afraid you weren't going to show."

Isabella stared in horror at the thick red welts around her lover's neck. "We really did it, didn't we?"

Eileen tried to smile. "We promised. We had a pact."

"We were wrong. I went to school to try to warn you. Don't do it. I was too late."

Eileen giggled awkwardly, making that sweet sound that so attracted Isabella. "I can't believe I really did it," she said lightly running a hand over the angry abrasions on her neck. "You went first. Then yesterday, me. . .I just saw our parents."

"Upset, I bet."

Eileen nodded her head. "It's bad. Really bad."

"My little sister?"

"Can't stop crying."

Isabella felt Eileen reach for her and watched in morbid fascination as Eileen passed right through her casket.

With a barely perceptible motion of her chin, Eileen said, "I'm right next to you," indicating the casket beside Isabella's.

Isabella jumped when Eileen clasped her hands. Her fingers felt normal, solid, like a person's, even though she'd just seen her friend pass straight through the mortuary wall. This wasn't happening, Isabella screamed inside.

"We really hung ourselves," Isabella said, her tone filled with infinite anguish.

"It's not so bad, is it?"

"Yes it is. The rest of our lives...wasted."

"No one will ever make fun of us again."

"This was a huge mistake." Isabella felt Eileen's embrace, but her friend's touch only compounded the cold. "We can never go back," Isabella mourned. Her eyes roved to the caskets. "Never ever."

"But we'll always be together," Eileen replied, yet Isabella saw the tears on her lover's cheeks, and her expression of despair.

Isabella squeezed her eyes shut, praying with all her might she would open them and find herself alive in Eileen's arms behind the high school auditorium. It would be Friday again and together they would scrub off the nasty graffiti and then bravely return to class and ignore the stares and taunts. _Please, please let this be._

"I'm sorry, baby." Eileen began to pull Isabella away from the caskets. "We have to leave now."

"Where?"

"Why, you know."

Isabella cast one last wistful glance at her still body. "I don't think I'm ready to go yet."

Eileen shrugged sadly. "We have to—do you think there are gay angels in heaven?"

Isabella fingered the gold crucifix. "I don't know. It would be terrible if there weren't."

Eileen nodded wanly, looking one last time at her casket. "It would be really sad."

Along with her best friend and lover, Isabella felt herself floating away.

*

A perfect day for a hanging...

Isabella opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented. A perfect day for a hanging? Bullshit, she mouthed, staring out her bedroom window and embracing the sensations of absolute relief cascading over her. She was alive and comfortable in her own bed. _Thank you!_ Rising above the eucalyptus hedge, the sun shone almost directly into her face. The rays were warm and refreshing and already the bad dream was breaking apart in imaginary droplets like oil on a watery surface. It had seemed so real. _Our pact!_ She thought of Eileen and the humiliation they had been subjected to at school. Yet she realized no amount of taunting or hazing would be worth...she looked for her chair. It was under her desk where it belonged. The rope—only a wicked vision from the dream. Downstairs she could hear her mother in the kitchen whipping up a Saturday morning breakfast for her and her younger sister. Very soon, Isabella realized, she would have to have a serious talk with her parents.

The savory scent of a frying omelet wafted under her nose. _I am hungry_. Isabella smiled. It felt so good to be alive! From this point on, she would take pride in who she was.

_Eileen!_ Oh my God. Surely she hadn't taken their pact seriously. Isabella feverishly dialed her companion's number.

Eileen answered after the first ring. "I had a weird dream," she blurted out before Isabella had said a word.

"Me too."

"Feel like talking?"

"Sure." Isabella sensed the next question before Eileen even asked it.

"Do you think there are gay angels in heaven?"

Isabella felt the gold crucifix against her chest and grinned. "Yes!"

#

Alan Nayes writes across all genres, topics, and life styles.

Read more about Alan Nayes and his books at www.anayes.com

Books by Alan:

Barbary Point

Gargoyles (Resurrection Trilogy, Book One)

Plague (Resurrection Trilogy, Book Two)

The Unnatural

Smilodon

Girl Blue

Return to Underland

# Moon Blossoms

P.J. Jones

Bibi fluttered erratically behind the catteyas. Though the rainbow-hued flowers were in full bloom this time of year and an iridescent sheen of dew clung to their soft petals, Bibi paid them little heed. She was too busy fretting over Naima.

She should have been here by now. Naima had been on the hunt all morning. As their colony's fiercest hunter, Naima was always the one sent first into danger, always the one willing to make sacrifices. Ironically, Naima's daring made her the one sprite despised by the colony elders.

Just then, Bibi's lover burst through the hanging vines of pearl blooms, shaking a coat of mist off her amber wings and golden hair. Naima's bronze skin shone beneath the rays of sunlight, reflecting the contours of her toned arms and smoothly muscled thighs. A bronze bow was strapped to her back, and she gripped her sword in one hand, a heavy sack in the other. When a slight breeze caught her hair, making the silken threads dance wildly across her back and shoulders, Naima looked more magnificent than a goddess. But something troubled her. Her hazel eyes that normally shone with specks of green and gold darkened to the color of rust.

"Where have you been?" Bibi nearly choked out the words.

Naima fixed her with a pointed stare, then sighed while dropping the sack onto a nearby flower petal. "I told the others," she said with an edge of finality to her voice.

Despite the moisture in the heavy forest air, Bibi's mouth went dry. Terror coiled around her limbs and seized her wings as she dropped to a nearby petal. "You did what?" she rasped.

"I told them about us." Naima fluttered down and knelt before Bibi until they were just a breath apart. "I'm tired of pretending. Tired of lying."

Bibi opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Tears welled up in her eyes.

Naima drew her calloused hand down Bibi's cheek, then wiped away a tear with the pad of her thumb. "Don't cry. You wanted me to tell. I could see it in your eyes the last time we made love."

"They will banish us," Bibi cried. "Predators will find us if we live alone."

Naima leaned closer and gently traced the contour of Bibi's lips with her finger. "Then we will go someplace safe."

Bibi's eyes fluttered shut and a soft sigh escaped her lips as she leaned into Naima's embrace. It was true. She had wanted Naima to tell the others. She was tired of pretending, too. Besides, she knew it was the only way to escape a union with Kaj. Her mother had been trying to force her to bond with him, ever since he announced he would make Bibi the head of his tarin.

Bibi did not care that Kaj had the strongest hive in all the colony. Not that he was destined to be the colony elder. She did not care that as his mate, she would preside over nine other females and be the bearer of his daughters. Bibi had no desire to mate with Kaj.

Not ever again.

When Bibi opened her eyes, Naima's hard gaze had softened, but a fire still shone beneath her golden irises. Bibi knew Naima loved her. Of that she was sure. At that moment, she realized it didn't matter that they would be outcasts, for neither of them would be alone as long as they had each other.

"Daughter!"

Naima released Bibi when she heard the shrill scream. Bibi's mother, Anu, was meddlesome and manipulative. Anu had been trying to cajole Bibi into accepting Kaj as a mate. Kaj, the lazy, egotistical slog whose tarin already numbered nine females. How many more wives did he need to collect? He already had more than enough to serve his every whim. And rumor had it that his whims were often sadistic and cruel. Bibi was too delicate for the likes of Kaj. She wouldn't survive a full season as his mate.

Yet, Anu was willing to sacrifice her daughter to this barbarian just so her family could rise in status.

"Daughter!" If possible, Anu's tone became more shrill.

Naima heaved a sigh before standing. "Your mama calls you." She looked down at Bibi and silently cursed.

Bibi's wide amethyst eyes made her appear so fragile, like a butterfly caught in a spider's web.

Naima pulled Bibi up beside her and wrapped one arm around her shoulders to steady her trembling limbs.

"Let go of her!" Anu screamed as she burst through the pearl blooms while thrusting a first toward Naima. "You are a sin! A sin against The Elements!" After landing on the flower petal with jarring force, she seized Bibi's wrist and jerked the girl to her side.

"Mama, please." Bibi broke free of her mother's grasp.

Naima saw where Bibi had inherited her fair skin, delicate features and silky, indigo hair. If Anu would just drop that annoyingly persistent look of hostility about her, she might even pass for a beautiful woman on the rare occasions when she smiled.

Anu narrowed her cold gaze at her daughter. "The others are convening. You must plead your case before you are cast off."

Bibi turned to Naima. "What am I to say?"

"Do not look to her," Anu hissed. "You'll do as I tell you. " She waved a hand toward Naima while piercing her with a dark scowl. "You will say this witch lies, so that she may shame us."

Bibi shook her head. "No, mama. She does not lie. I love her."

Anu gasped, splaying her hand across her heart as if she had been pierced by an arrow. "What are you saying? Are you saying that you would defy the laws of nature? You will be cast out, and your shame will taint me and your sisters."

Bibi moved beside Naima and took her hand. She raised her chin while narrowing her gaze at her mother. It was the most beautiful act of defiance Naima had ever seen. "What shame is there in loving another female while the rest of you fight over a few stupid slogs?"

Anu's eyes widened before she let out a horrifying scream, making her sound as if she were being eaten alive by a nest of starving thorn wasps. She sprang off the flower and ripped a thorn off of a nearby gavee plant, then flung it at Bibi.

