Prism, by Joan Bochmann
The Prologue:
She
slipped silently through the grove of aspen trees and knelt by the clear
mountain stream. Motionless, she studied her rippling reflection in the water.
Small, slender, with straight blond hair falling below her shoulders, she was
dressed in blue jeans and a plaid shirt open at the neck revealing a fine gold
chain from which a small pyramid-shaped crystal was suspended. As she watched
her reflection, her slim fingers strayed to the prism, exploring all its
facets. She held it to her eye and watched the colors come to life.
Suddenly he gasped. The reflection in the water
was changing—the hair was curlier and lay softly around a face that was hers,
yet wasn’t. The shirt and jeans were replaced by a gown of some floating, wispy
material.
“No,” she moaned. “Go away—please.”
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