Deep in the rainforest, up in the canopy where colorful birds nested, once thrived my tizzy of Faeries. Our whole village was just waking up to the cool evening breezes. Lights blinked to life inside the teardrop shaped homes dangling from the tall branches. Each light was a neighbor, rubbing their eyes, stretching, feeling their tummies rumble. There were twice as many nests as lights.

Though I was hungry, I hated going down to breakfast this early. The others all stared at me, knowing I was “different”; the only pre-adult with full-grown wings that hadn’t dated at least once with a faerie of the same sex.

My mothers gave me a doll to practice living with, but it just made the others laugh. One day, before sun set, some of my peers flew in my nest, nabbed my doll, and drew male genitalia on it. My mothers were furious, but I was rather fascinated.

How were we to continue our race anyway? My mothers never spoke about my conception, only my adoption day, and how I shamed them now. Why was I different?