Adrenaline surged...daring every sensory organ in my body to absorb the tiniest nuances of my first day out in public dressed as a woman. I touched the velvety skin on my wife's arm. "I'm so lucky!" "Lucky?" Nicole shook her head in obvious bewilderment. We had stopped to find our bearings and stood in the hub of the Mall of America -- twisting and turning to keep from being trampled by over-stimulated shoppers. "What an understatement! You've always been lucky. How many other people do you know who've played the lottery once and won the Mega Millions jackpot?" The day they announced the winning numbers my life had spun like a ten-year old child in a revolving door. I had felt like that same kid on her last day of school -- only a hundred times more liberated. ... Less than a week after Nicole and I won all that money she had her finger on what was causing my disenchantment. "You've always wanted to be a woman," she had accurately said nearly eight months ago. continued...

An Eft

in Her Bra

by Fleurie

This tale concerns three witches, or weird sisters if you prefer. Although one of them isn't really a witch, nor a sister if it comes to that. You could, I suppose, always include Mildred in their number. She is most definitely is a witch and a female too, although as she doesn't actually appear, it's a moot point as to whether she qualifies.

So .... This tale concerns an indeterminate number of witches ....

The title? Well, a bra falls into the category of female apparel. An undergarment to be more precise, which is designed to support the breasts against the malign influence of gravity whilst also restricting undue lateral movement. Additionally it has connotations of a sexually enticing nature which .....

Oh the eft! Well an eft is .... a sort of .... Well Adrian is an eft. Not originally of course. Any more than Alaister was originally a cat. Although he's dead now. A blessing in disguise really. He never was the same after that tragic encounter with the zeppelin. Don't worry your pretty little heads about those two though, they are only peripheral to the tale. Old history.

The plot? Nothing to worry about there either as I have kept it to the barest minimum. Slavish adherence to an obtrusive plot has quite ruined so many good stories don't you think? Having a plot only leads to disappointment, disagreement, dissension, and disillusionment amongst readers, and is quite taxing for the writer to boot. It's a pitfall I have been at pains to avoid here.

Why not read it for yourself? But only if you have nothing else to do. No errands to run, empires to build, souffles to prepare, deadlines to fulfill, dreams to dream. I don't want to be accused later of leading you unaware down paths of idleness and sloth in pursuit of foolish trivia.

Joanne looked at her watch for the hundredth time and tapped her foot impatiently.

She had been waiting under the clock at the station for twenty minutes. Admittedly, she was a bit early. They had agreed on the telephone that they would meet at eight o’clock and it was still only five to eight.

She glanced at her watch yet again and then looked around; still no sign of anyone looking remotely like Jonathan.

Joanne pulled the well-creased letter out of her handbag and read Jonathan’s description of himself. She knew the words by heart, but a girl has to be sure of her facts.

Six feet one, blue eyes, blond hair, thin and muscular. Joanne’s heart seemed to have half a dozen butterflies in it as it fluttered with anticipation at the coming meeting.

Just then there was a bing-bong from the speaker at the side of the clock.

‘The train just arriving on platform four is the seven thirty from Snoddington. We apologize for its late arrival as there were leaves on the line at Oakton.’

Joanne looked over at the gate where the train had just arrived. The bored ticket collector had woken up, arisen from his little cubbyhole and was standing sleepily at the gate to collect the tickets.

There was a slamming of doors and a great rush at the gates as bemused, bewildered and battered commuters fought their way to be first out of the gate. The ticket collector was nearly knocked over in the stampede, but luckily jumped out of the way just in time.

Joanne looked anxiously at the teeming throng, trying to see if there was a Blond Adonis among the sea of faces.

Just then, a man who looked just the ticket pushed his way through the jostling crowd and headed directly for her.

‘What a hunk,’ thought Joanne enthusiastically.