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Snippet: She of Want
The Baldwin Sister
They leave their braids half-done, those sisters of hunger they call She of Want.  They grow their nails long, except for the middle finger on the left hand, which they keep trim to the very edge of discomfort.  There is meticulous planning in every tossed flower and each new shred of fabric they add to their voluminous skirts.  They favor a shade of blue that seems cold and electric, like the dark of the inside of an ice box.  And they sing such beautiful dirges, over the most trivial things; a farewell to the last of the winter pears, a eulogy for a fallen shingle from the roof, a hymnal upon the space between one phone ring and the next.

To say they don't unnerve you comes from either a boastful ignorance or wanton lying.  They are not the beasts that lurk under beds.  They don't have that kind of teeth.  But She of Want are different enough to leave the hairs on your arms standing straight up, hours after they have crossed your path.  For cross your path, they will.  They are in every town these days, every city across the land.  Somehow they find each other and share their mournful melodies and humble meals of dry bread and honey.  The whole world seems to be their church, which means you may end up as witness to their rituals, and even the most banal of them leave your teeth tasting funny.
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