Growing into the Job, Post 542: Retail Therapy, p16 - Rise in Her Name

I had looked at a map earlier, so I sort of knew where we were headed, but at this point all I really needed to do was follow the sound.

It drifted through the mall like music on water - the soft thump of bass under polite chatter. Then it came into sight, the bright spark of overhead lights refracting off glass, sequins, lip gloss. The upcoming show was already drawing a crowd, shoppers and women who heard there’d be something beautiful to look at.

The main concourse in this area had been transformed. The usual strip of open floor between escalators and atrium plants was now polished to a mirror shine. A crowd of standing women had gathered in a long crescent around a makeshift runway - a low, glossy platform that would reflect movement like the surface of a calm lake. At the end stood a small raised stage with a glowing Hera’s logo arched behind it. Potted flowers flanked the edges, arranged with sharp feminine geometry: orchids, anthuriums, twisted vines coiling like women’s hair. Above it all a banner for the fashion runway event: TODAY SHE WALKS. TOMORROW SHE LEADS.

From high hidden fixtures, soft golden light cascaded down, not quite spotlight-bright yet - just enough to give everything a gentle halo. The air smelled like citrus and cedarwood. Soft music filtered through the space, blending with laughter and the click of heels on tile. No one was seated; everyone stood.

And everyone looked at me. Probably because I was carrying a little man on my back.

I was ushered gently forward by a hostess who appeared suddenly in a sleek black jumpsuit. “Ms. Vallurupalli?” she asked.

I cocked my head. “Yes?”

“Right this way. You’re with Ms. Steven’s group - front row, just beside the center platform.”

Dr. J, still perched snug onto my backside, gave the smallest groan. He hated being seen like this. But he didn’t let go.

I walked him with purpose through the open aisle, past women with designer handbags, and into the clearing near the stage.

There they were! Waving, calling us to them. 

Aubrey and Josie stood near the front, near a half-circle of white velvet roping - the kind they used for a VIP section. Were we in the VIP section?? Josie was leaning on the barrier like she’d owned the place for years. Aubrey stood taller, more graceful, her outfit a pale long sleeve tee tucked into a pair of casual jeans that made her waist tiny, her hips look carved. Josie wore a red tank top, tight at the midriff and, well, tight everywhere else too. She was showing much more cleavage in this outfit than she had before, and her denim shorts were brief, displaying her long legs. A funny outfit for November but she looked cute. Both had changed, and both looked stunning.

Josie’s eyes lit up the moment she saw us. “Omigod, Lakshmi - look at him! He’s like your little bum-bag!”

“Josie, please, language - and yes I told him I would either carry him or cart him, his choice,” I said lightly, “He chose this.”

Aubrey laughed softly. “He’s so comfy looking, though.” She leaned down a bit to get a better look. “Doctor, you’re like her little koala.”

I felt his cheek press lightly into me, just above my shoulder blade.

“Awww you poor thing,” Aubrey cooed with a smile. 

“He is fine,” I said. “He is holding up.”

Josie grinned. “More like holding on.”

She stepped forward and gave his knee a playful pat. “You both missed it, though. There was this whole pre-show thing - like a demo. Remember Rachel Keller? Patient from the clinic? Product study?”

“The gym owner?”

“Yep! So she’s opening a new branch downstairs here, and she brought a few of her girls to do this strength performance - like, from her women’s powerlifting club or something. We caught the tail end of it.”

“They were tall, and big, you should have seen them,” Aubrey smiled. “And they were using men as weights.”

I blinked. “Men?”

Josie nodded. “Yep. Literal men. Like barbells. One girl deadlifted her boyfriend -  a bunch of times. Crowd went wild.”

“It was so cool,” Aubrey murmured, eyes dreamy.

I turned toward the stage again, heart fluttering just a little faster. I loved demonstrations of what women could do now, and I was guessing that this fashion show would be a bit of just that. And here we were, front row.

The lights changed subtly at first - not a sudden dimming, but a shift in tone. The overheads softened, mellowing into rose gold. Small spotlights flicked on along the stage platform, casting a pearly glow across the reflective runway. The music lowered. A hush rippled through the crowd.

Then a woman stepped out behind a sleek podium at stage right, adjusting the slim mic stand with a professional sort of poise. She wore a black jumpsuit tailored within an inch of its life, her heels so sharp they might have been weapons. The Hera’s insignia gleamed like a medallion at her hip.

“Good evening, ladies,” she said, smiling wide. “And welcome to the Hera’s Department Store Style Showcase!”

Polite applause rose from the crowd - scattered, warm, female-heavy.

“We’re so thrilled you’re here to celebrate bold style and beautiful function in fashion made for real women - strong, dynamic, everyday women like you. Tonight’s event features select new pieces from Hera’s newest lines, worn by some of the boldest, brightest young women in our community.”

Dr. J shifted slightly on my lower back, and I heard a hesitant, embarrassed little murmur.

“Can you, um…put me down now?”

I tilted my head back a bit. “Why?”

“I can see fine. We’re at the front, remember?”

Aubrey leaned in with a gentle finger to his lips. “Shhh, sweetie. You’ll see better from up there.”

Yes. He could see over my shoulder just fine. Better than he would down on the floor.

I felt how he drew a breath, ready to complain.

Before he could speak, though, Josie added, voice low and teasing, “What, you don’t like your throne?”

He groaned, and I felt the warm puff of his breath against the side of my neck. 

“You are fine,” I murmured. “Sit still.”

The lights shifted again, just slightly - a hint more drama now, the edges of the runway catching deeper shadow as the first woman was announced. I was pleased that he had quieted, resigned himself to our judgment.

The emcee’s voice brightened. “First up, please welcome Chloe Mason - a sophomore at Fairpoint University, lacrosse co-captain, and co-founder of the campus Women in Motion club.”

A polite, anticipatory ripple passed through the crowd as the girl appeared from behind a tall divider and stepped onto the runway. 

“Chloe,” the announcer continued, “is wearing a lightweight, tapered trench coat in soft cream, paired with sculpted joggers and a ribbed mockneck crop.”

