Fiction Sample
For a long time, we had only glimpses—long cinnamon hair, a slender form, and flowing skirts, the kind you buy in a boutique or make yourself. Mostly we watched her progress via the transformation of the house. The litter was promptly whisked away; the windows polished. The weeds and brambles and remnants of grass were not cut so much as tended, even encouraged, by some gentle unseen hand. Violets and dandelions bloomed in profusion. Wrens, robins, and orioles sang out their hearts, and the walls of the house, which we’d never really noticed before, glowed with a kind of grotto-like air, all dusky ancient brick beneath a screen of ivy. At night there were lights in the windows, albeit distinctly non-electrical in nature, wavering dimly and moving from room to room. Wind chimes hung under the eaves, but except for their music, no other sounds could be heard, not even the ring of a telephone. There were no visitors to the house and no evidence of another soul living there. Just her. We speculated, called her the priestess, named her Morgaine, or Bronwen, or even Goldberry.

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