Naima jumped in front of Bibi, easily deflecting the projectile with her blade.

"Go!" Anu spat. "And never come back. You are no longer my daughter." She turned and flew back through the pearl blooms.

Naima wrapped Bibi in a fierce hug. "I'm sorry."

Bibi pulled out of the embrace, determination in the hard lines of her jaw. "We must go."

Naima nodded and then clasped Bibi's hand. "We'll find safety. I promise."

*

That night they nestled down in a thatch of prigs. Naima held Bibi while she wept into her shoulder. When Bibi's mouth finally sought Naima's, they made love, bathed under the soft glow of humming fire mites.

After several days travel, they carved out a dwelling among a razberry bramble. Though the spiders were many, they were harmless, preferring to ignore the sprites and feast on the flesh of the rosy razberry fruit. Naima stripped away the thorns on the inside of their shelter, and Bibi layered the cozy den with soft colorful catteya petals.

Naima hunted in the early morning while Bibi picked berries within the safety of their shelter. During the day they sang and frolicked in the nearby spring, and at night they made love beneath the light of the pale moon.

As the days lengthened and the night air grew warmer, Naima sensed a change within Bibi. She became withdrawn, preferring to watch the sun set in solitude rather than take flight with Naima. But when they made love, Bibi clung to Naima, digging her nails into her flesh as if she feared she would slip through her grasp like the fragile petals of a moon blossom in a soft summer breeze.

All the while, Bibi refused to speak of, or weep for, the family she'd lost.

Dark thoughts troubled Naima as she returned home from the hunt one morning with a spindle rabbit tucked under her arm. As she hacked through overgrown snake moss that draped like a heavy curtain across the bramble, she paid little heed to the stiffness in her shoulders or the aching in her tired wings. She'd been too occupied worrying over Bibi. Naima feared that once again, she'd find Bibi sulking on the moss rocks, staring vacantly into the water as tadpoles swam by her feet. This was how she'd found Bibi for the past several days after she returned from the hunt.

Naima had hoped a fresh stew would cheer her mate, but the gloom over Naima's spirit told her otherwise.

Naima, having been bred as a warrior, never knew her true family. But Bibi had been raised within the sheltered hives of the gatherers among her mother, her father, his other mates, and Bibi's eleven sisters. Bibi had not seen her family in nearly a full moon. She obviously longed for them now.

Naima feared her mate was thinking of returning to the colony. She worried about what would happen to Bibi if she did return. Would the colony accept her, or would she be an outcast? Would she be forced to mate with Kaj? And what would Naima do then? How could she live without her mate? Though her heart felt weighted with a thousand stones, Naima knew she had to speak to Bibi. She had to ask her if she wished to return to her family.

Naima hung the rabbit on a bramble branch and went in search of Bibi. To her surprise, Bibi was neither on the moss rocks, nor was she in the bramble. She was not among the brightly colored catteyas or the field of orange star flowers. Growing ever frantic, Naima continued her search well after dusk. Not a stone or petal was left unturned. And when the moon had finally risen and the forest became aglow with moon blossoms and fire mites, Naima knew Bibi had returned to her family.

After slinging her sword onto the ground, Naima heaved herself onto a patch of butterfly grass as a sob claimed her breath. As part of her hunter's training, Naima had been taught that crying was a sign of weakness, yet she could not stop the flow of tears that overcame her. She cried harder, wracked by pain and grief as an infinite well of sorrow filled a hollow void in her chest. What was left for her now that her mate had left? How could she go on living?

Perhaps, she thought, Anu was right. Their love was a sin against nature. Perhaps that was why Bibi left. And as her punishment for her sins, Naima would be an outcast and alone, heartbroken for loving a woman who was not meant for her.

A muted cry sounded somewhere in the distance.

Naima shot up and drew her sword. "Bibi!" she called before rushing forward.

Her hunter's ears knew the sound had come from the spring, but when she flew to the moss rocks, Bibi was not there.

Had she imagined Bibi's cry?

Naima hissed when she saw it. How had she missed the carnivus plant the numerous times she and Bibi swam in the spring? Though it was nearly obscured beneath the shadow of the large, leafy himiwa bush, its eerie glow was hard to miss now. The blue light emanated upward from its poisonous roots, pulsing across swollen membranes and ending at the tips of flowery petals. The plant was closed now, its lips sealed tight with a sticky substance Naima knew would be nearly impossible to penetrate. Beneath the plant's translucent petals, Naima made out Bibi's shadow struggling to break free.

With a primal roar, Naima unsheathed her sword and began hacking at the base of the plant. She fought off her aches and pains and devastated the stalk, stopping only long enough to dislodge her sword from the sticky glue that seeped from the plant's roots. After what felt like hours, the carnivus finally fell over on its side, its petals falling open with a shudder.

Naima's heart stopped when Bibi rolled out of the flower, her matted hair and reddened skin glistening with poisonous goo. Naima dropped her sword and gently scooped Bibi into her arms. She bathed Bibi in the spring and treated her burns with the healing nectar from wana roots.

*

After three interminable days and nights, Bibi stirred from her deep slumber, her reddened flesh now a soft pink like the guavii shells that lined the rocky soil in the bed of the spring.

Naima was holding Bibi's hand when her violet eyes fluttered open. Bibi smiled and then squeezed her lover's hand. Naima leaned over and brushed a soft kiss across Bibi's cracked lips. She helped Bibi sit and then held a pod of nectar to her mouth. Though Bibi drank hungrily, she continued to hold Naima in her gaze, as if she was afraid Naima would vanish if she blinked.

But Naima had made a promise to The Elements on the night she'd found Bibi clinging to life. She promised that if they allowed Bibi to live, Naima would strive each day to prove that her love for Bibi was not a sin against nature, but a thing of beauty, as natural as the song of the humming bees and the steady drizzle of a spring shower.

*

After several more days, Bibi was finally strong enough to fly to the spring. Naima left her perched on a moss rock and then flew off to set gully traps nearby. Naima never wandered from Bibi's side for long. She hadn't hunted in several moons, which meant their primary sustenance was berries and fish.

Bibi didn't mind as long as she and Naima were together. Though Naima took every opportunity to lavish her with kisses, her beautiful huntress rarely smiled now. And when Naima did smile, Bibi could see that the light in her eyes was still dull and weary.

Naima had changed since that night Bibi had been drawn in by the carnivus. Bibi had been so tired that day and the flower's beautiful and mesmerizing bloom of lavender with pink and gold tips beckoned her to rest on its soft petals. She readily agreed, and sleep had come to her so easily while nestled within the cocoon of the flower's enveloping warmth.

When she awoke, Bibi knew that she'd been tricked. Her body ached and her flesh burned as if she was being consumed by thousands of tiny fire beetles. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she remembered her mother warning her about such predators. But the colony warriors had long ago cut down all the carnivus plants surrounding their hives.

Bibi had screamed and kicked, but the more she fought her captor, the more her flesh burned. If it hadn't been for Naima, she would have died a slow and agonizing death. A soft sob escaped Bibi's throat as her hand rested on her womb.

Naima had not only saved Bibi's life that night. As Bibi worried over the fate of the child that grew inside her, she could not contain the flow of tears.

"Why are you crying?"

Bibi looked up to see Naima hovering above her, a look of worry etched in the drawn lines of her mouth.

Unable to look Naima in the eyes any longer, Bibi gazed down at a small slug working its way across the moss. "I did not see you there."

Naima fluttered down beside her and grasped her hand. "Do you miss your family?"

Bibi shook her head. "No."

"Be truthful with me, Bibi," Naima said sternly before dropping her voice to a soothing whisper. "I will not be angry."

"I don't miss any of them," Bibi said through a sob before burying her tear-soaked face in Naima's embrace.

How could she miss them? Not after what they'd done to her. She still remembered that fateful night her mother and sisters had lured her away from the hive to the lush field of star flowers. Then they left her alone—with him.

She'd tried to fight him but she could not. The nectar her mother and sisters had shared with her made her limbs feel hollow and weak. Like a hungry carnivus plant, Kaj took his fill of her several times, until her body felt bruised and broken.

"Then why are you crying?" Naima asked as she tenderly kissed Bibi's forehead. "Is it something I've done? Do you grow weary of our simple life together?"

Bibi had been dreading this day. How would Naima react? Would she abandon Bibi and her bastard child? Would she fly back to the colony and seek revenge against Kaj and Bibi's family and risk her own death in the process?

Bibi let out a slow, shaky breath as she prepared to reveal her dark secret. "It will not be just the two of us, Naima."

"What?" Naimi dropped Bibi's hand and pulled back.

Bibi placed her hand on her womb, feeling the life stir inside her. "I'm with child."

Naima's jaw fell open. "How?"

Bibi tried desperately to quell the fear that twisted a knot in her chest. "Kaj raped me when you were on the hunt."

Narrowing her eyes, Naima spoke through a hiss. "But you were always in the care of your mother, your sisters."

"I know."

Naima let out a strangled cry, then jumped to her feet while clenching her fists at her sides.

"I will kill him."

The finality in Naima's voice left Bibi with no doubt that she could kill Kaj, and Bibi knew what would happen to her then. Kaj's father was an elder. The colony warriors would swarm Naima.