She wasn’t a professional model - that much was obvious - but she didn’t need to be. She was tall, maybe five-ten, with thick thighs and a clean ponytail that swung as she walked. Her smile was big, wide, a little nervous. But her stride was strong.

The trench was unbuttoned, fluttering with each step. The joggers clung neatly to her hips and calves, and her crop top exposed a toned strip of midsection that flexed subtly with every movement. She glanced briefly at the crowd, smiled again - then straight ahead, just like she’d been coached.

A few cheers bubbled up from the crowd - friends maybe, or just supportive strangers.

Josie leaned into my ear. “She’s cute,” she whispered.

“She is brave,” I replied, “I could not imagine doing this.”

Dr. J stayed quiet, but I could feel him watching the girl walk away, back towards the divider from which she first stepped. Another girl was walking out. 

“And next,” the emcee’s voice rang out, clear and confident, “please welcome Myra Jennings - recent graduate of Middlesex High, now working as an apprentice stylist here at Hera’s. She describes her style as ‘feminine with an edge’. Let’s give her some love!”

A soft rustle of interest and some more applause moved through the crowd as Myra appeared.

She was striking in a more unconventional way - shorter than the last, maybe five-eight, but also built solid through the hips and chest. Her dark curls were worn loose and big, bouncing with each step. She wore a high-waisted, pinstriped skirt that flared just above the knee, paired with a structured charcoal vest - sleeveless, cinched at the waist, with a flash of deep burgundy silk at the collar. Beneath the vest, a sheer black blouse hinted at lace beneath.

She walked like she had something to prove - a little stiff at first, but the crowd lifted her. You could see it in her spine. By the time she reached the end of the platform and struck her pose - one hip cocked, chin tilted slightly to the left - she was glowing proudly.

“She looks like she’s walking into a promotion,” Aubrey murmured approvingly.

“She looks like she belongs up there,” I said simply.

Dr. J was quiet.

I felt the smallest shift of his weight against my back. His breath was steady, but I knew he was watching. Absorbing. Trying to reconcile the growing gap between what used to be “his world”… and this.

The crowd gave a second round of applause. Myra disappeared backstage.

The emcee kept things moving. “Up next, please welcome Raeven Corley - a third-year med student at Westhall with a love for hiking, knitting, and neuroscience.”

A lithe blonde in a forest green romper strode down the runway, all long limbs and graceful elbows, her arms toned and golden under the lights. Her smile was ebullient, immediately more confident than the previous two. 

“She looks like she’s having fun,” Josie whispered.

“And our next model, Aria Bloom - a first-year teacher who says she got into education because ‘the world needs smarter little girls.’”

Cheers for that one. Aria was the softest so far - tall and curvy and sweet-faced in a pale orange wrap dress, her cheeks flushed, her red curls pinned with glittering barrettes. As the announcer described her outfit, she blew a kiss to someone in the crowd and nearly tripped on her high heels, but laughed it off to applause.

We all smiled. But even as we did, I felt the current shift. Something was coming.

There was a pause behind the curtain and the emcee’s voice changed - just slightly. Just enough.

“And now…” her voice rang out again, but this time it softened at the edges - like she knew what was coming would get a reaction. The murmuring crowd fell a bit more still. “Our next model is a medical assistant at the new Far Horizons Evolution Center and also a budding performer. Not only is she lovely and modeling some outfits for us, but will be giving us a song later.”  

A ripple of interest, anticipation, and surprise moved through the crowd.

“Please welcome to the stage: Shanette Stevens!” 

I did not breathe. Dr. J went still on my back.

And then she stepped onto the runway.

Even after everything I had seen these past few months - all the changes in our bodies, the slow shift of power, the way eyes turned when one of us entered a room - it was still a dramatic sight to see our friend like this, bathed in spotlight.

“SHANETTE!!!” Josie whooped, clapping, bringing our friend’s eyes - and a flash of her big, white smile - our way, just for a second. She looked happy to see us in the audience, but she had a job to do.

She started her walk. Shanette was six-foot-three barefoot, but the sharp gold stilettos on her feet probably made her taller than any woman in the building. Her skin gleamed - polished, dark, luminous - like wet rosewood under the lights. Her hair was long, deep black, and pulled back into a sleek low ponytail that swung with each step. And her body…wow. 

“She looks amazing,“ Aubrey said to us, over the applause. 

The announcer lady was describing the outfit Shanette was wearing, but none of us were really listening. Our smiles were too big, seeing our coworker up there. The plum wrap dress clung like a second skin to her hourglass figure. It dipped low over her chest - low enough to be racy on anyone else - but on Shanette it looked ordained. Her breasts were high and fuller even than Aubrey’s and, set against that thin frame, strained perfectly within the satin’s subtle structure. A gold buckle cinched at her already narrow waist and shone like a medal of honor. Her hips rolled powerfully. 

Josie actually gasped when Shanette took her first turn, at the far end of the runway, showing us her backside. “Holy crap. Has her butt always been that big?”. 

Shanette’s walk was measured, fluid, perfectly paced - the kind of walk that did not look coached. She did not seem to be just playing model like maybe the other four had.

Aubrey murmured, almost reverently, “She’s so…stunning.”

Dr. J didn’t say anything - but I felt his fingers curl a little tighter against my shoulders, like he needed something to hold him to the Earth. I thought wistfully that I could be his Earth.

The crowd had at first gone almost completely silent. Not with boredom, but with the sense that they were seeing something different, something of a whole new level; Far Horizons girls were exactly that. Shanette, Aubrey, Josie. Amelia, Katie, Randi - and of course Melissa. All the others, and even me. I did my best not to think about it, and certainly none of us talked about it all that much, but sometimes I felt like we were becoming something bigger, women growing into something greater while still walking among the…haha…the mere mortals.

Only as Shanette neared the edge of the runway did applause really begin - tentative at first, then swelling, as if people had just remembered how to use their hands. Phones lifted. Flashes popped. A woman next to us whispered something I didn’t catch. Her friend nodded, eyes wide.

“She is so elegant,” I said softly, mostly to myself. “So…elevated.”

“She looks like she knows,” Josie whispered, nodding, eyes wide.

