Writing Stories Is A Kind Of Magic,

The Tent In Which She First Met Him Had Smelled Of Blood, Of The Death She Did Not Understand, And Still She Had Thought Of It All As A Game. She Had Promised Him The World. His Flesh In The Flesh Of His Enemies. And Much Too Late Had She Realized What He Had Sown In Her. Love. Worst Of All Poisons.

Since When Does The Butterfly Ask About The Caterpillar?

What A Plague Love Is!

Beauty And Fear Make Uneasy Companions

The Book She Had Been Reading Was Under Her Pillow, Pressing Its Cover Against Her Ear As If To Lure Her Back Into Its Printed Pages.