Clutching a hand to her heart, Bibi cried out. "You'll be killed!"

Bibi could not bear the thought of Naima surrendering her life, not even for the sake of her honor. She backed away from Naima, from the only person she'd ever truly loved, and took flight. Bibi knew she couldn't risk her child's life by chancing another encounter with a predator. She flew to the only other place she knew she'd be safe, to her new home among the brambles. Once inside, she fell onto the flower petals in a heap of sobs.

*

Naima returned to the brambles after the sun's warm rays had vanished into the darkness. After she'd torn up many roots and hacked away at defenseless branches, she'd finally allowed herself a moment of reason. Though she wanted nothing more than to see Kaj's head on a stake, she knew if she sought revenge, the colony warriors would have no choice but to kill her.

And then what would become of Bibi and the child? No, she must not go back to the colony. Not ever. For if she did, Naima knew she would not be able to keep from killing Kaj. Besides, she already had her revenge by taking Bibi and the child away from him.

She found Bibi sleeping atop the petals of their nest. A stab of guilt pierced Naima's heart when she noticed Bibi's red and swollen eyelids and tearstained cheeks. She and Bibi had both suffered enough since their departure from the colony. Now it was time to begin their life anew.

She lay beside Bibi and wrapped her in a tight embrace while feathering kisses across her neck and the tips of her wings. When the soft folds of Bibi's wings began to flutter and hum in response, Naima turned Bibi toward her and stared earnestly into her violet eyes.

"I will not seek revenge. I will keep you and the child safe. I promise."

Bibi's eyes widened and her lips parted. "You'd care for Kaj's child?"

Naima nodded. "She's your child, and I'll love her as if she is mine as well."

The smile that lit Bibi's face was brighter than a thousand moon blossoms. Her joy warmed Naima's heart and spirit, and she knew without a doubt that their love was not a sin against nature, but a thing of beauty.

Naima pressed Bibi into the soft petals while feathering kisses across her face and neck. She dipped further into the hollow between her breasts, and lower to the soft skin around her belly. She lingered on her lover's womb before dipping her face beneath her dark thatch of curls.

*

Bibi cradled the tiny babe while resting her head against Naima's bosom. Naima enveloped them both in the warmth of her strong arms. They sat beneath the moonlight, watching the firemites dance among the thorn bushes. The babe cooed and reached out, trying to swat the bright pins of light with her chubby hand.

Bibi felt Naima tense behind her and she sat with a start as the thorn bushes rustled with movement. Bibi shielded the babe while scooting into the bramble. Naima had already flown in front of them and unsheathed her sword.

Two other huntresses emerged from the shadows. Bibi recognized Feira from her wavy flame-colored hair and large, crystal eyes, and Ro, whose mischievous smile seemed to be permanently etched into her sun-kissed skin.

Bibi's eyes widened when she saw that Feira's swollen womb was near to bursting. Bibi knew Feira carried a boy. The few huntresses who conceived always bore sons, while the gatherer sprites birthed daughters.

Bibi blinked hard and then broke into a slow and knowing smile when she saw how Ro clutched Feira's hand tightly within her own.

#

Known best for her crude parodies, PJ Jones proves that she has a sensitive side, too.

Find her online at http://pjjoneswrites.com/

Follow her on  Facebook and Twitter

Books by P.J.:

Driving Me Nuts!

Romance Novel

The Vampire Handbook

Melvin the Dry Cleaning Zombie and Vampire Shoe Warehouse

Attack of the Fairytale Zombies!

# "Urbs in horto"

M. Edward McNally

"City in a garden," motto of Chicago, Illinois.

The problem with drinking wine was that it didn't lend itself to making a point. A guy could throw back a beer, slam the bottle or mug down on the table with a resounding "Clunk!" and then say something dramatic. Even if he got a tinny clatter from an emptied can, he could crush it for emphasis, eyes steely and forearm bulging.

But after Garth tossed his last sip of a precocious merlot with an oaky bouquet (backed by notes of plum and cherry) down the hatch, and slammed the meaty part of his hand on the tall table, all he got from his glass was a feeble ping. Totally took the wind out of:

"I think Leslie is cheating on me."

Bogart would have rolled his eyes, but they were narrowed over one sagging shoulder of Garth's suit coat, looking at a TV behind the bar. The Sox had a man on second with two out in the fourth, and they were hanging just a run behind Detroit. The kid they brought up from Triple-A when Carter blew out his elbow was having a heck of debut. Four innings, one hit, just one earned run, but another had scored on an error in the second when Phippsie lost a pop-up behind third in the sun at Tiger Stadium. Friggin' Detroit. Bogart knew that as an American he was supposed to feel bad for the Motor City, the auto industry, unemployment and urban decay, on and on and on. But this was Chicago, and Detroit had a two game lead in the AL Central. Screw the Tigers. And screw the Lions, Red Wings, and Pistons while you're at it.

"No she isn't...was that a ball?"

"Called strike two," Garth said, as he was looking at another TV behind the bar over the shoulder of Bogart's Frank Thomas replica jersey. "The kid's getting that call on the outside too, can't really complain. And she is cheating on me."

"They need to put the sound up in here," Bogart said, taking a moment to look around the bar while the Detroit pitcher stepped off the mound and kicked the dirt. Back when he was still working IT at the law firm around the corner on La Salle, Bogart and Garth had snuck down to this place regularly whenever the Sox were playing a day game midweek. It had been more of a sports bar then, with picnic tables in the barroom and big baskets for all sorts of condiments, including vinegar for the potato wedge fries that had been a specialty. The place had gone to seed in the last couple years and had a "bistro" quality to it now. Little round tables so tall people had to sit on stools, with barely enough room for two drinks and one elbow on top. The TVs above the bar still had the local game on, but one screen was half-blocked by a fern and the sound was on so low it was only one part of the murmur of voices and clinking flatware. Even at late lunchtime in the middle of the week, there were couples all around making goo-goo eyes at each other. Nobody was just pounding down a brat and a brew, checking scores before scurrying back to work.

"What the hell happened to this place?" Bogart asked. "Dude, this is a lot of people trying to get laid for a Wednesday."

"It's the decline of Western Civilization." Garth looked miserably at his empty glass. His hair was thinning out on top and Bogart could see sad, pasty scalp when Garth was looking down. Bogart held up his bottle of Pabst at the waitress and dipped it towards Garth's empty, too. She nodded from behind the bar and by the time Torres grounded out and the game went to commercial, she dropped off two fresh ones. Bogart smirked as Garth furtively watched her comely hindquarters in black slacks re-cross the room, hips swinging as she maneuvered around tables.

"Okay," Bogart took a swig. At least they still had Pabst here, not just Stella and Heineken. "I'll bite. Why do you think Leslie is cheating on you?"

Garth frowned at his merlot. "Did I tell you we were trying to have a kid?"

"No. I mean, you guys were talking about it before Christmas, when you came over for...for that playoff game."

"God damned Bears."

"Yeah. But I thought the baby stuff was just talk."

Garth shook his head. "We decided to start for real in February. It's been three months of calendars and thermometers and...I don't even know what to call it...yoga? Downward dog? Just weird positions. I pulled a hammy in March, couldn't sit at my desk without my foot up on a briefcase."

"See, that's why the pros stretch before the big game."

Garth took a strong pull off his dainty wine glass. "So a week ago, I'm out of floss."

"Floss?"

"Dental floss. Don't you floss?"

"Well, maybe if I've got a sunflower seed stuck."

"When Leslie does the shopping, she always forgets to buy me floss. She buys _herself_ floss, but she likes that cinnamon-flavored shit that makes my friggin' teeth hurt."

"Tell me you don't think your wife is cheating because she forgets to buy you dental floss."

"Can I finish?"

"Yeah, go." The game was back on, and both Bogart and Garth went back to watching it over each other's shoulders. The kid from triple A was starting to look comfortable on the mound. Confident. Young Cuban south paw named Jardín.

"So, even though I hate that cinnamon crap, I go into Leslie's bathroom drawer. Where I'm not allowed to go, by the way. There's like six drawers in my own house that I am not permitted to open, on penalty of dismemberment."

"Right, like you let her near that giant footlocker of porn in the garage."

"That has a padlock on it. I'm a gentleman. So I open up _her_ bathroom drawer, and guess what I find?"

"If it's dental floss, this is going to be the lamest story ever. Shit, he walked the guy. C'mon kid, pull it together."

"Birth control pills."

Bogart looked away from the TV at Garth.

"Birth control pills?"

Garth nodded. "Yeah. And they were taken right up to the day, too. It was Thursday. The other little plastic doohickeys were all empty."

"This is after you guys had been trying to have a kid for three months?"

"Yeah. And no, they weren't old pills, she got rid of those back in February. Plus, they were right on top of everything. Even the floss. Last thing she'd put back in the drawer that morning."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

They both took another drink, only glancing at the game.

"So what do you think?" Garth asked. "I mean, that's basically why I asked you down here, Bo. To ask you about this."

"To ask me? Why?"

Garth stared. "Well, because none of my straight friends know shit about women."

*

Up until two years ago, Leslie had never met anybody named "Hortense," and she'd always figured that moniker had gone the way of Sylvester, Talullah, and other names people just weren't named anymore. She had never really thought about that sort of thing until she started going through lists of baby names online.

