"You ready yet?"

Danny Redcliff looked over towards the doorway, vaguely annoyed at the intrusion. At barely ten years old, he'd recently grown to resent his sister's constant policing of his behavior. Worse still, she had absolutely no respect for his privacy, particularly when he was getting dressed. He'd complained to his mother about it just last week, but she'd dismissed his protests with a laugh: Rosa had seen him naked since the day he was born, what was the big deal? Wasn't like he had anything to hide.

"You ready yet?" she repeated.

"No, I'm not," Danny replied with a touch of petulance, and turned back to the mirror. At least she hadn't caught him completely naked this time. He stood in the middle of the bedroom in his sheer white panties, meticulously stroking the twists out of his long, blonde hair. A pastel yellow sundress had been laid over the end of his bed, along with a pair of frilly white ankle socks. The clock on the dresser read 8.10.

Rosa stepped into the room, a tall, loping teenager with a denim jacket and the take-no-prisoners attitude peculiar to her generation.

"Yeah, well, Mom said to get a move on," she informed him, "now hand over the brush and let me do that."

"Hey!" Danny protested as Rose took the brush from his hands. A moment later, she was herding him towards the bed, applying a good-natured slap to his bottom for good measure. Danny gave a yelp of surprise; it didn't really hurt, but he absolutely hated it when she treated him like an infant. She was always barging into his room and acting like she owned the place. Sisters were like that: thought they owned the whole damned world (which wasn't that far from the truth, he would later discover).

"OK, hold still," she instructed. Seating herself on the bed, she made him stand between her denim knees, facing the mirror so she could finish untangling his hair. Danny settled into position without a struggle. Rosie was almost supernaturally powerful for a girl her age; he'd learned a long time ago that resistance was useless. That didn't stop him from voicing his objections, however.

"Why can't Mommy do my hair?" he moped disconsolately, "it hurts when you do it." He winced as the brush encountered a particularly obstinate twist.

"She's busy dishing up breakfast," Rosa replied, readjusting her grip on the brush, "told me to come upstairs and make sure you weren't late for school again."

"I wasn't late last time. I was getting ready."

"You were late because you wanted to try on every dress in the closet," she countered without missing a beat, "that's why I laid your clothes out while you were in the shower."

"Well, don't want to wear that old thing," he complained, looking down at the short yellow dress, "I want to wear the one with the strawberries on the front."

"You wore that yesterday," Rosa reminded him, breathing in his sweet, subtle child-scent. His hair smelt of baby shampoo and freshly sliced apples.

"I don't care. It's my favorite and I want it."

Rosa chose to ignore him. He didn't really want to wear the strawberry-frock, he was simply testing the limits, the way he did most mornings. Mom said his contrary moods were perfectly natural for a child his age, so they had to be patient with him – firm, but patient all the same. Rosa thought she understood what she meant. Boys were as fragile as pink carnations, everyone knew that.

Anyway, she quite enjoyed these forced grooming sessions.

Placing a hand on his smooth waist, she ran her fingertips along the trim of his panties, grazing his belly button in the process. Her touch was gentle, gliding over his pale skin with a silken whisper. Danny shifted slightly in her arms, though he didn't pull away from her feather-light caress. His complexion darkened as a warm flush spread through his tummy. Part of it was simple modesty: he'd become increasingly self-conscious about his body over the past few months (another reason why he resented her constant invasions of his personal zones).

But there was also a touch of anticipation in his shallow breathing and cantering heartbeat. Gooseflesh hummed across his shoulders as she stroked his tresses. Being stripped to his panties added to this sense of unwilling pleasure. Rosa was a girl, she had no right to see him undressed, and yet his head was spinning with excitement. That was part of the paradox: part of you loved being helpless and secretly hoped it would never stop.

"Okay," Rosa said, laying the brush aside and tying his hair back in two long ponytails. She turned the boy around and looked him up and down, flicking an errant curl out of his face. Danny had always been unusually pretty with his clipped button nose and tiny, sensuous mouth. His frost-blue eyes were large and solemn, the kind of eyes that could melt a woman's heart with a single glance.

"You ready to climb into that dress now?" she asked, knowing he'd probably refuse just out of principle.

"No," he replied, "I want to wear the pink one."

"Well, you can't," Rosa told him, picking up the sunfrock, "it's in the wash. Everything's in the wash; this is the only thing you've got left."

"Don't want to," he answered sulkily, "I don't like it." He looked down at his feet, refusing to meet her gaze.

"Why not?" she coaxed.

"It's too short. Looks like a baby-dress"

"You are a baby."

"No I'm not" Danny pouted, "I'm ten"

"You're nine. Anyway, it's either this, or walk to school in your underwear."

Danny's expression flickered in momentarily surprise.

"What?" he said after a brief pause.

"Mom said if you don't wear the dress, you have to go to school in your socks and panties." Rosa explained offhand, although no such conversation had actually taken place. She regarded Danny with a quizzical expression, amused by his obvious discomfort. His cheeks had flushed the color of a ripe summer tomato as he considered her words. He studied his sister's face, trying to determine whether she was serious or not. Reading his expression with practiced ease, Rosa raised one eyebrow enquiringly.

"Well, what's it going to be?" she asked, concealing her amusement, "time's a'wasting, kiddo."

Danny glanced at the frock in his sister's hands, deciding that she had to be joking. Turning up at school in his underwear would be embarrassing beyond words. His Mommy would never make him go through with it (although he didn't find the thought entirely unpleasant, for some reason). No, this was just another ploy to get him into the sunfrock, he was certain of it. Rosa was always teasing him like this, especially since he started The Change. Well, he wasn't about to give in so easily. He was going to wear his strawberry dress come what may, even if it was in the laundry hamper.

"Okay," he answered with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders, "I'll go to school in my undies." He turned around and stepped toward the hallway, turning his fanny in tight little circles. Rosa watched him indulgently; despite his sometimes exasperating nature, he really was the sweetest little thing on the face of the planet. Smiling to herself in wry, adolescent amusement, she put the dress aside on the bed.

"Danny?" she called, keeping her voice carefully neutral. He looked back over his shoulder at her.

