The Hunter

The Hunter

She watches the deer on the far hill, a veldt of russet stems, rigid, upright in the turgid mist.

Shadows steal and congeal, then scatter, no match for the ponderous assault to come.

He stalks, skimming low, washes of still weak dawn stealing along the ridge, silent, airless.

She thrills as the arrow cocks, tendons pop, shoulder strains, quivering, eager.

He pivots, frowns, intent, so close, eases back, sighs the release.

She spins, startled, a hiss, a whimper, a heartbeat, gone.

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About Nya Rawlyns

Nya Rawlyns doesn’t write typical romance. She writes emotion as a contact sport, rough and often raw. It need not be pleasant, heart-warming or forever after. What she seeks is what lies beneath—a dance of extremes, the intersect of need and desire, and the compromises we make when pain and pleasure become indistinguishable. ***** She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science. ***** When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or three pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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