She and Hortense had lunch at the same time most days, so they wound up eating together several times a week. As an investment director and the head teller, that meant they didn't just brownbag it in the break room, but usually hit one of the posh little spots on Michigan Ave. They alternated who picked where to eat, and who treated. Wednesday, Hortense chose the French place and Leslie sighed wearily at the thought of a $14 goat cheese salad.

They talked about a book they'd both happened to read, then gossiped, just a little, about the fact that the branch manager was _totally_ trying to lose weight to impress the most recent perky, blonde teller he had hired.

"Maybe a hundred pounds would do it," Leslie said, and Hortense chuckled.

"He would have to lose a lot more than just weight. Pretty Suzie plays for my team."

Leslie blinked. "No. Really?"

Hortense looked at her over horned-rimmed glasses, the rims a golden amber color that complemented her light brown eyes. She had a truly outstanding "Wise Old Black Lady" gaze she could bring to bear, though Leslie had Hortense Ginton pegged at somewhere around the mid 40's.

"Leslie, honey. Seriously. You have no gaydar at all."

"God, I don't, do I? Did I tell you I tried to set up Garth's IT buddy from the firm with my college roommate the same day I met him? I thought they'd be _perfect_ for each other ."

"Bogart, from the concert?"

"Yeah."

Hortense just laughed and shook her head.

"And you had to introduce me to Eden like three times before it sunk in. I kept thinking, 'How nice. Hortense is really good friends with some white girl rocker chick from Boystown.' From _Boystown_. It still didn't really take until Garth was helping her out with that gallery deal."

"Oh, dear."

"Yeah. I'm sharp as a bowling ball." Leslie sighed, slumping back in a delicate chair and toying with her water glass on the spotless, white tablecloth. Hortense only stopped chuckling long enough for a forkful of leek and gruyère quiche, with the crust cut off. Leslie looked somewhat despondently at her own picked-over salad, and gave a sigh much louder than she had meant to.

"Uh-oh. That was more than a 'why do I keep ordering goat cheese?' sigh."

Leslie met Hortense's warm eyes.

"Hortense, can I ask you a..."

"Don't," Hortense put up a hand, clacking together a pair of beaded bracelets on her wrist. "Sorry, hon, but that 'can I ask you a question?' question always sets me off. Because it _is_ a question. If you want to know something, just ask. I'm an open book."

"You have two kids, right?" Leslie asked, though she knew full well that Hortense did, as the photos were all over her desk. Black-and-white pictures from infancy, all the way up through graduation photos, and now to the beaming girl, all grown up, holding an adorable baby of her own.

Hortense smiled the way only a proud mother could. "Theresa and Walter. My babies. Well, not anymore. But, still. Always."

"Yeah, so, I mean. Um. You've never said anything...about a father or...um. A husband..."

Hortense tilted her head to one side, thankfully not forward to look over her glasses, so Leslie thought she was still on safe ground.

"Haven't I ever?"

"Nope. And look, if I'm out of line..."

"Not at all, it's fine, dear. Yes, I was married for seventeen years. To a wonderful man named Gus. Mr. and Mrs. August Garvan."

"Did he...I'm sorry, did he pass away?"

"No, worse. Moved to Cleveland."

Leslie raised an eyebrow and Hortense gave her earthy chuckle again.

"Sorry, I know that's mean, but it's his joke. He's a Chicago boy. Hates the sports teams over there."

"You two still, I mean, you talk and all?"

"Oh, all the time. We're great friends. Always were. And he's such a great Dad, with his new kids, too. That man is the love of my life, still."

"But you're...gay, now. Am I allowed to say gay?"

"Please do, it's less rude in a restaurant than pantomime. And I was always gay, Leslie. Gus even knew it before I did, really."

The waiter came by to refill the water, and neither Leslie nor Hortense said anything else but quiet thanks until he walked on to the next table. Leslie took a long drink, almost a gulp, before getting to the question she had wanted to ask before asking the last six questions.

"Before you had kids, was it something you wanted? I mean, did you know for sure that you wanted to have children, and to be a mother?"

Hortense looked Leslie levelly in the eyes.

"Yes. Not that I didn't have my moments when I was scared, or not so sure. But they were just that. Moments. And they passed. I knew I wanted to have children."

"You knew you wanted to have his, your husband's children?" Leslie asked very quietly, barely audible.

The dip of the horn rimmed glasses.

"Leslie..." Hortense said slowly. "Can I ask you a question?"

*

The boys lived in an old brownstone on the way to Lake Forest. The whole neighborhood looked very spic-and-span in Eden's eyes, as the city kept all the strips of median grass mowed, trimmed the old trees lining the shady street, and made sure all the faux-olde-timey-gas street lamps were working. Funny how nice a city always kept up the neighborhoods where the rich people lived — the people who could have afforded to pay for stuff themselves.

Eden had been listening to Ani DiFranco on the drive over, so she was feeling politically conscious.

After finding nobody home she had tried Bogart's cell, and got Carmelo. It took him ten minutes to drive home, and instead of pulling around the back to the car port, he just parked his dusky Beemer on the street behind Eden's ten-year-old Camry, with the funky daisy decal on the hood and the "Envision World Peas" bumper sticker, the words written around a pea-green Earth. _Señor_ Carmelo bustled out of the car, all blinding smile, coifed black hair, and fitted shirt with maroon slacks. Eden was waiting on the porch steps in the sun, tan legs in cutoffs and a midriff-baring halter top that displayed a silver-and-sapphire belly ring. The sapphire matched the rings in her ears, the silver matched the one in her nose.

"Damn, _Chica_ , look at those foot holders. You're going to back up traffic to Calumet."

Eden grinned, eyes sparkling behind huge sunglasses. She stood up before Carmelo made the steps and he gave her a peck on the cheek before leaning back to eye the shorts again.

" _Dios_ , I wish I had legs like that." He gave a shiver in the warm air before digging out keys for the front door.

"So why do you have Bo's phone?" Eden asked as Carmelo opened the door and stepped inside. He punched a code into the beeping alarm before answering.

"You and Hortense don't have the same phone, right? Don't do it, I pick up Bo's about twice a week. And Bogart..."

Carmelo had stepped into the front hall, dominated by a stairway with a gorgeous banister the boys had found in a salvage store on the South Side and lovingly returned to buffed and polished glory. Eden had come in after him, but Carmelo stopped on the way to the kitchen and turned around while pulling the sleekest, newest iPhone from a pocket. It took him just a second to hit a number, then he held up the phone with his eyes looking up to one side. It was only a few seconds before a chirping came from up the stairs.

"And that would be _my_ phone," Carmelo said, ending the call. "Bogart forgets a phone here, one or the other, half the time. _Cielos_ , I love that man, but he'd forget to put his pants on if his _cajones_ didn't get cold."

"What, that's not what first drew you to him?"

"Oh, Chica. Smart _and_ sexy, Hortense is a lucky woman."

Carmelo continued into the gorgeous kitchen with Eden following, and held both hands out at the restored kitchen table where Eden's laptop waited, the case plastered with vulgar scratch n' sniff stickers, peace signs, and a bumper sticker reading "I get along with God just fine. It's His fan club that I can't stand."

"He fixed it?" Eden said, scooping the laptop into her arms like a baby she'd missed terribly.

"Good as new. He told me what he did, but I don't know. Defrag the fraggle and re-jigger the carburetor, or something."

Eden sighed, patting her beloved machine. "So what do I owe you guys?" Carmelo waved a hand.

"Bo says nothing, it was easy. 'Sides, you're a starving artist, Chica. We can't just have Hortense always supporting your unemployable _culo_ , pretty as it may be."

Eden skipped over to Carmelo, beaming, and planted a wet one on his dark cheek that left a pink lipstick mark she rubbed at with her thumb.

"Still, you guys have got to let me cook you dinner or something. You doing anything this weekend? Come over to the house, I'll make sure Hortense does her sweet potato pie."

"That sounds great, really. I'll tell Bo when he gets back." Carmelo gestured back down the front hall, as he had to get back to work. Eden skipped in that direction clutching the laptop to her top.

"Where is he, anyway? I thought he was just working from here full time."

"His buddy from the old law firm called, Garth Rzeczky. Went downtown to watch _beisbol_."

Eden missed a skip, actually stumbling against a wall and nearly going face down on top of her newly repaired computer. She spun in the hallway so fast her hair whipped around, and stared at Carmelo with her eyes huge.

"Garth Rzeczky? Leslie Rzeczky at Hortense's bank, her husband, Garth?"

Carmelo was staring, black eyebrows high. "Yeah, you know. We were all over there for the football playoffs that Sunday, when Bo and Garth were crying like babies. Then didn't Garth do some work for you, or something? A contract? Hey, Eden, you okay? You look pasty even for a white girl."

"What, what, what are they doing? Garth and Bo? Do they do that, watch games a lot? Like is this regular? Normal? Did Garth call Bogart, or did Bogart call Garth?"

"Eden?" Carmelo asked.

Eden had heard the panicked desperation in her own voice. She bit her lip and ran her tongue stud against the roof of her mouth, leaning against a wall.

"Shit, shit, shit. Carm, I did something stupid."

Carmelo narrowed his dark eyes.