"You planning to go barefoot?" she asked, holding up his frilly cotton socks.

"No," he replied, and started back to the bed. Wild roses stood out on his cheeks, Rosa saw with considerable satisfaction. He was practically fainting with anxiety; she could see that at a glance. Well, serves him right for being so contrary. Hiding a grin, she picked him up beneath the arms and lifted him up on the bed. Leaning back on his palms, he placed his bare feet on Rosa's lap. She drew the socks carefully over his toes, eyes wandering over his sleek, creamy thighs. His legs were slender, supple and rather shapely for a child of eight. She finished adjusting his socks and patted him softly on the knee.

"Don't you think you ought to change out of those?" she said, indicating Danny's plain nylon underpants. Danny looked down at himself in genuine surprise.

"Why?"

"You'll want to wear something prettier than these," she said, tugging at the waistband, "they're going to be on show all day. A lot of people are going to be seeing your panties, Danita, so you've got to wear your prettiest underwear for them."

Danny's eyes widened as he processed the image.

His heart started galloping like a runaway race horse. Suddenly, he wasn't quite so sure this was one of Rosa's tricks. What if she was telling the truth? More than half the kids in his school were male. The fact that he had actually been a boy only twelve months ago made little difference. Danny began to regret his impulsive decision. Why had he ever argued with her, especially over something so pointless? For a second, he was tempted to simply capitulate; concede defeat and slip into his short yellow dress.

"You said all my clothes are in the wash," he said doubtfully.

"Not your undies," Rosa replied conversationally, "Mum always makes sure we have a fresh supply." Danny bit his lip in frustration; he wasn't dealing with a rank amateur. He looked over at his dressing table, knowing she was right: there would be a neatly folded pile of vests and pants in the top drawer: folded, stacked and doubtlessly sorted by color. She'd checkmated him again.

"Well ..." he started doubtfully, still wavering with indecision. Sensing his hesitation, Rosa seized the opportunity to settle the matter for him.

"C'mon" she said, reaching out and taking him by the hand, "let's go and find you something pretty to wear to school today." Rising to easily her feet, she helped Danny off the bed and led him over to the dresser. He followed along with his pulse leaping into overdrive. How could this be happening to him? He couldn't back out now, she mightn't even let him change his mind at this stage. What was he going to do? In a few minutes, he'd be walking down to the bus stop in nothing but his panties, curly blond hair streaming down to his waist. This was literally a boy's worse nightmare. He racked his brain for an escape route, some plausible excuse which would allow him to retain some vestige of dignity.

Nothing much came to mind.

Rosa halted before the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. As expected, it was practically bursting with freshly-washed lingerie; pants and vests and crop-tops and all manner of dainty underthings. Releasing Danny's hand, Rosa began to finger through the drawer, painstakingly checking though the various articles. She supposed she was being a little mean, teasing him so mercilessly, but she honestly couldn't help herself. He was so innocent, so vulnerable, so deliciously naive. And anyway, he deserved it; acting like a prima donna when he was supposed to be getting dressed.

"Okay," she announced, "these look nice."

She held up a pair of flimsy satin panties; sheer full briefs with a delicate white trim. They were a soft pink color and decorated with a faint floral pattern on the front and bottom. Danny felt his temperature rise: they were so thin he could see daylight shining through them. Moist, liquid heat swept through his tummy – Rosa was going to make him put them on, force him to wear them in to school. By the end of the day, every girl in his class would know exactly what he usually wore under his dress. Danny looked up at his sister, speechless with embarrassment.

Rosa returned his gaze with a benign, knowing smile. He was blushing from crown to heel, blushing to the very roots of his hair. She knew precisely what he was thinking, she could almost see the panic cascading through his nervous system. They'd reached the moment of truth, the point of no return.

"All right then," she said without further ado, "let's get you into
these."

---

---

Danny opened his eyes with a start.

It was early morning, just after dawn. The room seemed strange and indistinct in the dim, grey light. He glanced around hesitantly, trying to orient himself in the darkness. He felt a little dazed. He'd never been an early riser, and his nights had been rather restless lately. Strange dreams: sometimes baffling, often bizarre. Not quite nightmares. He'd been having them for months now. He pushed back the covers and sat up in bed, placing his feet on the floor. His throat was dry; always was after a night on the town. He needed a drink or he'd never get back to sleep. There was as bottle of soda in the fridge, tall and sweet and ice cold. He usually kept a few bottles in the icebox for precisely this purpose. Hardly a man's drink, he supposed, but as his late father had been fond of saying, Danny was hardly a man.

Yeah, right.

Gotta hand it to the old man, he always had a kind word for his gilded offspring, particularly when things weren't going so well. Like the time Dad had given him the choice between getting a job or Getting the Hell Out of My House. Yep, that was Pa all over. Kind, understanding, and patient to a fault.

Well, no sense brooding over the cruelties of the past; Dad had bought the farm more than four years ago, leaving Danny a small mountain of debts and a closet full of Hawaiian beach shirts. Life went on, world without end, glory hallelujah. Couldn't lie around in bed all day, no matter how appealing the prospect seemed. Danny stood up, stretched, stepped towards the bedroom door -

and stopped.

Something was wrong.

This wasn't his room. There was a rug on the floor, something thick and warm and fuzzy. A pelt of some kind, maybe a sheep skin. He could feel it beneath his feet. It shouldn't be there, he didn't own anything like that. His apartment had polished wooden floorboards, this place had both carpeting and rugs. He'd felt it as he'd slid out of bed. Why hadn't he noticed it then? He stared around in astonishment. Everything was wrong. The walls, the furniture, the drapes framing the windows - none of it looked familiar. He didn't have a dressing table, he had a computer desk. And that chair - it was the wrong shape completely; and should have been over by the bookshelf. Except he didn't have a bookshelf, not any more. He had a pot plant, sitting on a large, blocky chest of drawers.

Even the door was in the wrong location. He'd been walking towards a built-in wardrobe. He turned and looked back at the bed. It was a single, not a double. A single with plump, lacy pillows and a European quilt-cover. His head began to spun in utter confusion. This wasn't his room. He'd never seen it before. What was going on?

