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October 4, 2006

Stacy: Thrall

It came on suddenly. She was turning the earth in her garden, making ready to plant the new season of vegetables, when the taste of licorice overwhelmed her. She woke up in a muddy soup of her own vomit, flowers everywhere.

In the shower, the water was music, delicate tinkling bells, harps. The towel on her skin tasted like candy fluff.

She wandered though her home, enraptured. Favorite books had sounds, flavors. Old paintings had scents, vivid colors she’d never seen before. Even nightfall had its glamour, shimmering lights and sounds.

They found her emaciated body a few weeks later.

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