" _Something_ stupid, or _someone_?"

*

Bogart got home around five, as he'd been talking to Garth for an hour after the game ended and had hit the start of traffic leaving downtown. He parked his jeep around back next to Carmelo's Beemer, home a little early for him, and mounted the back stairs with a sigh, walking heavily. Lousy, stinking Detroit Tigers. When he opened the kitchen door, Carmelo was dumping an ashtray in a plastic bag and tying it tight so it wouldn't stink up the garbage, though the smell of menthol smoke was in the air despite the open window.

"Who the hell was..." Bogart trailed off, then blinked and looked at the kitchen table. No laptop. "Crap, did Eden come by today?"

" _Si_ ," Carmelo said, washing his hands at the sink. Bogart pointed an accusing finger between his shoulder blades.

"And you took my phone, again, this morning. That's yours on the nightstand. Eden called _you_ at work to let her in? Ha. Serves you right, phone thief."

Carmelo turned around, looking good as always, but a little tired. He crossed his arms as he leaned back against the counter, and tilted his head to one side.

"Garth Rzeczky want to talk to you about anything important?"

"Oh..." Bogart shrugged, running a hand through his hair. Needed to get it cut one of these days, now that it was warm again. The gardens all around Chicago were in bloom, and there were many more gardens there than most people knew.

Bogart sighed. He and Carmelo had promised they wouldn't keep secrets. So far, so good. "He thinks Leslie is stepping out on him."

Carmelo arched an eyebrow. " _Garth_ thinks _Leslie_ is cheating on _him_?"

"Yeah. Straight people are a mess."

Carmelo gave his most dramatic eye roll.

"Baby, it ain't just the straight people. Everybody _loco_."

#

M. Edward McNally is a dedicated and determined dawdler, and a lover of alliteration.

Find him at his blog http://sablecity.wordpress.com/ or follow him on Facebook and Twitter

Books by Ed:

The Sable City (Book I of the Norothian Cycle)

Death of a Kingdom (Book II of the Norothian Cycle)

The Wind from Miilark (Book III of the Norothian Cycle)

Eddie's Shorts — Volume 1, 2, 3, and 4

# Be Careful What You Wish For

Shéa MacLeod

Branwen had, quite frankly, had enough. She stared at the cupcake in her hand and considered throwing it against the wall. She decided instead that such behaviour was not only un-goddess-like, but would result in the waste of a perfectly good cupcake. So, she ate it.

"Mmmmm ... peanut butter. These humans really are quite clever." She took another big bite of cupcake and moaned in ecstasy. Peanut butter cupcakes aside, humans were also incredibly annoying.

It hadn't been her idea to live in this Podunk town in the middle of Nowhereville, America. All the good cities had already been taken by other deities. It hadn't been her idea to work a dead end job and live in some crummy apartment and gain twenty pounds — okay, fifty — because of her cupcake addiction. She was depressed, dammit.

Oh, no. It had been the fault of those clever humans. Humans who decided they didn't need the gods anymore, so the gods, and goddesses, had been relegated to living like mortals and scrounging for what crumbs of worship they could glean from modern humanity.

What really annoyed her was that these same humans who thought they were so intelligent and superior weren't doing all that well on their own. Oh, no. If the divorce rate, crime rate, and sheer volume of _whining_ were anything to go by, they could use a bit of divine intervention right about now. Did they ask? Of course not.

Stupid humans.

Quite possibly the most annoying human of all was her own next door neighbor. The self same neighbor that had driven her to her latest cupcake binge: Bob.

So, his name wasn't really Bob, but she didn't know his actual name so that's what she called him in her head. And Bob was quite possibly the biggest whiner of them all.

One of the downsides of being a goddess was that one could easily hear through walls. And the travesty coming from Bob's apartment was enough to turn a goddess gray before her time.

With a huff, she finished the last bite of cupcake, brushed the crumbs off her fuzzy pink bathrobe, gave the robe's belt a good, hard cinch, and strode for the door. It was time to take action. No more Miss Nice Goddess.

Something had to be done.

She wrenched open her apartment door, stormed across the hall, and banged (with a great deal more force than necessary) on "Bob's" door. There was silence from inside. Then the door creaked open.

"Yes?"

He really was incredibly good looking, for all he was wearing women's pantyhose and a tragic shade of pink lipstick. His thick, chestnut hair curled just a little around nicely shaped ears and his nose and cheekbones would have done a Greek god proud. In fact, Branwen was half tempted to smite him just for having such ridiculously thick lashes. Honestly, if the man was going to wear women's clothing he should learn to do it properly.

Branwen gave herself a good mental shake. She wasn't here to ogle the man or give him tips on cross-dressing. She was here to teach him a lesson.

"So," she said, flicking a cupcake crumb out of her cleavage. "You want to be a woman, do you?"

*

Ryan Roberts felt like crying. He really did. He knew it wasn't macho or manly or whatever, but he couldn't help it.

It had been bad enough having the women in the lingerie store staring at him like he was some kind of pervert. And now the stockings didn't fit properly. The size chart must have been wonky. Or maybe his calves were too muscular from working out, but whatever it was, he'd put runs in two pairs of stockings and he was on his last tether.

"Shit, why couldn't I have been born a woman? They have it so much easier."

The banging on the door interrupted his pity party. Ryan didn't have a lot of friends. Certainly none that would come knocking at this hour of night. With a frown he hurried to answer the door, only to find himself confronted by the strangest sight.

The top of the woman's curly blond head barely came to his chest and she was nearly as wide as she was tall. Her pink cheeks matched her pink fuzzy robe, but he was pretty sure it wasn't makeup. She looked furious. And was that a blob of icing on her cheek?

"So, you want to be a woman, do you?"

"Um ... " Ryan wasn't quite sure how to answer that.

"Listen, Bob ... " she started.

"Ryan."

"What?" She blinked big blue eyes in confusion.

"My name isn't Bob. It's Ryan."

She shook her head, sending blond ringlets bouncing around her head. "Whatever. Listen, I am sick of your whining."

"Excuse me?"

"You think it's so easy being a woman? You think being a woman is all fancy silk panties and hot pink lipstick? You think your bras would fit better and your stockings wouldn't run if you were a woman? Well, let me tell you, buddy, it ain't that easy." She crossed her arms over her chest, sending a shower of what looked like cake crumbs to the floor.

How did this strange woman know his fondest wish was to experience, just once, being a _real_ woman? Not just dressing in women's clothing, but actually having all the girl parts and feelings that went with the panties and heels he so dearly loved. And best of all, being able to walk down the street in a pretty dress without everyone staring at him like he was a freak. "I'm sorry. I don't understand ... "

"Oh, you don't." The expression on her face could only be described as wicked. "But you will." And with a wave of her hand she spun around and shuffled into the apartment opposite, slamming the door hard enough to rattle windows.

Ryan ran a shaky hand through his hair. He felt like he'd just been swept up into a whirlwind and spit out the other side. In fact, he was pretty sure he needed a change of panties.

"Lord, this town is full of crazy," he muttered. Maybe it was time for a change. Another town, maybe. On the other side of the country, preferably.

*

Light streamed in through the slats in the blinds, nudging Ryan awake. He groaned and tried to burrow under the quilt, but it was too late. There was no getting back to sleep.

He hauled himself out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. He lifted his nightie and ... nothing. There was nothing there.

"Oh, my god. " He groped his crotch only to find the usual equipment wasn't there. "What the f ... " Wide awake, he ran for the full length mirror in the bedroom. And there, much to his horrified eyes, was a perfect set of ... lady parts.

"Oh, sweet Jesus." Ryan clapped a hand over his mouth. His voice had gone up at least two octaves. His cheeks were smooth without a sign of morning beard. His chest, however, was decidedly not smooth. He peered down the neck of his nightie. "D cups!"

He stared in the mirror for what seemed like the longest time. Horror warred with delight.

Ryan Roberts was a girl.

*

After getting over the initial shock (and figuring out how to pee sitting down), Ryan decided it was time for a real shopping trip. Bras, panties, the whole nine yards. He had no idea how long this ... whatever it was, was going to last, but he was damn well going to make the most of it.

She. She was damn well going to make the most of it.

Almost giddy with glee, Ryan went and knocked on her neighbor's door. The door flew open to reveal the short, round blond woman from the night before, still dressed in her pink fuzzy robe, cupcake in one had.

"Whaddya want?" the blond said around a mouth full of cupcake. Pink to match her robe.

"What did you do to me?" Ryan clasped her hands in front of her breasts in a decidedly feminine manner.

The blonde peered at Ryan through narrowed blue eyes. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm your next door neighbor. You know, from last night? Ryan Roberts. Well," Ryan waved a hand at her new body. "Rayanne, now. What did you do?"

The blonde snorted. "I turned you into a woman, obviously."

"But how?"

"I'm Branwen."

Rayanne just stared at her blankly. "So?"

Branwen rolled her eyes. "I'm a goddess, obviously. I was sick and tired of your whining so I gave you what you want."

Rayanne welled up. "Oh, thank you. Thank you so much! You don't know what a blessing this is."

A look crossed Branwen's face. A look that gave Rayanne sudden pause. "Oh, this isn't a blessing," the goddess said. "Not at all."

