Window Seat in the Den

Wind-blown rain cascades from a dark swollen sky.   Its relentless

attack upon the roof of the house causing a staccato beat that echoes

 through the rooms.  A flash of lightning, then another, breach the

sullen darkness of the den, followed quickly by thunder that rolls

across the valley and off into the distance. 

The storm only adds to the drama of the novel she’s chosen

to partake of on this rainy afternoon. The volume, a new romantic

tragedy, grips her as she moves from one page to the next.

 Biting her upper lip, as she is prone to do, the narrative carries her

off to some far away exotic local, filled with wonders and marvels,

people of dark intrigue, and of course romance.

Another flash of lightning and a clap of thunder that rattles the adjacent

windows, precedes the plunging of a dagger deep into the chest of her

 ruddy paladin. She shutters reflexively at the shear horror that the line invokes

dropping the book into her lap. She becomes aware of her racing heart,

her shortness of breath, and a light film of sweat upon her brow. 

She slowly stands and stretches the taunt muscles in her lower back.  She

stomps blood back into her feet that have gone numb from sitting for

far too long.  The downpour has subsided and the stormy skies are moving

 off to the east.  She reverently lays the novel on the window sill next to

 a vase of freshly picked flowers and walks away.  Silently, under her breath,

she vows to return again tomorrow to her time machine, her magic carpet,

her window seat in the den.

--Ken Ferguson--

 Artista di Parole