The wicked witch is barely down and out for the count when Dorothy grabs the shiny Manolos from her feet and the Munchkins start singing for joy. It’s too easy; and Dorothy knows this. Just like she knows that her own army of flying monkeys isn’t part of the story.

She’s not entirely innocent; not when it was her house that crushed the wicked ( Read more... )

His flowers lie in the trash; beside yesterday’s newspaper and her old life. It’s not quite an apology, not quite a peace offering; its sinister undertones clear only to her.

Only he can say ‘I loath you’ with roses.

She fishes one out the trash and twirls it in her fingers. When the time comes, he’ll either be with her, or against her.

( Read more... )

It would be easier to run, she thinks, as she walks away from her easy way out and towards her tattered remains of an Empire. It would be easier to avoid everything and everyone.

But her best friend grabs her hand and they fall into step and the noise of the city provides their very own marching tune.

They march into battle, head held high ( Read more... )

Neutrals; sure. Cream, definitely. But never white.
She used to wear her virginity like a badge of honour. How, in the midst of Upper East Side pressure, she managed to rise above the rest.

Like she always does.
So instead, she hides it away, alongside dreams, Nate and other things she lost long ago.

Now, she wears black and red. They always seem to ( Read more... )

He tastes like peppermint and scotch and dark chocolate.

It takes a whole bottle of expensive French champagne to get the taste of him out of her mouth. She’s sick later. She doesn’t know whether it’s him or the alcohol.

(She’s positive it’s him. Even with medical knowledge pointing to the contrary.)

When Nate kisses her for the first time ( Read more... )