*

Rayanne had emailed in sick and spent the entire morning shopping. It had been beyond wonderful. Nobody stared at her. Nobody laughed at her. Clothes and shoes and pretty lingerie actually fit like it was supposed to.

Even her driving license and credit cards magically had her new name and photo. It was a miracle.

She sat happily at one of the tables in Cuppa Joe sipping at an iced soya latte and admiring her newly painted cotton candy pink nails. Ah, bliss. Women just had no idea how lucky they were.

"Heya, sweet cheeks."

Rayanne glanced up, startled as a young man plopped into the seat opposite her. The man stared pointedly down Rayanne's blouse at her now-ample cleavage.

"Nice rack."

"Excuse me?" Rayanne felt her cheeks pinken in fury.

"You and me should hang. Bet I could teach you a thing or two." The young man leaned back in his chair, flexing his muscles under his too-tight t-shirt.

"Thank you, no."

The boy's features hardened. "Think you're too good for me, do ya bitch?"

Rayanne had no idea what to do. As Ryan the only men who'd ever come on to her had been gay and most of them had been perfectly fine once she'd explained she was straight. If they did have a problem, well, Ryan was, after all, a straight man who was well over six feet tall with the build to match. When he said no, people listened. Even if he was a cross-dresser.

Rayanne, on the other hand, was all of 5'4" and built like a ... well, a very short Victoria's Secret model. Rayanne was everything Ryan had often dreamed of being. Unfortunately, Rayanne was also about as intimidating as a kitten.

She glanced around for a knight in shining armor, but if anyone else had noticed what was going on, they were studiously avoiding the issue. "Not at all. It's simply that my husband wouldn't be too happy about me spending time with another man."

The kid's eyes narrowed. "You ain't wearing a ring."

Rayanne shrugged. "It's being resized. I'm pregnant so I've been putting on a lot of weight recently ... "

"Whoa. Whoa. Pregnant? Um ... " The young man scrambled out of his chair. "I gotta go." And just like that he took off.

Rayanne pressed her hand to her rapidly beating heart. For just a minute she'd actually been scared. No, more than scared. Terrified. For the first time in her life she'd felt completely helpless. At the mercy of someone bigger and nastier than her. It wasn't a nice feeling.

Was that how women felt all the time?

Rayanne shook off the negative feelings. She was going to enjoy her time as a woman however long it lasted. One asshole was not going to dampen her joy!

She quickly gathered up her shopping bags and headed out to the car. She'd go home. Dress up pretty, and hit the town. That's what she'd do. No sense in having this new body if she couldn't enjoy it.

As she pulled out of the mall parking lot the engine light came on. "Shit, now what?" The last thing she needed was her car breaking down. She had things to do, places to go, lingerie to wear!

Fortunately there was an auto mechanic just up the road. She'd dealt with him before. He was honest and fair, as far as auto mechanics went.

*

The mechanic frowned at the car before giving Rayanne a look that made her skin crawl. "I know this car. It belongs to Ryan Roberts. What are you doing with it?"

Rayanne flashed a smile. "I'm his cousin. Rayanne. He just let me borrow it while I'm here visiting, and I couldn't very well bring it back broken."

The mechanic grinned, his eyes levelled on her boobs. "No you couldn't. Why don't you go have a seat in the waiting room, and I'll let you know when I'm finished."

An hour later, Rayanne stared at the bill, aghast. It was nearly double what the mechanic had charged in the past. Back when Rayanne was Ryan. She'd heard of mechanics charging women more money, but she'd never believed it before.

"This is a lot of money for such a small job ... "

The mechanic gave her the run around about how it was a lot more complicated that it seemed, etc., and so on.

Furious Rayanne paid the bill and stormed out. She knew she'd just gotten royally shafted, but what could she do? The mechanic had refused to budge and as Rayanne, she couldn't convince him that she knew enough about cars to know when she was being played. His condescension was enough to make her see red.

"Remember," she reminded herself, "all these little inconveniences are worth being able to wear makeup and dresses and look pretty. It's worth it." But he couldn't imagine how women didn't go absolutely postal over the way men like that treated them. She'd only been a woman for a day and she swore the next man that treated her like a moron or a floozy was going to get a black eye. Or a squished set of balls. Maybe both.

*

Rayanne put the asshats firmly out of her mind as she ran her fingers over her new purchases. The lovely silks and satins of her new dresses made her feel positively giddy! She couldn't wait to put one on and hit the town.

She held one up in the mirror. Should she wear the blue? The pink? The red?

Then the pain hit.

It hit hard and fast, twisting like a knife low in her belly. No, not a knife. A million knives. No, a hot poker. That was it. Someone had just thrust a white hot poker into her gut and churned it around.

She doubled over, holding her stomach as tears pooled in her eyes and poured down her face ruining her mascara. The pain was like nothing she'd ever experienced. Was she dying?

Rayanne hurried to the bathroom not sure if she needed to pee or throw up. Maybe both. The minute she pulled down her panties she nearly fainted.

"Oh my god, is that blood? Oh my god. Oh my god. I'm gonna die."

Then a thought niggled its way into her panicking brain. She wasn't going to die.

"Holy mother of ... my first period!"

Not something she'd ever dreamed she'd say, back when she was Ryan. And, frankly, she could have done without this part of being a woman. She doubled over as another stab of pain hit her.

She had nothing to deal with an emergency like this. Nothing. She needed to get to a store, fast. But how to get there without making a mess?

She jammed a wad of toilet paper into her panties, grabbed her purse, and scurried out the door. The trip to the store passed in a haze of pain. How did women do this every month?

Rayanne hurried to the feminine aisle and came to a dead stop. There were so many choices and she had no idea what to get. Another cramp hit, doubling her over.

"Shit."

No time to waste. She grabbed one of everything, from painkillers to the world's biggest maxi pads, and headed for the till. The girl behind the till gave her a sympathetic look.

"Damn, girl, you got it bad."

"You have no idea."

"Shoo," the girl shook her head as she scanned in Rayanne's purchases. "You better believe I do. Every month like clockwork. Have to take the day off and spend it on the couch doped up on Midol and a bottle of red wine. Works like a charm." She waved the box marked Midol from Rayanne's stash. "You want some wine, too? It's on sale."

"No, thanks. I've got some at home."

Rayanne tuned out as the girl chattered away. She quickly paid for her purchases and headed back to the car. The pain was like a giant tidal wave of glass, sweeping through her gut and ripping her to shreds. She was very nearly positive she was going to die.

Back home she ripped open one of her boxes and read the instructions. "I have to stick that WHERE?"

The box of tampons went into the garbage. Old school it was.

Damn. She shifted uncomfortably. It was like wearing a freaking diaper. But what was a girl to do? Either shove a wad of cotton up where the sun don't shine or wear a diaper. This woman thing was so not what she'd expected.

Instead of a night on the town showing off her new body and her new dresses, Rayanne spent it (between hurried trips to the bathroom) curled up on the couch doped to the gills with painkillers and vino and feeling very much like a beached whale.

By morning, she'd had enough.

She shuffled across the hall and banged on Branwen's door. No answer. She banged harder. Still no answer.

"Branwen, god dammit, open up!"

Between one blink and the next, Rayanne found herself standing on a grassy hillside overlooking a lovely sandy beach. The morning sun was warm against her back, no doubt highlighting the rat's nest that was her hair.

She tugged at her oversized sweatshirt, one that had been hers back when she was Ryan, painfully aware she wasn't wearing a bra. Fortunately no one was paying any attention to her. They were all focused on the rather ample woman lounging on one of the park benches ringing the top of the hill, munching on a very large, pink frosted cupcake.

Branwen.

"Welcome to Tenby."

Rayanne blinked. "Where?"

Branwen rolled her eyes. "Tenby. In Wales. It's been one of my favorite vacation spots since before the damn Romans mucked things up with their religious proselytizing. Fortunately," she beamed at her fellow sunbathers, "they still remember me a bit 'round these parts."

Rayanne wasn't so sure they remembered the goddess Branwen so much as they were in complete awe of the woman currently downing cupcakes like a trucker downs steak. But she wasn't about to burst Branwen's bubble. "Um, Branwen, I want to thank you for giving me this ... gift."

Branwen lifted an eyebrow. "Told you. Wasn't a gift."

"No. Good point," Rayanne agreed as another stabbing pain hit her belly. "Perhaps you would call it a lesson?"

Branwen leaned back with a smug smile and crossed her arms over her rather impressive chest. "And what lesson did you learn, pray tell?"

"To be careful what you wish for. That the grass isn't always greener. Be thankful for who you are and what you've been given. And ... " Rayanne swallowed, "that being a woman isn't for the faint of heart."

Branwen's smile widened. "Trite, but true."

Rayanne swallowed. "And now that I've learned those lessons, will you please turn me back?"

"You want to go back to being a man?" Branwen's expression turned deadly serious.

Rayanne couldn't tell if the goddess was surprised, pleased, or pissed off. All she could do was tell the truth. "I admit the pain I'm feeling is enough to turn anyone faint hearted. But the truth is ... " she hesitated. "The truth is that while I love being able to wear women's clothes or go shopping for lingerie without people staring at me like I'm some kind of freak, I like who I am. And I miss being ... myself."

