Punked Out Pixies

Nicole was a pixie. She was sixteen and feisty, tall for her size, with a pierced navel and a countless number of punk pixie clothes and accessories. She had platinum hair with red tips and was utterly gorgeous. Nicole was the envy of many other pixies because of the delicate, though chilling, black wings that almost sprouted from her back. They were thin and membranous, and tattered looking, although perfectly strong. The one thing she never was, though, is popular. Given the chance, she may have been, but she didn’t have the opportunity.
When you think of a pixie, you think of a fairy tale. Yeah, not really. Nicole was a punked out pixie, the size of your pinkie, but strong and magical. She lived in a place not so far away, called New York City. No, she didn’t have a house or a car, but she didn’t need one. She lived with a human girl named Cheryl.
Cheryl was a punk girl, like Nicole. She had more additude than piercings, and was absolutely beautiful. Unlike Nicole, though, she was too clumsy.

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