The Call

window_sunset_by_macetool-d35zpfvSultry, shimmering, slanted low, sol banks its blaze, retreats. She gazes blind to waning rays and idly flicks her hand past pale organza curtains.  Feather light they waft as waves, undulating, flowing in shadows lifting, shifting, melting to gold.

Wistful, she pauses, stroking a finger, eyes lit in silent plea: seal my secrets within thy fold for I am adrift, in pain. Hunger gnaws her belly as gentian haze sweeps a mantle, soft and slow, o’er her weary soul.

Aching yearnings mingle and mix and meld, roiling into madness, uncertainty. She thought he might …

Sweet susurrations, bell tones jar and jangle, throbbing beats, lightheaded she grasps her lifeline. Murmurs: deep, throaty, hesitant. Breathless sighs beat back the fear, racing, chasing, air alive with promise.

He pauses, would she …?

She pauses, oh yes …

xGvL3She loves the night, cooling to chocolatey silk, melting, pinpricks ablaze to fade to teasing haze, slithering, soundless screams of joy, ease down, ease down, sweet slumber sequesters her senses … adrift, all is still.

About Nya Rawlyns

Crossing boundaries, taking no prisoners. Write what’s in your soul. It’s the bass beat, the heartbeat, the lyrics rude and true. Nya Rawlyns is the pseudonym of a writer who cut her teeth on sports-themed romantic comedy and historical romances before finding her true calling in the wilderness areas she has visited but calls “home” in that place that counts the most: the heart. 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 two pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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