A slow smile spread across the goddess's face. "So it is done." And she snapped her fingers before taking a huge bite of another cupcake.

*

Sunlight slid around the cracks in the blinds, stirring Rayanne to wakefulness. She grabbed her stomach. The pain was finally gone. She felt ...

Her hand drifted lower.

Rayanne was Ryan again. He jumped out of bed and began tossing Rayanne's clothes into a bag for charity. They'd never fit Ryan. He did, however, own a very fetching Vera Wang and he planned to wear it out tonight for drinks with some of the girls from the office. Ryan Roberts was coming out of the pink satin closet, and he was doing it in style.

For the first time in ages he felt like laughing for pure joy. "Thank you, Branwen." He swore to himself then and there he was going to bake her a batch of homemade cupcakes every day for a month.

#

Shéa MacLeod has an obsession for glitter, fabulousness and, most of all, cupcakes.

Find more information on Shéa and her books at www.sheamacleod.wordpress.com, or follow her on  Facebook and Twitter

Books by Shéa:

Sunwalker Saga:

Kissed by Darkness

Kissed by Fire

Kissed by Smoke

Dragon Wars:

Dragon Warrior

Dragon Lord

# Love & Disaster

Heather Marie Adkins

Becca

"I look fat."

I stood staring at myself in the full-length mirror. I really should have dieted a little harder in the months leading up to today, but stress does crazy things to one's body. Things like forcing one to down a whole beer in one minute, then polish off a German chocolate cake in the next. I was going to look like that eight-hundred-pound bride, only blonde and tan ... and a little more crazy-eyed.

My best friend, Annree Farnstead, rolled her pale green eyes. She was sprawled against the curved back of the Venetian couch, her turquoise bridesmaid dress a vivid splash of color on the dark, floral-patterned cushions. "Becca, you couldn't look fat if you tried."

"Chach is going to think I'm fat." I sighed and smoothed the satin at my waistline, then gripped the line of pudge and shook it. "I've never been able to do _this_."

Annree heaved herself from the cushions—no easy feat with the gigantic bowling ball jutting from her abdomen—and waddled over to stand beside me. She slipped an arm around my waist and smiled as I rubbed a hand over her growing baby bump.

"You are a lovely bride, Bec. Quit freaking the hell out."

"You shouldn't talk like that with tiny ears around," I admonished, turning so I could press a hand to either side of her belly. Beneath my right palm, teeny baby Glory kicked. She was strong. For the past three months, Annree had joked that her inner organs were going to be nothing but mush by the time Glory came out. A firecracker already, and she was still in the womb.

"Right, because the kid can understand the difference between 'hell' and 'serendipity'." Annree cupped my face in her hands and forced me to look her in the eye. With the sun attempting to shine through the window behind her, her auburn hair was a halo of red-gold. "Stop. It."

I gripped both of her skinny wrists and gently peeled her hands from my face, smiling sweetly as I responded. "Mess up my make-up, and I'll kill you."

"I dare you." Annree winked. She looked like a wicked pixie.

"Looks like rain," I murmured, brushing past her. A wayward patch of blue was being replaced by dark, angry clouds.

"These shoes were not made for wading," Annree said with a laugh. She was wearing the most ridiculous blue leather flats. I may have picked out the mid-thigh length, sweetheart dress, but I most certainly had nothing to do with those hideous shoes.

My best friend's face transformed suddenly, her nose wrinkling and her forehead scrunching as both hands dropped to her belly.

For a split second, I was on my toes and ready to dash for the phone to dial 911 until she said, "Shit. I've got to pee again."

I felt an instantaneous rush of relief, and then I pumped a fist in the air and did a little dance in my kitten heels, long, creamy train swishing on the hardwood. I even tried a little tap dance, but when I teetered and nearly fell on my ass, I gave it up.

"Why are you doing a victory dance?" Annree asked warily.

"Chach and I made a bet." I smirked. "She said you'd pee five times before the ceremony even started. I said seven."

"You're counting my trips to the bathroom?"

"Six, baby!" I leaned over and planted a sloppy kiss on her bulging midsection. "Go drain the girl child."

Cha-cha

"I can't do this."

As soon as I said it, I whipped around and fell into a crouch, wrapping my arms around my knees. It was a position I'd used a lot during an awkward childhood when the other kids made fun of me for, well, being me. Something about the fetal position, balanced on my heels, offered a warmth and protection that maybe mimicked being held by the mom I'd never known.

"Yes, you can." Christian's brogue got thicker when he reprimanded. He leaned forward in his velvet chair and rested his elbows on his knees, catching my gaze. "You're meant to do this."

"Am I?" I asked, aware of the hysterical lilt to my voice. I waved my hands in the air and lost my balance, catching myself by the tips of my fingers. "I'm committing myself to one woman for the rest of my life!"

As I stood up, he laughed and flashed me his simple silver wedding band. It was the only piece of jewelry I'd ever seen the man wear. "What's so wrong with that?"

I paused, brushing both hands down the back of my black slacks. "Um."

"Yeah, you don't know because there is no downside."

"You only say that because you're having a baby." I stuck my tongue out at him.

Christian rolled his eyes, and in that movement I saw a lot of his wife in him. I guess five years being married to a person can do that. "Cha-cha, you've been betrothed longer than we've been married."

I liked when Christian used words like "betrothed." It was so...proper. So Irish. If I were into guys, I guess I'd think he was attractive. His dark hair was shiny and curly and his blue eyes were vivid above his freckled cheeks. With his black-Irish good looks and Annree's fair skin and red hair, they were gonna have a hot little kid. I was already spit-shining the shotgun. I may have been born in Hong Kong, but I could fake Southern Redneck with the best of 'em.

"We weren't ready." I turned away from him and stared at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out what the hell my girlfriend saw in me.

Becca was beautiful. Five-star hotel with all the luxuries, beautiful. Her honey-colored hair always smelled like citrus and her smooth, tanned skin was soft. She had the curves of an NFL cheerleader, and trust me, she could use them to her full advantage. I was putty in her hands.

My reflection stared back at me. Almond-shaped eyes, black as midnight—a testament to my heritage—and a rail-thin body several inches shorter than Becca. My ebony dreadlocks were shorter than usual. I didn't like them that way, but I'd had a nervous breakdown the week before and got them lopped off. Only if you were looking for it specifically could you tell the remnants of a black eye were still fading from my skin.

"You're worried," Christian acknowledged.

"Worried is an understatement."

"You look great. The suit was a nice touch."

"It does look great on my ass," I joked.

"In all seriousness, Cha-cha," Christian said, standing in a fluid, graceful motion and crossing the room to stand beside me, "you'll get over the cold feet."

"It's going to be hard," I murmured after a brief hesitation. "Becca and I..."

Christian inclined his head in acknowledgment, but didn't say a word. He just put a comforting hand to my shoulder and squeezed.

Becca

The storm had started despite my internal protestations and threats.

I stared out the window as the rain streaked the glass, distorting the gardens until they were nothing but a wash of blurry colors. Why had I wanted an outdoor wedding, again?

"So, they said no biggie, they can move everything inside." My mother clomped into the room in her scuffed-up cowboy boots. She looked like a sexy milk-maid, only aged like a fine wine. Her blue jean dress was about as redneck as it could get, but that's just my mom. Virginia born and raised.

"I really wanted to get married in the garden," I sank into an armchair, defeated. "With the roses and the hedges cut into funny little geometric shapes."

"Now, Rebecca," Mom chastised as she crouched before me and took my hands in hers. "It's just a silly ole ceremony. The day isn't about how you do it, baby girl. It's about you and Cha-cha."

Hot tears prickled in my eyes. I turned away before she could see them. "Maybe it's a sign. Maybe I shouldn't marry Chach."

"Rebecca Ann, that's the most ridiculous thing you've ever said. You love Cha-cha. You've been talking about this wedding for years."

"That's just it, Momma." I spread my hands wide, mortified as a sob escaped me. "It took us five years just to get here. Maybe we were putting it off for a reason."

"Hush, child." Mom put a finger to my lips. "You're gonna march your pretty little behind up that aisle and say your vows with the person you love. Got it?" She chucked my chin. "And your daddy's gonna give you away just like he's always wanted, and I'm gonna cry like a baby."

I giggled, reduced to a little girl with my mom by my side. "Yeah."

"Now, I've gotta go run interference." Mom stood up with a groan, pressing her hand to her back dramatically. Her long, honey hair hung to her ass, and I saw silver at her temples. "Good, sweet baby Jesus, I'm old."

"Interference?" I asked.

Her eyes twinkled. "Annree's momma's here."

"Oh, dear God." I pressed a hand to my forehead. "Why did we invite her?"

"Because she loves you, pussy cat. Probably close to as much as I do."

"At least tell me she brought her husband instead of her side project."

My mother just grinned. "I expect you in that lobby in ten minutes." She dropped a kiss to my forehead, and was gone.

Cha-Cha

I wasn't any less insane, but I'd talked myself into it. Finally.

It would be just a short ceremony. Twenty minutes, and Becca would be my wife. Simple, sweet, and Happily Ever After. I conjured her face in my mind—my one-track mind focused on her sensual, pouty lips. I closed my eyes, desire pooling low inside me.

"You okay?" Christian's brogue interrupted my thoughts.