“She does,” Aubrey said, looking at Josie then at me, “don’t you?”

“I think so…” I replied, feeling a weird sense of purpose coiling in my deepest belly. 

Shanette paused at the runway’s edge. Her gaze skimmed the crowd - calm, gracious, just shy of smiling. Then her eyes found us again. And in that moment, something passed between us all - the four of us, five if you counted the trembling bundle of man on my back. Not a secret, but a truth. One we all already knew.

She was one of us. And we were one, all becoming more. 

Shanette turned, the slit in her dress opening just enough to reveal a smooth, commanding thigh. She glided back down the runway, leaving a breathless hush in her wake as her rear swayed back and forth, keeping the eyes of the crowd until she disappeared back behind the divider.

The next model’s name was announced, but the crowd did not seem to register it as they were all still bobbing in Shanette’s wake. Even as the girl stepped onto the runway, applause was thin. Conversations were still swirling around us in hushed currents. I caught snippets - “Far Horizons,” “she’s from the Evolution Center?” - and more than once I heard Melissa’s name. One woman nearby, in a smart pantsuit and slicked hair, tilted her head toward us and said something to her friend behind a lifted hand. I could not hear the words, but I could feel the shape of them.

A few seconds later, the woman’s eyes flicked to me. Not with hostility - but with curiosity and recognition. It startled me a little. I had not realized we were being noticed like that. I mean, sure - Melissa was getting attention online, and some of the other girls too. There had been a few clips of Stephanie from that fitness influencer’s showcase, and Amelia was going viral with her livestreams without even trying. But we were not famous, were we? Not really. We were still…us, right?.

The current model, poor thing, was doing her best. She wore a flowy linen jumpsuit in sky blue that washed out a little under the lights, and though she was pretty enough, in a tall and lanky way, she had the misfortune of following a goddess. Her smile wavered as she walked, like she felt it too.

I exhaled gently, andI shifted Dr J. slightly on my back. He murmured something small and wordless - maybe just a sigh - but he still did not struggle to get down from me.

The show moved briskly after that. The other three girls - Chloe, Myra, and Raeven - returned to the stage one by one in their second looks. The crowd was kinder now, more attentive. Chloe wore a bright, breezy day dress with oversized pockets and a high slit that gave her a little more swing in her step. Myra’s second look was a striking one-shouldered jumpsuit in navy with metallic detailing that caught the light with each motion of her hips. Raeven returned in a long cardigan over a satiny crop set, effortlessly confident, looking like she was headed for an art gallery opening and maybe already knew she would be the most interesting person there.

They were all beautiful, but the crowd was waiting for Shanette.

And then - like the organizers knew exactly what they were doing - the announcer’s voice rose again, this time with a hint of a grin.

“Let’s welcome back to the runway Shanette Stevens…this time joined by her boyfriend, Scottie.”

A ripple of sound moved through the audience - a soft ‘ooh’ of curiosity, some excited murmurs, a few women clapping just a little too fast.

And then they appeared.

Shanette’s second outfit was wildly different from her first - a bold, body-hugging ensemble that didn’t so much whisper confidence as broadcast it like a siren. The leopard-print turtleneck was tight. Not just form-fitting, but sculpted - the kind of tight that seemed like it had been poured onto her. The high collar only emphasized the swell of her breasts beneath, and the print pulled in every direction across her chest with audacious defiance. Her black leather pencil skirt hugged her hips and thighs all the way down to mid-calf, forcing her stride into a deliberate, slow roll. Each step sent a ripple through the crowd - not of shock, but of appreciation. She looked dominant. Elevated. Utterly in command.

And then there was Scottie.

He walked just a pace behind her, then caught up. He was, in theory, modeling too - a tight, glossy black shirt tucked into high-waisted slacks that flared slightly at the ankle. The shirt bore a faint leopard-print shimmer, clearly meant to echo hers. But where her look was unapologetic and predatory, his was almost deferential. Like he’d been styled to match both her mood and her outfit.

Scottie was not tiny. At 5’8”, he was technically about average - but next to the 6’3” Shanette in her sky-high heels, he looked small - very small. His frame was thin, narrow-shouldered, and his steps were shorter. You could see the effort he was putting into walking in rhythm with her, matching her pace, but it only made the difference between them more apparent. She glided. He followed.

Their height gap was deliciously stark. Shanette’s hips came nearly to his ribcage. Her breasts - thrust forward by the structure of the turtleneck and the curve of her posture - loomed above him like a promise or a dare. When they paused at the end of the runway for a pose, she placed one hand lightly on his shoulder. Not affectionately. Possessively.

The crowd loved it.

There was a swell of laughter, cheering, whistles - not mocking, but again  appreciative. A woman a few rows ahead of us fanned herself with her program. Someone behind me said, “Oh my god, she’s owning him.”

And she was.

Shanette’s head tilted slightly, just enough to let her ponytail fall forward, the arc of it slicing through the spotlight. Her expression was perfect - cool, gracious, vaguely amused. She looked like a woman enjoying the view from the top of something she had built herself.

Scottie, for his part, smiled nervously. He was not embarrassed - that was not the right word - but there was a flicker in his eyes that betrayed the intensity of the moment. The feeling of being utterly overshadowed. I wondered if he had known, really, when he agreed to this, what it would feel like to be up there beside her, looking like an accessory.

My thoughts went briefly to Dr. J, still perched on my rump.

Shanette gave Scottie’s hand a gentle tug, turned - and led the way back down the runway, hips swaying like punctuation, the leather skirt gripping each powerful step. He followed obediently, visibly careful not to trip.

They disappeared behind the divider, and the crowd exhaled - a collective, breathless murmur of admiration.

Josie let out a low whistle. “Damn,” she said softly, summing the whole thing up in one word.

“That was…magnificent,” Aubrey agreed, voice quiet, reverent.

I didn’t say anything right away. My hands had tightened, unconsciously, against Dr. J’s thighs. He was holding on, but just barely. I could feel his pulse through the skin of my back. I knew we had all felt it. That second walk - it was not just modeling. It was a message. A performance. An unignorable glimpse of what was already here, and what was coming.