Where was he?

"Where-" he began, then paused in mid-sentence, raising a hand to his mouth. His eyes widened with shock. The tone, the pitch, the resonance: all of it was alien, exotic, as unfamiliar as the room itself. It was impossible, it was crazy, but -

(that's not my voice)

it wasn't his voice. It was high and sweet, like the ringing of a crystal champagne glass. Breathless and rather child-like. It was ...

(no)

Danny's heart seemed to halt momentarily. He bit his lip very hard, trying to control the panic he felt rising from the pit of his belly. This couldn't be happening. The dreams, the weird, haunting visions he'd had every night for the past three month - it simply wasn't possible. This was twilight-zone material, the stuff of nightmares and Stephen King novels. Such things didn't happen. Couldn't happen.

(i'm still dreaming)

Yes, that was it. He was still dreaming.

Except he wasn't. He knew that somehow. He was awake, completely awake, the fog had lifted from his mind - and he was standing in an strange bedroom, speaking with a voice that wasn't his. This was no dream. He put a hand to his temple and drew his fingers slowly down the side of his face. His cheek was smooth. Sleek and curved and as soft as the palm of a child.

"No," Danny gasped under his breath.

What had happened last night? What had he done, where had he gone after The Blue Rose had closed and he'd stumbled alone through the black, deserted streets of the Westside? He couldn't recall the exact details, his mind had been blurred with a mixture of Johnny Walker and cold winter night-air. He sifted through the fragments of memory, trying to make sense of the irrational. Something had happened, long after midnight. He'd found a shop in a back alley. A shop with an odd name. A shop that sold -

"Wishes," Danny said in his high, sweet, breathless voice.

His mind was suddenly very clear. Memory came flooding back in irresistible waves. The bar, the drinks, the woman in the shop that sold wishes. It was true; all of it. She'd had long black hair, reaching down past her waist, eyes like midnight diamonds, and a smile that could melt ice. They'd talked for a long time, it seemed like hours, and finally come to some kind of agreement.

But what did he wish for?

(no no no no!!)

Danny cast frantically about the room, searching for a lamp, a lighter, a box of matches; anything that would illuminate his face and body. He needed to see himself, see what had taken place while he'd been asleep. His voice had been altered, and it felt as if his features had changed too, although he wouldn't be certain of that until he'd actually seen them. Dear God, this couldn't be happening. What had he brought on himself?

(what did i wish for?)

There was a lamp on the bedside table, a cheap art-deco reproduction glittering with silver and carnival glass. Sells for about ten dollars in K-Mart. A few feet from that was a mirror. The kind with hinges in the middle; what do you call it - a cheval mirror? Yes that was it. He'd seen one last night, there'd been one in the Gypsy's shop, it could have been the same one. The Gypsy had shown it to him. He'd looked into its silvery depths and seen ...

(- dream sweet dreams of me -)

He leaned over and switched on the lamp, blinking against the dazzling light. It seemed much brighter than it should have been. Narrowing his eyes, he looked down at his hands, turning the palms up and splaying the fingers. He shook his head in disbelief. They were small. Pale and delicate; smooth as a porcelain vase. They weren't his hands. They were the hands of some fragile, alabaster doll.

Danny turned slowly towards the mirror. His heart was literally pounding against his chest now. His body felt different, the weights and balances seemed completely off center. He wanted to run his hands over his body, discover the extent of the transformation, but he didn't dare. What would he find? What would be missing? Despite his mounting dread, he found himself drawn irresistibly to the mirror. Something had happened to him last night, some metamorphosis that defied all logic. He'd made a bargain with a woman who sold wishes. What had he surrendered as the price of a dream? What had he paid for? He had to see, had to know. He had no other choice.

Danny looked.

"Dear God," he whispered, feeling the strength drain out of his legs. The room began to lurch as the truth struck him with paralyzing force. A gentle, mellow heat spread through his torso by perceptible degrees. The moment spiraled out to eternity as his knees gave way.

There was a woman staring out of the mirror.

She lay on the bed drifting between the tides of consciousness, staring listlessly around the room. Her pulse was a dull throb in her ears. The seconds tapped away as she tried to understand what she'd seen. An illusion, some trick of shadow and light? An hallucination? Maybe she was mad. There was no other explanation. Last night she'd been someone else. A man. She'd gone out drinking at the Blue Rose, lost her way home, found her way into an antique shop on the west side of Chamberlain. Then she'd gone crazy.

Yes, that was it: she was insane.

And a woman.

(i'm a woman)

Some minutes later, she found the courage to risk another glance. The room had gradually brightened as the sun began to rise. She sat up and ran her hands through her long, thick hair. Sumptuous blond locks flowed through her fingers. Last night it had been short, brown and rather greasy. What else had changed? The mirror had revealed only a glimpse before she'd collapsed over the bed.

She got up and walked hesitantly over to the cheval. Bending in closer, she studied her face in detail. There'd been no mistake. She was female.

A woman. No. Not a woman. A girl. A teenager, no more than sixteen years old. A young sixteen, not a mature one. Her eyes were huge and innocent; the eyes of a child who still kept a Barbie under her bed. She was surprisingly pretty. Her small, serious mouth was offset by full, sensuous lips. They were folded into a permanent crimson pout, the kind that had grown men weeping with desire.

She was wearing a frilly, pink baby-doll; a sheer, translucent nightie which barely reached down to her waist. A pair of nylon panties were clearly visible below her belly button; shiny full briefs with floral insets and lacy trimmings. She felt suddenly embarrassed, like a little girl who discovers that her party dress is way too short. She fought an impulse to pull down the hemline and hide herself from the world.

It was a rather odd thought given the circumstances. Her world had gone haywire in the space of a few hours, she'd lost her body, her world, her life. So what if her underwear was on display? She had far more important things to consider for the time being.

Still, the image in the mirror was utterly captivating. Danny found he couldn't look away, even for an instant. Her figure was petite but curvaceous; her legs lean and tapering. She could have been a ballerina or a gymnast, maybe even a catwalk model. Her breasts seemed firm and supple, from what she could see of them. The nightie was extremely low cut, revealing a breathtaking amount of cleavage.