My eyes shot open, and I looked at him. "Mm-hm."

"Come here. Tie's crooked."

He reached for my short black tie and I swatted him away. "Quit mothering me."

"Somebody has to," he retorted, shoving my hand away and grabbing the length of material at my neck. "That vile creature that poses as your stepmother certainly isn't going to do it."

"Let's not talk about her," I laughed. "She didn't even get an invite."

Christian chuckled. "Why's she here?"

"Because my dad's a moron." I sighed. "I wish my mom was here."

Christian's eyes caught mine and he tugged playfully at a dreadlock. "I know what you mean. But, she's here. Just not how you'd prefer, yeah?"

We were interrupted by short nails clicking against the heavy wooden door, and Becca's mom stuck her head through the crack of the doorway. "Cha-cha, honey. It's time. Are you ready?"

I stepped away from Christian's comforting warmth and held my arms open for my future mother-in-law.

She clomped across the floor in the same boots she'd been wearing since the day I first met her, when I told her that one day, I would marry her daughter. I wrapped my arms around her tightly.

"Yeah, Momma. I'm ready."

The ceremony had been moved inside, which was fine with me, though I'm sure Bec was a-titter. She was my creature of habit: Eggs sunny-side up, sleeps on the left side of the bed no matter what, and heaven help us if I moved her car keys. I put a rack on the wall beside our back door—it says "princess" and that's where she hangs her keys. Anything for her.

The place was packed. All the folding white chairs, draped in shimmery pink lace, were full of friends and family. Our photographer—Geraldine—was propped against the wall, finger tapping away at the shutter of her fancy contraption. I don't know where Becca found the woman, but she was costing me a fortune.

I smiled and nodded at our attendees as I headed up the aisle. I didn't make it halfway before Annree intercepted me, baby Glory nearly knocking me off my feet.

"Hey, you're like a loose wrecking ball," I told her with a laugh.

Annree took hold of my arm and pulled me behind the tapestry hanging against the wall. "Cha-cha...Becca's gone."

"What do you mean she's _gone_?" I screeched.

Annree clapped a hand over my mouth before she said soothingly, "I'm sure she's just getting some air or something. We'll find her."

Becca

So, I was a coward. Or something.

"My wedding was supposed to start an hour ago," I told the squirrel sitting on the wall in front of me.

He flicked his bushy tail and eyed me seriously.

"But...I'm not there."

His little head seemed to nod, but that could definitely have been the several swigs missing from the bottle of Jim Beam occupying the space to my right.

The rain still fell. I sat in a gazebo somewhere in the garden, my umbrella propped against the bench as leftover rain traced a river from the shiny purple material all the way to the wet steps. My feet were bare and wet; I was reminded of being a kid, wandering the farm barefoot in a rain storm.

How'd I get to this place? Small-town girl turned restaurant proprietor with 50k in the bank and a house in the 'burbs of DC. Homecoming queen with a 4.0 and "Most Likely to Succeed" turned...lesbian. If only my high school sweetheart could see me now. I let my face fall into my hands.

"Life has a way of sneaking up on us." Her voice was song, a melody wrapped in the patter of rain on the roof.

I turned to my fiancée with guilty eyes. "It does."

Chach looked beautiful. Her black pants suit fit her like a glove; it hugged her lithe body at every curve, the jacket nipped in at her tiny waist. There was turquoise wrapped around several of her dreadlocks and pink gloss on her lips. She'd never been more beautiful.

She didn't say anything as she crossed the warped, weathered boards of the gazebo, her loafers silent, and took a seat beside me. She tucked her hands beneath her thighs and stared out across the misty grounds.

"You missed our appointment," she finally said.

"I did."

"Verbose today."

I cackled, nerves frayed, and the maniacal laughter turned to sobs as my girlfriend wrapped strong arms around me and pulled me into her warmth.

When the silent tears stopped, Cha-cha's voice murmured through me. "I'm scared, too."

"The guy on the metro," I whispered.

I felt her nod, and she pressed a tender kiss to my hair. "The guy on the metro."

We'd been holding hands. It's such a sweet, simple expression of love. No tongues, no lips, no grinding of the bodies in front of the general public. Holding hands can convey so many things; not necessarily romantic love. We could have been sisters, or best friends, or cousins...but, we weren't. We were lovers, and anyone could tell by the way our eyes met beneath the fluorescent lights, or by the way our bodies leaned towards one another as if sharing a gravitation pull.

He was gross. Hairy. Fat. His blue jeans kept falling off his hips as he stood in the aisle just in front of us, his dark, beady eyes staring. I tried to ignore him, but his sheer size made it impossible.

"Is he staring at us?" Cha-cha had murmured.

"He is."

"Perv." Cha-cha squeezed my hand and shot me a knowing smile. "He's just jealous he doesn't have what I have."

We were two stops from Cleveland Park, our station. The garbled intercom announced Dupont Circle, and the fat man adjusted his pants and headed past us.

Cha-cha didn't hear him, but I did. "Fucking dykes."

He didn't spit on me, but he spit on the woman I love.

Cha-cha came out of her seat so fast she was a thin, dark blur. The impact sent them both sprawling out of the opening train doors, and they tumbled ass over heels across the platform. Other passengers rushed forward amidst gasps, and I sat in my seat, wide-eyed, with terror rushing through me—so shocked that I couldn't move.

I got off at the Zoo and grabbed the next line back to Dupont. By the time I got there, Cha-cha was in handcuffs, bleeding from a superficial head wound and with one eye swollen shut.

The man she attacked was out cold. My baby sure can scrap with the big dogs.

"It's not always going to be like that," Cha-cha said softly, her voice bringing me back to the rain and the scent of gardenias.

"Isn't it?" I pulled away and touched the faded purple bruise just above her broad cheekbone.

"No."

Her kiss spoke to my soul. Soft, wet. I slid a hand up the fabric of her jacket, then curved my fingers against the skin of her neck, pressing my breasts to hers as the kiss deepened. I wanted to rip the monkey suit from her back—my woman belongs in mini-skirts and belly shirts with combat boots up to her thighs. I love her bad girl style, I love the way she tastes on my lips, and I love the way her eyes squint when she first wakes up in the morning.

I was meant to be with Cha-cha.

Cha-cha

Like blush wine, the sweet kind, with bubbles. Lots of bubbles. I could drink Becca all night and happily live drunk on her.

I broke the kiss. "Bec, it was one man."

"One man that hurt you." Her heart-shaped face pouted, and I had to chuck her nose. Couldn't stop myself.

"Yeah, but did you see the other guy?" I joked, flexing an arm.

Becca rolled her eyes. One hand rested on my thigh, hot even through the thick material. Her fingers trailed higher, her eyes wicked, and I swatted her hand away, even as my body responded to her touch.

"These things are going to happen," I told her, serious now. "There are always going to be narrow-minded people in the world. We're going to face prejudice. Probably a lot of it. But, look where we are." I gestured around us.

The confusion in her eyes was sweet. "What do you mean?"

"Getting married. In DC. We live in a place that has accepted our dream to be together." I took her hands between mine and pressed a kiss to her fingers. "So, let's go do what the government has deemed worthy of us. Let's let the rest lie, for now. And we'll cross those bridges—and burn them—when it comes."

Her sapphire eyes shone. The rain had stopped, the sun was peeking around the edges of the gazebo. I kissed my bride one more time, and we walked—hand in hand—back to the house.

Annree

Not every girl that gets to stand beside two of her best friends as they marry each other.

Becca was radiant. The hem of her dress was a little wet, and she was definitely sans shoes, but she was happy. Cha-cha faced her, her own shoes covered in grass clippings, slowly drying in the air conditioning. They held hands, white dress and black suit, two personalities, two women more in love than the majority of couples I knew.

My other best friend, Erin, nudged me with an elbow and grinned—I knew she was seeing the same kind of beauty I was. A love that would last a lifetime, that would stand trials of a world against it.

I thought of how freaked Becca had been earlier as I watched her pace the bedroom, and I couldn't believe it was the same woman in front of me. Now, she grinned at her wife, her blue eyes crinkling.

"You may now kiss the bride," the officiate declared.

Becca and Cha-cha threw themselves at each other like school kids. The huge gathering of friends and family tittered good-naturedly. Standing behind Cha-cha, my husband, Christian, winked at me.

I giggled, and inside me, Glory kicked. I couldn't wait for her to meet her two aunts. I could only hope my daughter turned out even half as wonderful as them.

#

Heather Marie Adkins is getting married four months from the date of this publication. She's freaking the _hell out_ like her characters.

Find more information on Heather and her books at www.heathermarieadkins.com, or follow her on Facebook and Twitter

Books by Heather:

The Temple

Abigail

Constant State of Disaster

Cause & Effect

Writing as Nolia McCarty:

Heaven Below

Eternal Youth (co-written with Julia Crane)

# The Eclective

The Eclective is:

Heather Marie Adkins

Rex Jameson

P.J. Jones

Shéa MacLeod

M. Edward McNally

Alan Nayes

R.G. Porter

Jack Wallen

Thanks for reading! Please visit our website to learn more about us.

http://eclectivebooks.com

If you enjoyed our Pride Collection, be sure to check out our other FREE collections!

The Halloween Collection

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