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Out of the bell jar and into a single glass slipper. How strange the fit!

I prefer anarchy to sanguine royalty, so I hide the remaining shoe in an electric blue velvet box my dead mother gave me and bury it by the tulips next door.

My malaise thickens as pumpkin becomes life coach. I don’t believe her platitudes about attitudes and feed her to the mice.

I slice an apple with a butcher knife surveying my work. But, the eating of an apple is another woman’s tale.