It seemed as if she glided across the floor to the open window, a mere few feet. There she stood with her eyes closed, and flung the shutters open feeling on top of the world and light as the wondrous ocean air she adored. Silence, if but the only noise had been the clicking of the keys as she typed, was indeed, golden. She could hear her heartbeat to the rhythm of the night’s critter orchestra as whispers of hope fed her soul. Indeed, they were whispers of truth that were knocking at the door of her now-stampeding heart.
Inhaling intensely, the fresh ocean air gorged her with a passion for wanting to get up and begin the day; no need for coffee this morning … once again. She may as well toss the Mr. Coffee contraption for as little as she ever used the thing. She scooted the chair back under the desk with one foot, and massaged her neck with both tired hands in slow, excruciating, sonorous movements that quickly resolved the razor-sharp burning and throbbing aggravation.
Her characters were amazingly realistic, the scenarios were charming. They would surely pique a reader’s curiosity, to say the least. And the story itself was delivering the momentum she needed to create the fascinating tale she had in her mind to craft. Nighttime was a perfect stage for her to journey into depths of life writers hungered for, but of late, distractions were of a different kind she certainly didn’t appreciate.
She could see across the thick, lush landscaping to the quiet, still moonlit pre-morning, and yet stretched over the sill as far as she could without toppling out to get a better view of the reflective waters bouncing off a crinkly rendition of the bright, tranquil moon. Another few hours and the sun’s rays would be blistering, so she knew she had to hurry, and resented having to get going for only a second or two.
A recluse she was in the day. Evenings were glorious and filled with adventure, whether she was engrossed in one of her latest manuscripts, off to a community event, exploring, which she was quite fond of, or supping with family or friends. This morning’s journey promised to be worth her efforts, versus going to bed as she should be doing religiously. Rest would come soon enough, she thought, as far as she was concerned. Some days you have to befriend your hunch and hang on for dear life.
She shook off the shivers with her morning prayer, did a self-proclaimed curtsey to the King, which Mama had so lovingly taught her to do as show of respect, and took a deep, long breath before tossing on the attire demanded for the mission.
She was off riding the wind, sashaying down the steps from the porch, on down the trodden shell-and-pebble trail toward the thunderous waves crashing and ceasing, withdrawing away from the beach below the ominous cliffs she called home sweet home for the time being.
She sang loud and clear all the way down. She gallantly sang:
“The Victory Is Mine”
The victory is mine
When the battle is the Lord’s
Hosanna, Hosanna
No enemy can stand
When His praise goes forth
Hosanna, Hosanna
When fear and doubt
Surround you all about
And the enemy’s camp is near
Say that Jesus in me
Is greater than he
Who lives in the world
Hosanna, He has won the victory
Hosanna, over all His enemies
Hosanna, we lift our hands in praise
Hosanna, we will conquer in His name
(Song written by Kevin Prosch)