(i'm beautiful)

Danny looked away, her cheeks flaring with shame. What had she been thinking?! She wasn't a woman, this wasn't her body. She ... HE was a MAN for Christ's sake, not some mincing sissy-boy playing dress-up in his sister's bedroom. No man wants to be beautiful. A man should be strong, powerful, respected; but never beautiful. Yet here she was, posing before the mirror in her lacy, pink lingerie, admiring her figure like a giggling prom queen.

She was trembling. A rash of cold gooseflesh buzzed across her naked shoulders. She had never felt so alone, so isolated in her life. The full horror of her situation came crashing down like the sword of Damocles. She was a sixteen year-old girl with no past, no family, and not a cent to her name. She owned nothing but the clothes she was wearing (a short, pink babydoll and a pair of lace panties; what more could a girl need?). Danny Milner had been a worthless, pointless excuse for a man, but at least he'd managed to survive after a fashion. Now, she had nothing: no friends, no money, no life.

(what am i going to do?)

She sat down on the bed, hiding her face in her hands like a child afraid of the dark. The room seemed to lurch and bend in undulating grey waves, like a set in some incomprehensible German expressionist film. Stars flickered momentarily across her vision as she wavered on the verge of consciousness. It wasn't the alcohol, she had no trace of a hangover. Not even the slightest hint. Why should she? She hadn't been drinking last night. Danny had.

Danny Milner, undiscovered artist, part-time alcoholic and full-time social outcast. Danny Milner, who couldn't hold a job (or a girlfriend) more than two weeks at a stretch. Danny Milner, who made up for his innumerable shortcomings by touring the dives of the Westside. Danny Milner, that pathetic, self-pitying waste of a human being, who'd drunk himself into oblivion and left then her, half-naked and penniless, in the body of a sixteen year-old girl.

What am I going to do?

She looked hesitantly around the room once more, hoping to make sense of this nightmare. Where was she? How had she gotten here? Where was her money, her clothing, her former life? There was absolutely no sign of Danny Milner to be seen anywhere; no jeans dropped carelessly to the floor, no shirt slung over the back of the chair, no cheap vinyl wallet lying empty on the writing desk. Elvis has left the building folks. Permanently.

What am I going to do? she asked herself for the third time, her eyes stinging with approaching tears. She covered her face again, her long golden hair spilling down either side of her shoulders. She wept, quietly as a child weeps, her body shivering with cold and fear. The room was silent, apart from the lonely sobbing of a frightened teenaged girl.

What am I going to do?

The answer would be a long time coming.

---

A light April breeze was gusting up the driveway as I helped my mother load her bags into her '57 Chevrolet. Mom had been a Chevy girl since her sophomore years, back when Elvis was still young and the Beatles were playing artschool socials in Liverpool. She'd aged well through the intervening decades, looking no more than thirty due to her fine bone structure and trim, svelte figure. People often told me I got my looks from her, right down to the opal-green eyes and platinum blonde hair.

"You sure you'll be OK here all alone?" Mom asked as I passed a well-packed hamper through to the back seat, "I'll be gone for more than a week this time." Always the skeptic in matters of the heart, she was fretting that I'd be the victim of a home invasion or something while she was off spending Easter at Aunt Lizzie's.

"I'll be fine," I replied for the umpteenth time, straightening my spine with a series of audible clicks. That hamper had been heavier than I'd expected.

"Stop fussing, Mom, I'm not a baby any more."

"You're my baby," she replied, brushing my hand with a feather-light touch, "and this'll be longest we've been apart, since ... well, I just don't like leaving you here by yourself. Sure you won't come out to Lakecrest with me? Elsie's looking forwards to seeing you again."

This last statement chilled the marrow in my bones. Mom's Aunt Lizzie was the stuff of nightmares; a woman whose merest glance could reduce grown men to quivering orthodontists. Then there was my cousin Elsie, a socially challenged cyber-geek with coke-bottle glasses and an eating disorder. Dinner with Dr Hannibal Lecter was preferable to a week with Mad Lizzie Newton and her nerdlinger daughter. Besides, I had other plans for the vacation.

"Sorry, Mom - I've got that history report due after the break," I answered, trying to hide my impatience, "Connie Radcliffe's coming over on Thursday to exchange notes, and I can't let her down, can I?"

"No, I guess you can't," Mom agreed thoughtfully, "in the meantime, Connie Radcliffe will be spending Easter with her own family; hunting eggs, eating home cooked meals ..."

"Jeez, Mom, I'm not going to starve," I interrupted, almost writhing with exasperation, "you left me enough of those frozen dinners to last six months. I'm eighteen years old, I won't burn down the kitchen. I know how to look after myself."

"Yes, I know," she said, stroking my cheek warmly enough to make me shrink with guilt, "I just can't help worrying. Eighteen isn't as old as you think it is, sweetheart. I'd never forgive myself if something went wrong while I was away ..."

"Nothing's going to go happen, Mom," I almost stammered, looking down at my feet. Like most teenagers, I felt totally mortified by maternal displays of affection. "I've got Aunt Lizzie's phone number inside. I promise I'll call you every night to let you know I'm OK."

"That won't be necessary, darling. I trust you." She gave me a tired, happy look and leaned forward to kiss me on the forehead. Her hair tickled my face. She had a clean, tender smell about her, a mixture of carnations and lipstick and Pond's hand lotion. A young woman-scent, despite her age. I fought down an overwhelming sense of embarrassment.

"All right," she said, running her fingers through my hair, "take care of yourself. I'll phone you up on Good Friday to see how you're doing." She turned away, opened the door and pulled out her keys. "No parties, no loud music and don't stay up too late."

"Yes, Mom," I replied automatically. She needn't have worried, I'd given up sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll for lent. Like I said, I had other plans for the long weekend. I stood back as she turned the key in the ignition, gunning the Chevy's engine the way she always did before a long trip.

"Have a good time with Connie," she called over the eight-cylinder roar, then fixed me with a mock-stern look: "but not too good."