Women rising. Men receding. The future strutting in heels. The show moved forward, but now with a new rhythm - and some more new faces. Each of the remaining models returned for their final walks, but not alone. One by one, like Shanette had done before them, they came out with a man at their side.

Chloe led the way, hand-in-hand with a lanky boyfriend in a sharp denim set that echoed her chambray dress. He looked sweet, maybe even a little proud, but the height difference was obvious - she would have two inches on him in flats, and now in wedges she towered slightly, walking with a soft authority that made the audience smile.

Next came Myra, arm-in-arm with an older man introduced as her father. He looked dignified enough - gray at the temples, in a fine charcoal suit with subtle floral embroidery that nodded to her flowing kaftan - but he walked a step behind her, eyes low, a quiet accessory to her radiance. There was a murmur of approval. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Then Raeven returned - her third look was sleek, almost futuristic, and the man with her, of all things, was a former teacher. The announcer even said it that way: “Raeven is joined by her former history teacher, Mr. Dillon.” There was a ripple of laughter, some light applause. He was short, neat, slightly built, the shortest of all the men who had been on stage so far. His outfit, a matching silk tunic and cropped trousers, was carefully coordinated with hers - but it didn’t quite elevate him. It made him look… included. Not essential.

But the one that caught the most attention came next.

Aria had stepped out in a flame-orange jacket-dress with a sculptural belt - and tethered to her left hip, trailing half a step behind, was a delicate man in a minimalist black jumpsuit. He wasn’t announced as anyone in particular - “a companion,” the host said - but the moment they emerged, the tether drew gasps.

It was not aggressive, not a leash, exactly. It was artful - a long, silk cord in matching orange, looping from a clasp on the hem of her belt to a small ring sewn near the collar of his jumpsuit. At first glance it could be mistaken for ornament, but once they began walking, and Aria began smiling, the truth was unmistakable.

He moved with her, because of her. Each time she turned, he followed. When she paused, he stopped. There was no slack in the line.

Someone near us let out a shocked little breath. “Is that-?”

“Oh my god, it’s one of those tether things. That’s real now?”

“I saw something like that on Extra last night…”

“It’s a leash.”

The crowd buzzed. Some thrilled, some unsure, but no one indifferent.

And I could feel Dr. J shifting ever so slightly on my back - not pulling away, just squirming, unconsciously reacting to the spectacle. I tightened my grip, steadying him. I could feel his heat through my shirt.

The final pair exited the stage. There was a lull - a pause filled with rustling fabric, clinking jewelry, low murmurs of excitement and something just shy of awe. The house lights dimmed a touch.

Then the announcer returned, stepping into the spotlight at the center podium. She held a note card, but her grin said she did not need it.

“Well,” she said, “I think it’s safe to say we’ve seen some extraordinary fashion tonight. But we’re not done just yet.”

The audience leaned in.

“Before we close the show,” she continued, “we have something a little different. Shanette Stevens is not only trying modeling for the first time tonight, she’s also prepared a song. She’s never sung in public, but today she’ll be sharing a special performance of ‘Rise in Her Name’.”

The room erupted - louder than before. Clapping, cheers, a few yells of delight. This was not just fashion now. There was energy in the air, charged and expectant. This was suddenly a rally.

I’d first heard ‘Rise in Her Name’ at the women’s march Josie and her mother had taken me to a few weeks ago. Since then, the song had grown to become an anthem of sorts of the Movement, and the thought of hearing Shanette singing it here gave me chills.

It obviously excited the crowd, too.   

The lights began to shift - a slow fade into moodier tones. Purples, deep golds, shadows building at the edges of the runway. The announcer had stepped away, off the stage, and her spotlight faded. 

Something was coming. Shanette was coming.

I adjusted my stance, settling Dr. J against me again. His breathing had slowed, but I could feel his heart rate quicken just a bit. We were all watching now, waiting.

The lights above dimmed to a hush. A breathless tension swept through the room like the moment before a storm - the audience still and waiting, suspended in the dark. Then, with a soft click, a single spotlight snapped on at the far end of the stage.

Shanette stood at its edge.

From afar, to the hundreds watching, she looked like a vision carved from myth: tall, radiant, and impossibly poised. Her hair, blown out to a silken cascade, caught the light like a dark halo. Her gold sequin dress clung to every curve, every movement, glinting like molten metal. A thin shawl of matching gold silk hung diaphanous about her shoulders, draping down but not completely covering the thin black straps that traced up her shoulders, the same black piping drawing a deep neckline. 

She took her first step onto the stage. Tall. Regal. Towering in golden heels that did not just click on the stage - they announced her. To the audience, it was the slow arrival of a queen.

But I saw it. So did Aubrey and Josie. The way Shanette’s fingers fluttered for the briefest second at her side. The faint hesitation before her heel touched down. A tiny tremor - gone in a blink, but the three of us caught it -  in the muscles of her jaw. She was a little nervous; I could see it in the way she drew her first big breath. 

My own breath, I have to admit, hitched in my throat, but not from nerves. It was awe. A flush of heat passed through my body, blooming across my back where Dr. J still clung to me like a baby monkey. He made a low, involuntary sound - half-gasp, half-groan - his thin arms tightening as if he, too, felt the magnitude of Shanette’s presence pressing against his chest.

And when Shanette stepped fully into the center of the stage, into the full gaze of the spotlight where a mic stand had been placed - her chest, looking absolutely massive, rose. Her lungs filled, inflating her upper body until her breasts bulged almost obscenely above her neckline. 

The room collectively inhaled with her. 

I felt my own lips part, not in surprise, but reverence. Yes, the shawl partially camouflaged her torso, but there was no hiding it: those breasts of hers were big.

Then Shanette smiled. And, as big and warm as it was, I could see that it was not the smile of a performer, but of a girl, a young woman, one that had grown and who knows now they are seen - and chooses to be. 

The crowd had quieted, but rippled with anticipation; they knew this song, they knew what was coming. For the first moments, all I could hear was the creak of the stage scaffolding and my own breath - steady, aware. She was already a spectacle just standing there.

