Fireflies levitated above the freshly mowed lawn, blinking their butts, announcing a desire to mate with the ladies buried beneath cut grass.
“Come land on me with your bright light”, Francie announced while glowing like an ember. She was perched partly beneath two blades of shredded hay next to the garden hose, out of view from the sky above.
All the girls were mooning. There is nothing like a fresh mowing to bring out even the most bashful of lady bug fireflies in heat. Francie didn’t stand a chance. Swarms of bright asses were glowing in the sweltering evening air of August in the ground all around her.
“Am I fat or ugly?” She asked the gods.
The sting of the male firefly is what they are born for. Without the satisfying jolt of a positive electrical charge, lady fireflies like Francie turn into ants.
A red-headed boy named Lucky ran across his front yard. The tips of his fingers glowed like magic dildos. He picked Francie up, but saved her ass, and placed her inside a glass jar.
Francie spent her last hours of life like a nun, serving as an alternative energy source for man, waiting for a star to fall.