I nodded enthusiastically, trying to look as innocent as possible - which, in fact, I was. Connie Radcliffe wasn't coming over to exchange notes (or anything else). The whole story - history assignment and all - was a lie, a red herring to legitimize my absence from the Manson Family Reunion out at Lakecrest.

"Bye-Bye, honey." Mom blew me a kiss while she backed the Chevrolet down the driveway, dual exhausts humming in deep resonance. I followed her down to the street, keeping clear of the car's wide turning circle. I lifted my right hand in farewell, doing my best to look mature and trustworthy.

"Bye, Mom. Say 'hi' to Elsie for me."

"Will do." She swung away from the curb, gripping the wheel with both hands, and thundered off in hail of gravelstones and exhaust fumes. Top down, hair flying in the April slipstream, she looked maybe half her age, a precocious young cheerleader on her way to the Big Game. I stood in the street waving goodbye until the Chevy vanished over the crown of Summerhill Road ...

And literally bolted up to the house.

I was almost fainting with excitement by the time I reached the front door. It had been months since I'd had the place to myself, and I was trembling with expectation as I considered the day ahead of me. Locking the door with a swift, loud clack, I scampered through the living room, kicking off my sneakers without a second thought. I was free, alone to do whatever I pleased over the next four days.

Loosening my t-shirt at the waist, I hurried past the staircase, dodging though to the main hallway. My pulse slammed into overdrive as I imagined all those delicious satin treasures closeted away in the Back Room. The walls seemed to flash by in a strobing montage of frames, prints, and fashion illustrations.

The Back Room was a spacious, two-level extension with picture windows, spotlights and high ceilings. It was festooned with potplants, drawing tables, dressing torsos and sewing machines. Mom used it as both a design studio and a reception area when she was meeting with clients. It was a feminine, creative place, rich with her aromatic presence: scented bath oils; long departed roses; a touch of Chanel. I loved this room almost as much as I loved her.

The back wall was lined with mirrors. They dominated the studio from corner to corner, but were little more than a facade for the long, walk-in closet which housed my mother's private collection. Very few people even knew it was there, mainly because it contained the pieces she never intended to sell.

Mom's design sense leaned towards the strange and the fantastique. She often drew her inspiration from the excesses of fashion history - La Belle Epoch, French Rococo; anything with a Parisian flavour. Needless to say, it had been an absolute wonderland during my early childhood, seeding my dreams and igniting my most volatile desires. In the course of years, the Back Room had become my stage, the theater on which I enacted my most secret fantasies.

Did Mom suspect? Possibly; there was very little she didn't know about me.

Halting by the wall of mirrors, I scrutinized my reflection critically, putting a slim hand to the back of my neck. Removing a sequined elastic binder, I allowed my thick, blond hair to cascade past my shoulders. The image in the mirror immediately began to alter. With my hair sweeping down in a shimmering arabesque, I looked small and fragile; a pretty teenaged girl in oversized blue denim.

A shiver swirled through my tummy like a dash of ice water. Quivering with delight, I threw off my t-shirt and jeans, tossing aside the meaningless vestments of my male identity. Turning back to the mirrors, I adjusted my hair to cover my slim shoulders, almost dizzy with anticipation. I felt short of breath, my thighs started to shake with high-wire tension. I was impatient to finish the change, eager to climb into my costume and begin the afternoon's performance. Stepping closer to the mirrordoor, I studied my face and figure for imperfections. There were very few, even at this range.

I was rather fortunate in this respect. Possessing a sexually ambiguous appearance, I could easily pass for female. I had the androgynous lines and huge, liquid eyes of the Waif. My Mother once remarked - in all seriousness - that I could have modeled girls' fashions on any local catwalk.

I padded over to the closet, reveling in my bare thighs, my smooth, ivory skin. It was so wonderful, so liberating, to shed my male identity. Nearly three months had passed since I'd emerged from my gendered prison; twelve agonizing weeks locked in a boy's rancid body, counting off the empty, interminable days. Well, all that was finished now...

---

"The girl looking back at me was utterly breathtaking.

Her long, shapely legs bent slightly inward at the knees, their supple length exaggerated by the tense black suspenders. The red lace trimming the garter belt was garishly bright, as were the frills on her flimsy little panties. And strangely, in the dim lamplight of the Alcove, she seemed to have large, ripening breasts filling out the low-cut bra she wore. It was an illusion of course, a trick of the light and a feverish imagination. I was looking at a pretty teenaged girl in her underwear. One with my face and form..."

In this classic piece from the Cynosure collection, a beautiful young tranzie discovers a secret doorway to another world - but it doesn't lead to Narnia! Finding herself on the wrong side of the mirror, Bianca Woodrow discovers that the brightest of dreams can give way to the darkest of nightmares - one in which she might be trapped until the end of her days...

---

It was Saturday morning in the second week of spring, and nine year-old Kim Taylor was practically busting to get out of the house.

Leaning out of the window of his upstairs bedroom, Kim gazed across the lawns and fences of Heartsfield. The air still carried a hint of winter; he could taste it on the back of his tongue as he breathed. A deep, clear sky framed the distant mountains, lazy white clouds drifted sedately across the horizon. Too nice a morning to spend in front of the TV, no matter what was on. The day beckoned him with all the promises of childhood - some of which he was still too young to understand.

He'd promised to meet Janet and Suzie at the playground around half-twelve, which was why he'd grabbed lunch early today. His Mom was really big on the three squares thing and she wouldn't let him out the door without a bite or two. Well, she couldn't complain he wasn't getting his daily ration; he'd downed three BLTs and a glass of Quik only half an hour before. He'd also cleaned up his room, just in case she tried to hold him on a technicality. Mothers were like that, they almost never played fair.

Closing the window, Kim walked over to the dresser, keeping one eye to the clock. It was quarter of twelve; still plenty of time to get down to Memorial Park if he left in the next ten minutes or so. He passed a brush over his hair and tucked his t-shirt into his jeans, making sure to tighten the belt a notch. Unlike most boys his age, Kim was small and delicately built; it was difficult to find clothes that fit him. Even with his hair cropped to the nape of his neck, strangers regularly mistook him for a young girl (a situation causing him considerable embarrassment until quite recently).