Then: a single piano note. Gentle. Isolated. It hung in the air like a question mark. Then, from the speakers above, the music began to swell - low at first, steady and rising, simple piano arpeggios and faint ambient synth pads - like the beginning of a wave about to break. 

Shanette, having stepped forward into the narrow pool of light, cast a golden silhouette sharp against the dark, head bowed. She looked maybe like a prayer about to speak itself.

The piano had begun to rise in slow, deliberate chords. Minimal still, nearly empty. You would be able to hear someone cry in the back row if they let themselves. Then Shanette’s voice cut through, low and intimate, like she was whispering directly into every ear in the room:

“She was quiet once,” Shanette began, in a voice so arresting it made the whole place stop, “head bowed low. Worked twice as hard with half to show….”

Around us, breath held, people frozen in reverence. This song was well known now - various versions of it recorded, available online, played at rallies. It had quickly become a de facto anthem for the movement, and we had all felt it carve through us at some point. I glanced to my left - two young women were holding hands, one pressing her lips to the other’s knuckles.

“But hands that build and hearts that break,” Shanette continued, “Can forge a world, or start a quake.”

The piano continued - but something began to shimmer beneath it, a second layer. The first hint of a cello - deep and resonant - glided in beneath the melody, so soft you might think you were imagining it.

And then, behind that, a hum. Harmonies began to rise, faint and warm. Gospel. Layered. I could not place who was singing - it was like the song itself remembering its mothers.

Shanette did not move much - just the smallest tilt of her chin as she reached the next part of the song. It was subtle, but her movement changed everything as the light caught her cheekbones. LEDs behind her blossomed from slate gray to a muted dawn - pale gold, soft rose, a breath of warmth spilling into the space.

“The wind has shifted, the ground now stirs,
A whisper becomes thundered words…”

The crowd began to lean forward - and I did too, even with Dr. J on my back - not to hear better, but to feel closer. The air thickened expectantly. Some people closed their eyes, letting the music settle into their chests. Others held their phones aloft, capturing the moment like it might vanish if they looked away. I am sure some people were streaming this.

I shifted slightly, and Dr. J adjusted his weight on my back, his arms still looped around my shoulders. He had been pretty quiet since we entered. I tilted my head toward him, my voice low.

“You okay back there?”

There was a pause. Then, near my ear, the tickle of his little voice: “I’m, uh…not sure what’s happening.” He could feel it, in the air, what I knew: Shanette was changing the room with her song, affecting everyone. But he was confused. 

I glanced around again - the few men I could see in the crowd looked the same way he sounded. Not upset, just… unsure. Like they had stumbled into a language they never learned but could tell was beautiful. One of them, a man maybe in his late forties, stood with arms crossed beside his wife, his expression pinched - but even he was not leaving; he was rapt.

I smiled. Our song is not for you, but you are welcome to stay.

“And now she rises, unashamed,
In her power, with her name…”

Shanette drew a breath. Something inside her was fueling up to ignite, and whatever magic she had in the air began to redouble. And then, coming to the chorus - she sang, still soft and low but building.

“Raise your voice, raise your flame,
Raze the walls and burn the shame…”

As her voice began to rise in the chorus, my jaw literally dropped. The rich beauty of her talent was just beginning to really show itself.

Goodness, I have never heard her like this before.

I had heard Shanette hum around the office, sure, or sing along to songs on the radio, driving together. But this, hearing her onstage in front of all these people, was… otherworldly. Her voice was not just beautiful - I was quickly coming to realize that it was devastating. Smooth as molten gold, with a dark, chest-born richness that wrapped around the edges of every note. Not sharp, not even sounding trained - just true, like her vocal cords had been forged by history itself.

She sounded better than the streams, by other artists. Better than any of the other versions I had heard. As good or better, in fact, than any of the old megastars people still name-drop when they want to sound retro-cultured - Christina, Ariana, Whitney.

Shanette’s voice enthralled and commanded the space, effortlessly. Her voice didn’t rise above the crowd - it pulled the crowd up to meet it. And under those lights, she glowed. That smooth, deep espresso tone of her skin drank in the warmth of the stage and radiated it back - not glossy, not artificial, just alive. The gold silk shawl shimmered across her shoulders like a second skin. It slipped a little as she lifted her arms, catching just enough of the light to make her look…impossible. Not unattainable, just - transcendent.

The prerecorded chorus lifted behind her - harmonies blooming like wings behind the melody. Gospel roots, threaded with modern synth shimmer and the sharp pop of a snare hit.

“While he fades, she remains…”

Her voice backed off the hint of crescendo, and became softer, spoken, nearly breathless:

“ …and we rise in her name.”

She didn’t shout it. She said it. And the restraint made it hit harder - like a truth whispered too close to your ear.

I felt Dr. J shift behind me. Just a subtle adjustment of weight - but one I noticed. He didn’t say anything, but the tension in his grip told me something had changed. His breathing had thickened, slow and caught. I assumed nerves, or awe. .

A pause for some instrumentation, then the second verse began.

”We walk in rhythm, hearts aligned,
Each step a story, redefined.
No need for noise, we know our song,
And carry it - and them - along.”

“She’s insane,” Josie whispered beside me, her eyes huge. “She could, like, headline at the civic center.”

“Yeah huh?” I agreed.

“What we create, we do with care -
Take quiet power, bold and rare. 

The day is ours, the path is true,
And every voice says - ‘we came through’.”

 And then the second chorus hit - this time bigger. Fuller. Her voice had begun to soar now, and the choir of voices behind her surged into full power, every harmony stitched tight.

“Raise your voice, raise your flame!
Raze the walls and burn the shame!”
While he fades, SHE remains…
and we riiiiiise in her name…”

This time, she belted the last line - chest forward, arms wide, her body arcing with the sound as she dropped the shawl like silk surrendering, back from around her shoulders to pool at her elbows before slipping to the floor behind her. The crowd erupted as her full body revealed itself. Breasts huge, her torso was now magnificent. She was magnificent. The crowd gasped but then cheers, applause, yells, hands thrown up in the air. I could feel her confidence soar as the dress and the lighting gave her a statuesque, goddess-like silhouette that shocked the room. 

Even Josie screamed. “That’s my girl!!”

