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Wishes With Red SlippersHe had a tall, slender frame, like a sword poised for a duel. When he walked, there was a graceful, fluid quality to his steps, as if he was dancing with the air around him as his flaxen hair fell over his shoulders like coils of the sun. When he smiled, his eyes, the hue of fog and silver, twinkled with a secret laughter. But, as a king, he needed a queen. He wanted a beautiful damsel. He desired a maiden would would entertain him, who would obey him, who would satiate his lust for the touch of smooth, rosy skin.
A girl caught his eye. She had the soft, blushing skin he craved in a companion. A halo of honeyed ringlets seemed to make her glow, and her glassy blue eyes pierced him like daggers of ice. She was always dolled up in lace dresses and satin ribbons. Yet, this ravishing porcelain beauty possessed a few cracks--she was a seven-year old cripple, forced to hobble around with a crutch and a leg brace for her whole life. Whenever she sat upon the velvet seats in the dim light of t
Piece of Those EyesI forced myself to look into his eyes. I don't like to look into people's eyes, because I feel so vulnerable when I do. But I suddenly realized how I might be considered rude or standoffish or insecure if I didn't look into his eyes as I talked. So, I raised my chin to see him.
Once our eyes met, my physical body, my shell, seemed to be off on its own. My shell went rambling on about a tragic book that I had read, and subconsciously motioning my hands as I spoke. But while I may have seemed normal on the outside, something within me seemed to be locked in place. My eyes, my mind, felt frozen when we looked at each other. I had never taken a close look at his eyes, but I had always thought they would be a warm shade of brown, probably because I thought that certain hue would suit his personality. He always striked me as someone warm and open, with an innocent, sweet grin. But his eyes were not brown. They were grey-green, a pale wash of winter morning light, sea foam, and frost-encruste
HeadlessI awoke one morning and found that I was headless. I had no face, no hair, nothing but a stump of white neck. Even when my hands flew to clutch my screaming mouth, they shot through nothing but air. I could speak, blink, breathe, but I could not touch my face.
I remained locked in the solitude of my room for a few days, reading and struggling to sketch accurate observational drawings of my surroundings. Nonetheless, I needed food. Wearing a buttoned black coat and laced boots, I ventured to the cafe I enjoyed taking crisp morning walks to for breakfast. There, I stood in the queue of customers, wondering if they could see I was headless. Behind me was a tall, angular woman, who stood more than a head above me, with straight brown hair and rectangular glasses.
"Good morning," I greeted her.
She jerked her head as if she were scaring off a fly.
I raised my voice. "Good morning."
She looked away to the sign on the wall that listed this morning's menu. When I turned away from her, I saw th
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