Firstly, I would like to say a big sorry for leaving this story for so long, especially to those who began reading when it was first posted. If you a still reading, then the greatest thanks and the biggest apologies to you.

THIS IS A PREVIEW OF WHAT IS TO COME. The complete second chapter will be uploaded in a few weeks when it is ready, and will be quite substantial in size. Welcome new readers, and welcome back old ones! I hope you enjoy!

(Italics at opening indicate material from previous chapter.)

Running out into an open area, Dorothy stopped herself before she hit the stonework of the balcony. She was trapped; the Witch was closing in on her and she, Dorothy Gale, had been intruding- no, trespassing, in her castle. Dorothy glanced over the battlements and towards the ground, such an impossibly long distance below. This was not the way she wanted to die.

The Witch slowly emerged forward, fingers clutching the fraying shawl about her shoulders, her eyes cold. She took another step closer so she stood beside Dorothy, looking over the balcony.

"There's no way out; you can't escape. So I guess you're stuck here. Just like me."

The Witch's impassive expression distorted into a smirk as she looked down into Dorothy's face. The woman stood mere feet away; Dorothy could see the speckles of dark aggravated skin that distorted her neck and face; she could see the lip curl at her own unease; see the dark eyes flicker over her own, boring into their depths.

Dorothy's pulse began to quicken.

Her breath started to rasp in her throat; her lungs calling for an inordinate amount of air.

The Witch began to turn, every movement bringing unholy green closer as Dorothy's nightmares finally confronted her in the flesh. She could feel that vice-like grip on her arm, see the rage and desperation on that face as it screamed ferocities in her ear, feel the harsh cold stone of her prison floor, the penetrating splinters of wood from the trapdoor scrape under her nails.

The Witch was still, facing the young girl with ire as her face twisted with calculated speculation. Her black hair began to vortex around her as the wind captured it. Behind the haze of lashing strands, her face became sceptical. All warmth drained from Dorothy's frozen face; her eyes involuntarily flickered downwards as the forceful tug of wind brought the balcony threateningly close, the sudden rush of vertigo claiming her. Time seemed to freeze; a sudden pounding echoed against the side of Dorothy's head, a heartbeat racing in eternity.

Bun, bum; Her face—

Bun, bum; Black filaments of whipping hair –

Bum, bum; Far, far below, lazy strands of grass moving blissfully with the breeze.

Bum, bum; Her eyes

Once again, Dorothy fled.