The gold fabric hugged her like liquid light. She looked like she was made of sunrise. Her hips were impossibly commanding, her waist a tightly cinched contrast to her bust which was now iconic in its own right, held high and proud. Her breasts, grand and unapologetic, caught the light and drew it in - a bold declaration of womanhood and strength. She did not hide them. She did not hold them back. She presented them like an offering - a force to use, to use to both comfort and conquer. It was obvious that she would make no apologies for the way she was built - and how she had chosen to be seen tonight.

And I felt Dr. J shift again - not just physically. His energy had changed. Still silent, but no longer even pretending to be composed. His arms around me had slackened just slightly, like he forgot what they were doing. There was awe in his breath now. Maybe something more.

I glanced back and caught the profile of his face. Eyes wide. Lips parted. He wasn’t just confused anymore. He looked… stunned. Shaken in some place I did not know he had. 

Around us, the cheering raged on - except for the few men I could see nearby. Most had gone still, awkward. One rubbed the back of his neck, gaze fixed on the floor. Another had stepped behind his partner, half-disappearing. I saw several adjust the fit of their pants at the waist. They did not seem afraid - just lost, confused.

Shanette did not even look at them. She faced the crowd’s women - her crowd - and stood tall, radiant, a force of nature mid-song. And we all knew this was not the climax yet. Not even close.

The crowd was still alive with cheers when the strings shifted again - the first sharp descent, like a drawbridge lowering. The light changed, warm still, but deeper now, thicker. It pooled around Shanette in amber and blood-orange, as if sunset had wrapped itself around her shoulders. The music thinned for a moment, then swelled - no more piano now, just rising chords in cello and viola, and then the softest heartbeat of bass. The choir fell away to a low hum.

Shanette stepped forward slightly. One hand at her stomach. Eyes steady. And then she sang the bridge.

“We rose like tides the moon once kept,
Outgrowing limits we quietly wept…”

A stillness fell over the four of us here. Different from before. Not just reverence, but recognition. I could feel how a deep chord struck in each of our chests.

Josie spoke first, leaning in toward me. Her voice was barely audible. “This is about us, right? Melissa? Us girls?”

I had nodded before she even finished the thought. Because I had heard it too, from the very beginning of Shanette’s performance, though maybe I did not know it at first. 

The verses and choruses of “Rise in Her Name” had always sounded universal - built to be sung by millions. But now, here, as Shanette’s voice wrapped itself around the words, something had shifted. The metaphors had sharpened, become like memory.  This was not just an anthem for the new world of women anymore.

Aubrey, speaking up in a whisper, said it best: “This is our song.”

Shanette continued singing, in that voice that was a gift:

“Our voices deepen, shoulders now spread wide,
The earth tilts gently to match our stride…”

Yes. Melissa. Randi. Amelia. Marisela. Stephanie and Katie and Julia. Bobbi, Brittni, and all the others. Even Dr J and Aubrey, Josie and I. Shanette was not just singing to us, or for us. She was singing of us. 

“Not just to conquer - but to hold and build,
To mend the breaks the silence filled…”

My eyes pricked. I blinked hard. And in the midst of it - the music, the meaning, the light, Shanette’s transcendent voice - I became aware again of Dr. J behind me.

He had gone still, but not in awe now. His breath was shallow. His body pressed more closely than before. I could feel it. He was hard against me. Fully.

And though he did not speak, his hands at my shoulders had shifted, just slightly, as if unsure of whether they were still allowed to rest there. He was reacting - not just to the song, or Shanette’s beauty, but to something deeper. Something unraveling within him. He was being undone. Shanette was utterly dominating him with her voice.

And she was still singing.

“We feed the world at our breast,
And cradle tomorrow against our chest…”

The choir returned on the final line, soft and low - a wall of women behind her, rising like the tide she had just named. Their voices touched her own like hands on her back, holding her steady as she finished the bridge and went up into the final chorus. Shanette had held the last note of the bridge with precision, not power - just long enough to let the choir swell behind her like breath returning to a body. She stood in silhouette for a second, gold dress clinging to her curves, her skin molten in the amber light. Then another shift. Almost imperceptible.

She raised her chin. Just that. Chin up, shoulders square, one palm open at her side, a royal acknowledging a gathered court. It was not an invitation. It was a claim. This crowd was hers. Or, rather - I felt it in my chest - she was claiming it for us. This crowd was now ours. Melissa’s. 

The lights responded - the LEDs behind her softened from gold to dawn-pink and began to move, slowly, almost imperceptibly, blooming outward in pulses like petals opening. There was no sun in the sky above the crowd, but the illusion of one was forming behind Shanette now - not in color, but in feeling. Light that promised.

Around me, the crowd seemed spellbound - bodies swaying, some with tears on their faces, some frozen mid-motion.  A teen girl in a new “Girls Will Get Tall” shirt was crying into her mother’s shoulder. Two elderly women were nodding quietly. Again, most of the crowd was women -  young and old - and all were transfixed. But the few men who remained visible in the gathering seemed now…different.

They looked stunned. Not in the way the song stunned us - not awe-struck or reverent. They looked… rattled. Breathless. As if they were being pulled apart and reassembled, whether they wanted it or not.

And Dr. J - I felt him trembling behind me too.

He was trying to hold still, I could feel it. Trying to keep himself from pressing the hardness between his legs into my body, where his hips met my lower back. But he was slowly failing. And it was not just arousal that had grabbed hold of him and was doing the same to the other men in the room. It was a surrender to the song, to “Riise in Her Name” and to Shanette’s voice, a gift from Melissa. I knew it instantly.

Because Shanette was doing this on purpose. She was going to try to make them all burst.

Her voice - velvet now, impossibly smooth and warm - wrapped around the room like a caress, like fingers over skin. It had started as an anthem. Now it was something else. A hand on the crowd, gathering followers for Melissa, and one between the men’s legs, smoothly stroking. A spell.

And she was testing it. Pushing. Flexing. Seeing which ones would bend, who would break.

I understood before I had time to think it through. I smiled - only a little, to myself. So, Shanette, I thought, This is what you can do.

Dr. J exhaled behind me, a sharp, shivering breath.