Grooming rituals completed, he stepped into his runners (thick, pumpy Docs, roughly three sizes too big) and made for the door. All he had to do now was sneak past the Guardian of the Living Room and he'd be home free. Unfortunately, this final obstacle was also the most difficult to avoid, as his Mom had eyes like a proverbial hawk. Worse still, he knew she was getting curious about how he was spending his afternoons, which meant she would probably go fishing for answers.

And that might pose a few problems.

Kim trotted down the staircase, wondering how he was going to handle this. He wasn't old enough to deceive her (the woman was a human polygraph), but he obviously couldn't tell her everything - not even the parts she'd be capable of believing. Trouble was, she wouldn't let him leave until she'd satisfied her interest. Well, some of it, at least. Maybe that was his solution; throw her a couple of tidbits. Not too much; just enough to keep her guessing.

His mother was stretched out on the sofa, languidly reading one of her Anne Rice novels. This was a familiar scene: Lynne Taylor was a binge reader with a preference for the supernatural. The Vampire Chronicles was her all-time favourite, she must have read it at least sixteen times, as if searching for passages she hadn't noticed before. Kim honestly had no idea what the attraction was. Once you read a book you already knew how it ended. There was no point in reading it again from what he could see.

Kim approached the foot of the lounge with all the caution of a mouse approaching a sleeping lioness.

"Can I go out now, Mom?" he asked, trying hard not to shuffle his feet.

"Cleaned up your room?" Lynne asked without looking up.

"Yeah," Kim replied with an absent-minded nod.

"OK, then," Lynne said indifferently, "where are you going?"

"Down to the Park," the boy answered, "I'm meeting J and S at the swings."

Lynne glanced up, eyebrows arched with uncharacteristic surprise.

"J and S?"

"Janet and Susie."

"And who might they be?"

"Some girls in my class," Kim told her conversationally, "we catch the bus to school together. They live out in Chamberlain Heights."

"Oh, Chamberlain Heights," Lynne smiled, putting on her best la-de-da accent, "moving up in the world, are we?" Kim was aware that she was trying to reel him in with a touch of humour, but he didn't understand what she meant. He shrugged, not really sure how to reply.

"Yeah, I guess so."

Lynne stared at him a few seconds longer, studying his expression, his posture, the lowering of his gaze. He was holding something back, obviously, although he looked more uncomfortable than secretive. Well, whatever it was, it couldn't have been anything too serious. He was nine years old, how serious could it be? Probably just embarrassed about having a little girlfriend or something. Well, whatever it was, she could afford to be patient. She'd find out everything eventually. She always did.

"All right then," Lynne nodded, turning back to her book, "have a nice day with your friends." Casually turning a dog-eared page between her fingertips, she signaled that audience was finished.

Kim said goodbye and exited the room, hoping to avoid further questioning. He made it as far as the hallway before she issued the usual reminders, almost as an afterthought: "Dinner's at five. And be careful crossing the road."

"Yes, Mom," he called back, and let himself out through the front door. A fine day greeted him with a freshening breeze. He was glad to be out in the fresh air, away from his mother's interrogations. He could see that she'd been surprised he was meeting a couple of girls at the playground, and would have given her eye-teeth to know what was going on. And that would have been a little difficult to explain, particularly since J & S weren't really his friends.

They were Kitty's friends.

Kim ambled along the sidewalk swinging his arms, watching dragonflies zither across the nature strip. Memorial Park was five blocks up the Drive, about fifteen minutes walk from his place. Except he wasn't heading for Memorial Park, not exactly. He was heading for the playground, just as he'd told his mother, but it had a different name over there. A lot of things had different names over there, come to think of it.

Over there.

That was his name for Kitty's world. That land of wonders he'd discovered almost a year ago, when he'd learnt that dreams weren't always dreams. It was a place of infinite possibilities, where fantasies came true and there was no need to keep secrets from anyone, least of all his mother.

Over There.

Crossing the road at Lethbridge Canal, Kim turned left into Memorial Drive. The Drive was the main street of Heartsfield, running the length of the town and dividing it neatly in two. Hopscotch grids decorated its sidewalks with meticulous regularity, shaded by the leaves of a thousand maples. Kim knew every crossing, curb and corner of the Drive, because he'd lived here all his life.

Heartsfield was your archetypal picket-fence township, a picture-postcard village nestled around the foothills of the Chamberlain Ranges. It was pretty much the same in Kitty's world as it was in his; chalk-white footpaths and tree-lined avenues. You could almost smell the cinnamon pie cooling on every second window sill. His Mom adored the place, said it had a Norman Rockwell feel to it. Kim didn't know who Norman Rockwell was, but the sentiment was clear enough.

Kitty's town was virtually identical, only it was called Hartsvale on her side. Kim supposed the similarity wasn't purely coincidental; everything in Hartsvale was like a reflection of Heartsfield. He'd seen something similar on Star Trek, one time - that episode where Worf found himself falling through a bunch of quantum realities (whatever they were) and everyone seemed to have a double. Which was how things were in Kitty's world. It was like everybody he knew had a twin, someone who looked and acted the same as their counterpart.

Kitty Tyler was his twin, in a way.

Yes, she was a girl, and she wore dresses and ribbons and everything, but she was his twin nonetheless. He'd realized that the very first time he'd "stepped over" to the other side, nearly a year before. It didn't matter that she wore panties and skipped rope and slept with a cuddly panda in her arms every night. They were so similar, so alike in every other respect. The cast of their features, set of their gaze, the very colour of their thoughts. Yes, Kitty Tyler was his twin in every sense of the word.

His twin, and much more besides.

---

Three dark fantasies told from a transgendered perspective. Contents include:

The Shop at the End of the Road: a teenaged boy strikes a Faustian bargain with an ageless woman, incurring a debt that can never be repaid...

Stepping Over: a subtle rift in time and space allows nine-year old Kim Taylor a glimpse into a life he might have led...

