No one mourns the Wicked

Oct 27, 2009 00:07

It was a beautiful night on the island. The sky was a dark rich expanse of black, dotted by bright stars and a waxing moon. It was dark, so dark that the bonfire on the beach lit up like a beacon. The contrast of the fire and the sky mirrored the couple dancing around the campfire. The dark skinned prince laughed as he twirled the striking green woman, letting her spin away from him before drawing her back.

Tiny iPod speakers rattled out the old time Jazz music that featured trumpets that flicked up and down the scale like the flickering firelight. A man named Sinatra sang in a rasping, charming voice about women and love. The song changed, from an upbeat number to a more soothing melody. The two whirling dancers came together, spinning slowly in each other's arms.

The lion who had been dozing softly on the side lifted his massive head and came to the soft calls. Despite his size, he weaved in and out of the dancing pair, rubbing his head against the hands reaching down to run through his thick mane.

In one natural twirl of the dance, the trio spun right off the island, leaving the bonfire and the music still drifting on the breeze. Back to Oz, where the prince lacked a brain, the lion longed for courage and the witch was wicked once again.

elphaba thropp, fiyero

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