I turned my head toward him, just slightly, my voice low. “It is all right, Dr. J,” I said, low, calm, but feeling a deep excitement at what was going on, the state he was in,  “Let it go. Let Shanette take you there.”

He shuddered once. Then he gave in.

He pressed himself against me fully, forehead touching the back of my neck, breath catching and breathing in the scent of shampoo from my hair. I felt his hips move into my lower back as he let go of the tension he had been holding.

Aubrey whispered to him, just barely turning her head, “You’re safe, sweetie. Just let it happen.” She knew exactly what was about to occur. Josie was still rapt on watching Shanette onstage. 

And then the drums hit.

A full cascade - not harsh, but thunderous. Cinematic. The chorus returned, but transformed. Full brass now behind it, and deep snare rolls surging beneath the layered vocals. Shanette’s voice soared above it all, as unstoppable as a breaking tidal wave washing over her crowd.

“This is the turning, the song we became,
With hands that heal and hearts untamed…”

Dr. J groaned as he began to rut into my backside. It was a low groan, almost one of shame, but not quite. I could hear it plainly: it was awe.

And Shanette was ready to bring it home.

As she sang, she lifted her arm - bare, toned, long - slowly, deliberately, as if she held a torch that called the world of women to arms. The gesture was not theatrical. It was sacred.

And with that, the beat hit.

Full percussion. Brass. Synth. Choral harmonies rose like cathedral walls around her voice. It was like standing at the center of a thunderstorm that knew your name.

The crowd erupted. Applause, yes - but not interruption. No one wanted the song to end. They simply could not remain still or silent. Voices broke loose from the crowd and joined hers - hesitant at first, then strong. Women near the front raised their arms, their fists, their faces. Some clutched at each other, some at their hearts. Mascara tears streaked faces like war paint. And still, Shanette sang, with ever-growing power in her voice:

“We walk the sky, our voices flame,
The world grows wide, and takes our name…”

Shanette was the moment. Tall, radiant, golden. Her dress shimmered with each movement, catching every pulse of light. Her skin, still glowing with that warm, espresso sheen, seemed to drink in the crowd’s strength and radiate it back tenfold. She was not just performing the song anymore. She was channeling it. A vessel for something larger. Something divine.

Was it Melissa?

Behind me, Dr. J shuddered again. Not subtly. His whole body was trembling now, pressed flush to mine, breath ragged and short. He was not hiding it anymore. He could not. He was ascending - or descending - into something he did not understand, held by his very manhood by a voice he could not resist. His moans were low and rhythmic now, lost in the music. I could feel the heat rolling off him, his grip slackened to worship.

“Her crown, her throne - on open ground,
And woman’s soul can rise unbound…”

I felt Josie beside me raise her fist. Aubrey was singing now too, voice ragged but proud. I joined them, softly, then louder.

The chorus was no longer just Shanette’s. Every woman in the place was singing now. Where they stood, where they wept, where they raised arms in time with the rhythm. We were not merely witnesses. We were participants. Soldiers. Heirs. And the men -

Oh, my, the men.

Some had closed their eyes entirely, shuddering with effort, as though her voice was dragging truth through them, note by note. One near the front had sunk to his knees. Another had started weeping, silent and still. Others just stared openly at Shanette’s chest with stunned, wide-open mouths, too dumbstruck to understand what they were feeling but about to explode with only the velvet hand of her voice stroking them towards climax.

Shanette sang on, unrelenting.

“We are the victors, we’ve WON the game -
And nothing will ever look the same…”

And I felt it again, hard in my chest - that sense that this song was ours. Not just universally, not just generationally. Ours. Melissa’s story. Far Horizons. The hive. Our impossible rise.

Shanette was a herald. A voice declaring what Melissa was becoming - and what could never be taken again.

“Raise your voice, raise your flame!
Raze the walls and burn the shame!

While he fades, SHE remains!”

And then—

Shanette stood at center stage, arms lifted, chin high, spine straight, and unleashed it:

“And we riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiise…”

Ten full seconds. Her voice did not waver. It held steady and pure, impossibly long,impossibly strong, and impossibly alive.

Silence followed.

A kind of silence that rang like a bell.

And then Shanette lowered her arms. Her eyes scanned the crowd, pausing only when she found us.

Us girls.

And then him. Her eyes met his.

And she said it - clear, resonant, somehow rising another octave, loud as fuck and right to him - :

“…..in her - NAME!”

He exploded.

And Shanette’s voice - after holding that note for a powerful, eruptive moment - fell away into silence.

His orgasm, though, had hit me immediately, through his thin pants and my lacey shirt but straight in the lower back, on the final note of Shanette’s victory hymn. He thrust into me, hips bucking in a sudden burst that quickly became a rhythm of their own. And, without Shanette’s voice, there was now a silence. Not a silence of absence, but a held breath - the moment after the lightning strike, when the whole world waits to see what has changed. And in that silence, the spell broke. Or rather -  it fulfilled itself.

A ripple moved through the crowd, even as Dr J continued to pump his thin hips into my spine. Not a sound, at first - but a physical shift. The men’s shoulders were all buckling, knees now trembling, spines arching in place. A deep, involuntary exhaled groan from dozens of male throats, as if the tension that had bound them through every note had finally snapped.

I was feeling it happen behind me, against me,  but it was everywhere. All the men in the room were coming. 

Dr. J’s breath had hitched sharply - once, twice - and then he’d pressed against my back in full, no longer trembling, no longer trying to resist. He groaned into my hair, low and ragged and undeniably submissive. I felt his body pulsing, hard against mine. Heat radiated from his chest and the tension was draining out of him, left him, like a tide going out. His arms slackened. His head dropped to my shoulder. What had begun as trembling became a kind of surrender, a collapse into something helpless and humbled.

He had not chosen this. He had yielded to it. And he was not alone.

All around us, the men - those that were able to remain standing - were either doubled over or rigid, eyes wide or shut tight. Some wept openly. Others gritted their teeth, having strained to hold in, but failed. A man to my left clutched at his thighs as if trying to keep himself together, with deep breaths, even as a dark stain bloomed across his khakis. Another, still as stone, simply whispered “Oh” like a revelation. Some tried to hide it. Others gave in, utterly, visibly. Shanette’s voice had reached into them like a hand and taken.