Tell Me True: a mysterious door leads to a world of secret, feminine delights for one lonely, neglected little boy...

Originally published on BCTS, this supernatural trilogy has been revised and formatted for instant download. Clocking in at just under 20,000 words, Tales of Light and Darkness has been released into the public domain by the authors.

---

KC was five when his family moved into the house on Carrington Drive. He was very big on secret agents and hidden passages at the time, and was thoroughly intrigued when he discovered a door which went nowhere. This was utterly outside of his experiences with doors up to that time: a door, by its very nature, had to lead somewhere. You walked through one to get from outside to inside, a doorway took you out of one room and into another. You knocked on one to get it open, flicked the latch to let people in. Most of their handles were too high for KC to reach, but this one had its knob set down low, just the right height, as if it had been built for KC and KC alone.

He came across it on the afternoon they shifted in. KC had been helping his Mom and Dad carry stuff into the kitchen (well, they'd been doing most of the actual carrying, KC had been more sort of supervising and making helpful remarks, like "Why are there mushrooms growing in that cupboard?") when he noticed there was another room at the back of the kitchen, some hitherto unobserved space that KC just had to inspect.

He wandered through the canyons of boxes springing up on the lino, and made his way into the back room, pausing in the middle to stare around. He couldn't remember ever having been in a room this big before. The ceiling seemed about three miles high. The floor was a vast expense roughly the size of a playground. How were they ever going to fill it up? There weren't enough cardboard boxes in the world to do that.

Then he noticed the door.

It was tall, taller even than KC's Dad (who was the tallest man in the world, KC was sure), but it still looked rather tiny sitting there in the middle of that huge blank wall. It was thick and heavy, like the door at the front of the house. It must have been a very important door, as it was made of dark, oily wood. KC was utterly delighted with this find; his new home had all sorts of surprises. Hundreds of rooms to explore, as well as cupboards and fireplaces and wardrobes and all sorts of little nooks and crannies a boy could squeeze into when he wanted to hide from his older brother.

Maybe this place just went on and on! Wouldn't that be just so cool!! His old home had been nothing like this. KC had climbed over every inch of the house back at Ashville, and there had been absolutely nothing exciting about it (at least, not lately). Even Mom's wardrobe had finally lost its fascination, and that, at one time, had been the scariest thing in existence (KC's brother had assured him that at least twenty ghosts lived in Mom's creepy old wardrobe. He then proceeded to lock KC in that dark, confined hole for nearly thirty minutes until Mom and Dad came home and heard him screaming hard enough to split a lung).

KC walked over and studied the door with the sort of expertise normally reserved for a professional. Not only was the knob set at a perfect height, it was even the right size for his little fist. It gleamed in the lusty haze of the early afternoon, and KC decided it must be made of gold. The thought suddenly occurred to him that it might be locked. It had a big, black keyhole (odd for an inside door) just beneath the knob. What if it was locked, and they'd lost the key?

KC felt a jagged stab of panic. There had to be at least a zillion rooms hidden behind that door just begging KC to go exploring, and no one had a key to open it with! It was locked forever!! He'd never get to see what was on the other side now. He'd grow old and die without ever getting to set foot past the mystery doorway. No, that couldn't be right, this was his door, he'd discovered it before anyone else in the universe. KC gripped the knob and turned with all his might.

The door opened, swinging outwards with no resistance whatsoever. KC almost collapsed with disappointment. The door didn't go anywhere.

2.

The door opened onto a brick wall, brown and dull and streamered with cobwebs. It must have been the most boring wall on the face of the planet. KC called out to his father in dismay.

Dad sauntered out of the kitchen, house-dust peppering his balding head. He had grime on his thick, blunt fingers and a screwdriver in his shirt pocket. Graham, KC's older brother, swaggered along behind, sneering in abject contempt at the sound of KC's voice.

"What's up, Doc?" Dad asked, grinning from one side of his face to the other. His smile was usually enough to warm KC's little heart, but he wasn't going to be cheered up so easily. This must have been the biggest let-down he'd ever known. Worse than that, he knew he was going to have to live with it, somehow.

KC pointed at the doorway.

"Dad - this door. It doesn't go anywhere.'"

Graham curled his upper lip, staring down at the younger boy.

"So what?" he demanded, eyes flaming like lanterns fueled by hate. So fucking WHAT??! Graham had just turned fourteen and considered himself to be some kind of adolescent deity. He wore a black leather jacket and tight blue levis, which was evidently what all the gods were into that year. Dad ignored his divine offspring and inspected the door to nowhere.

"Some of these old places are funny like that, KC," Dad said, rattling the knob experimentally, "bordered up fireplaces, bricked-in windows, that sort of thing. You know."

KC nodded to affirm he knew precisely what his father was talking about, although in actual fact, he hadn't the proverbial faintest. Several seconds later, he decided that betraying his ignorance was preferable to sending the next six years wondering.

"Why doesn't it go anywhere?" he asked. Graham shook his head in snide, knowing arrogance: Only a fucking IDIOT wouldn't know that.

"Probably did once," Dad explained, waving the door back and forth, as if this would confirm his theory, "might have been another room out there at some point - a laundry, preservatives room, something or other. Maybe an extra bedroom. Who knows?" He looked down at KC and smiled.

"What happened to it?" the boy asked.
"Torn down, I guess. This place is pretty old, Kase."
"How old?"
"How old do you reckon?"
"About a thousand years!"

Dad laughed, ruffling his son's hair, and made his way back in to the kitchen, chuckling to himself. Graham glared down at KC for two seconds, then strutted out of the room, a fourteen year-old hustler with a Marlon Brando jacket and the coolest moves in the space-time continuum. KC stared after them, then looked back in at the doorway. Hardly enough room for a mouse to fit in between the door and the brickwork. He closed it quietly, and went off to supervise the installation of the sofa in the living room.

3.

Despite his disappointment, the Door to Nowhere continued to snare KC's attention. Once the excitement of The Big Move had died down, he spent most of his mornings playing out in the back room, eyes constantly circling around to the door and its shiny gold knob. It was a mystery. Sure, Dad had explained it all to him; old houses were built strange. But that hadn't really explained anything. The door didn't lead anywhere now, but it had led somewhere at some time.

And not to some boring old place like a laundry.

His Mom had been reading him a book back in Ashville called The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. It was a story about some little kids who go through a creaky old wardrobe and find a whole new world called Narnia. It was always snowing in Narnia ("always winter but never Christmas") and there were all sorts of magical animals and fairy-story people: lions and tigers and giants and witches and goblins and a whole mess of other things with names KC could never remember. He just bet the door had led to some secret place like Narnia once.

The days drifted by, growing shorter and colder as the year turned to Autumn. Rising early in the mornings, KC could never resist the temptation to get up and peek behind the Door to Nowhere. Of course, there was never anything back there except the brown brick wall. But sometimes, he was absolutely certain there was something else in there, and KC was just about busting to know what it was.

---

There was a shop on the outskirts of town, one of those magical little places that seemed to sell nothing but half-remembered dreams and broken promises. It sat at the end of a long forgotten cul-de-sac, nestled amongst the elms and maples, idling away its days in a seemingly eternal springtime. Its only customers were small children, fallen teenagers and forlorn lovers, all seeking answers to unspoken questions.

The answers were supplied by a dark-eyed woman who sat behind an ancient cedarwood counter. She greeted her clientele with an indulgent smile, her lips curving in a startling, gloss red crescent, a gilt-edged deck of tarot cards splayed beneath her lacquered fingertips. As young and ageless as a waxworks gypsy, she watched in tacit amusement while her visitors foraged through the racks and shelves at the back of the store. Few could explain precisely what they sought, but each knew the moment they found it, squirreled away amongst the books and bells and Halloween masks.

Sometimes they might search for days, drawn inexorably back to the shop with its country-fair collection of everyday marvels. Opera glasses and china dolls; pocket watches and baseball cards; black satin gloves and the sweet, mocking lies of a beautiful woman. It was a museum of the strange, the exotic and the wonderful, housing a thousand scattered fragments of a thousand scattered lives. Trade was never brisk, but no one who entered the premises ever left empty handed. The Shop at the End of the Road sold everything. The cost was naturally excessive, but then again, happiness never comes cheap.

Happiness comes at a price very few could afford – and which none could ever resist.

Robin Lindale walked in the deep green shade by the side of the road, thirteen years of late September sunshine in the body of a child not quite his age. He strode the verdant lanes with a light, easy step, meeting the world with a gaze that could calm an angry sea. Fair and slight and willow thin, he possessed a naive beauty that drew the eye of everyone who saw him. Many would turn to remark on his lush, Autumn features, thinking him a girl hiding beneath a boy's careless denims. Their unsuspecting whispers often brushed the truth, although no one would have guessed what lay concealed below Robin's alabaster countenance.

He was on his way to The Shop at the End of the Road, treading a path he'd followed since early childhood. A life-long devotee of the arcane and the inexplicable, Robbie had become the Shop's sole regular customer. Its dark, aromatic interior had held him entranced from the moment he'd stepped through its leadlight doorway half a decade before. His once-intermittent journeys were now a regular pilgrimage, a ritual he observed with an almost Catholic devotion. Like most children his age, Robbie was a creature of custom and ceremony. The Shop was a great unspoken mystery in a grey pedestrian world, and his life would have been incomplete without this weekly dedication.

He approached the store through a grove of pines clustered around the front entrance. In previous centuries, the Shop had been a small parish church with bluestone walls and mahogany floorboards. Stained-glass windows lent it a surreal quality much in keeping with the owner's Gothic personality. Robbie had always found this melancholy atmosphere vaguely menacing, like the moaning of the wind through a moonlit graveyard. He trotted up the front steps, inhaling an intoxicating mixture of Indian Rose and pine resin.

He paused just inside the threshold, adjusting his vision to the perpetual night inside. Dim, looming shapes gradually resolved themselves into art deco lampshades and glass-topped display cabinets. Nothing looked familiar; the merchandise altered from day to day like the colors of an April sunset. Robin stood silhouetted in the wide Victorian doorframe, savoring the fresh aura of mystery.

Then: a distant, nocturnal voice, drifting through the darkness:

"Hello Robbie."

The woman behind the counter waited in a pool of indigo shadows, silently reading the inscrutable cards with her long, spiderling fingers. She didn't need to look up to know who had entered her store. She divined the future the way the blind read brail, and was rarely – if ever – caught off guard. Long accustomed to her enigmatic presence, Robin approached her with the careless trust of a five year-old.

"Hi Felicity," he replied, using the name she'd told him to use, which wasn't her name at all. He halted before the counter, glancing absently down at the Tarot cards. Her finger hovered over The Queen, an image which held a special significance for the boy. It always turned face up whenever he entered the store.

"Earlier than usual," Felicity commented indifferently.

"Yeah, I thought I'd drop in before the place got too crowded," Robbie replied ingenuously, unaware that such a comment could easily be misconstrued as the grossest sarcasm. Felicity dealt another card, whicker-flicking it into place with a dark, effortless grace.

"Seven of Cups," she remarked, unsurprised. Mystic numbers and the search for meaning.

"Cool," Robin nodded as if he understood the first thing about the Tarot, then looked towards the back of the shop. Like everyone who came here, Robbie was searching for something – though he wasn't sure how to describe what it was at this point. It was kind of silly, kind of embarrassing, now that he stopped to think about it. Maybe if he just went out back and had a look round ...

"Felicity, would it be OK if I –" he began, inclining his head towards the old Lady Chapel. A crumbling, circular alcove packed with skirts, trinkets and hat-boxes, it was sure to house the object of his desires.

"Of course," the woman agreed in a subtle, knowing tone Robbie was too young to recognize. He was thirteen, and a boy; guile was an artform beyond his understanding. He sauntered into the rear of the store, past a framed poster advertising a French magician named Robert-Houdin (Suspension Chloroform, the legend read). He felt confident that he'd locate his prize out in the Lady Chapel or some other part of The Shop. That was the true enchantment of Felicity's place; nothing was ever out of reach if you sought hard enough...

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