And the women?

They had not even noticed what was happening to their partners, at least not yet. Their own energy had broken through into something greater. They were not watching the men. They were too far above it. Only Aubrey and I - and likely our resplendent, golden statuesque friend onstage - had known what Shanette had done. Even Josie seemed oblivious to the males in the crowd, and was only now realizing what had just happened to Dr J. Her mouth gaped open in an ecstatic smile when she finally turned her head to look back at him. 

“Oh my GOD..!” she laughed.

“J-Josie…” I stammered, not even knowing how affected I was myself, “...l-language.”

The arms of the other women in the crowd were raised. Heads thrown back. Faces wet with tears, but radiant, shining. The women were singing still - not following Shanette anymore, but with her, as if something had been passed to them, and now they were carrying it forward. Fists in the air. Open hands at hearts. Some touched their bellies. Others clutched the hands of strangers beside them, forming lines of connection through the dark. The joy was not manic - it was rooted, a calm wildfire. A claiming of some new, greater purpose.

I felt it. Aubrey felt it. Even Josie, who rarely showed her cards, was weeping silently and smiling.

“They’re all part of this now,” Aubrey murmured, her voice ragged.,“Part of what just happened went to Melissa, into her. Did you feel it, too?”

Yes. It had happened.

They were becoming followers - but not mindlessly. They were becoming allies. Woven into something larger. The words, the voice, the power - it had all moved through Shanette like current through copper, but it was Melissa’s design, intentional or not, Melissa’s gravity that took hold of them now. And we knew, each of us, that we were witnessing the rise of something unstoppable.

And in the center of it all, for now, stood Shanette.

What did she just do?!?

She held her pose just a breath longer, then slowly lowered her arms. Her gold dress caught the pulsing light behind her - those blooming dawn-pink petals of LED still opening, slow and wide. The illusion of the sun behind her had become near-complete. Not burning, but glowing.

Shanette surveyed the crowd.

She looked left. Then right. Her smile was not only proud, proud of what she had just done. It was satisfied. Certain. A smile that knew she did not just sing a room - she claimed it. And every body in it.

For Melissa. For us.

Shanette saw the women. She saw the men. She saw him - still resting against my back, spent and quiet and no longer pretending to be anything but taken. We all knew what was coming. Then, she turned her face just slightly back to center.

And she began again - softly, but with conviction into the microphone:

“We rise in her name…”

She repeated it once, then again, singing softly.

“We rise in her name…”

“We rise in her name…”

A mantra.

Not a plea. A truth. One that - in looking up, high above, on the digital display at the top of the Vendare Center dome that served as a vaulting ceiling - the phrase was written, in words huge and clear:

WE RISE IN HER NAME

Shanette’s voice rang out again, quieter now than before but no less commanding. A chant. A call. A truth etched into the air with breath and tone and will.

“We rise… in her name…”

The crowd began to echo her.

First just a few voices. Then a wave.

“We rise in her name…”

“We rise in her name…”

The chant passed between lips like incense - reverent, slow, mesmerizing. Women sang. Some with tears still in their eyes. Some with fists raised. Some just mouthing the words, stunned by what they were feeling.

But we - we four Far Horizons girls - felt something more.

It began at the base of my spine, where I could feel a hint of his wetness on the bare skin between the hem of my shirt and waistband of my jeans - a rush of warmth, of pressure, of awareness. Then up - into my ribs, into my throat, behind my eyes. My skin prickled. The world around me slowed, like I was watching through water. I felt larger, not in size but in scope. In presence.

“We rise in her name…”

Dr. J had crumpled into me but I could feel it again - the moment it happened. The climax. The surrender. The final, shuddering unraveling of him, pressed against me, buried in me by nothing but song and power and feminine will. His breath collapsed into a single broken gasp and then ceased altogether, replaced by the slack weight of after.

And with it, the Bliss arrived.

It hit hard.

A warm wave, a pulse of light - inside me, beneath me, through me. Like standing barefoot in a living current. Every nerve lit up, not with fire, but with song. With rightness. With glory. I moaned softly - not from pain, not from lust - from a kind of cosmic satisfaction that eclipsed both and crackled as the connection between me and Melissa and him and all the girls grew stronger. 

I groaned, quietly, as the Bliss spread. I felt the faint, exquisite ache in my joints - the signal of growth. Of change. My senses sharpened. I could hear the flutter of eyelids ten feet away, could taste the electricity in the room. Could feel Aubrey, Josie, Shanette - all of them, even the ones miles away, rising with me.

Not alone.

Together.

Becoming.

Aubrey gasped beside me. “It’s - oh - oh, Lakshmi, Josie, it’s so strong this time…”

Josie leaned forward slightly, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent exhale as she dealt with the Bliss herself. “Oh my fuck she’s…look at her. Look at Shanette,” she gasped with eyes alight, with a laugh of disbelief, “She’s doing it on stage.” Her voice dropped to a reverential whisper. “She’s doing it right in front of all of them…”

Yes.

She was.

She was growing.

Shanette was not merely standing tall - she was rising. Physically? Yes. But perhaps only by a fraction of a millimeter, like us all. But in presence? In radiance? She was taller than any figure had a right to be. Her arms shone, her skin glowed not with light but with power, radiant. Her pose was exultant. The golden sequins of her dress rippled faintly at the hem, though no wind touched her. The light behind her intensified as if drawn to her.

And her voice - it had changed.

Deeper. Rounder. Every note she sang now, in this call-and-response with the crowd sounded like it had been sung from within the earth and sky at once. She had passed through pleasure into command. Her eyes, also, now sparkled golden and green to match both her dress and her Queen’s, who felt this all from far away. Shanette’s voice and eyes now belonged to her Queen who knew-

That we rise in her name…

====================================

all apologies for the song - those of us here at BasicMusic are woefully underfed and poorly trained. It's not meant to be Shanette - just another rendition one may hear on the radio, online, or blaring over the neighborhood speakers that are scheduled to be installed next week.