Decades ago, the seeds were planted …
From a lair of downed tree limbs and forest debris, a man watches a young woman. He chronicles her every move. From the moment of her arrival, and through the three hours she works to record the scenery on her canvas, he barely moves a muscle. He is content—comfortable. His camouflage is so perfect that deer graze just inches away.
Tomorrow, you'll be mine. Your blood will assuredly be purer than the sweetest honey on earth. His stomach rumbles, and his saliva flows in anticipation of her taste. His unbridled joy almost costs him his concealment when a celebratory growl escapes his throat, and the doe takes notice. He stills himself and waits.
The woman looks directly at him. Seconds tick by in uneasy expectation. She sees me. He swallows hard, almost dropping his camera. She smiles. His body flushes with excitement.
His smile broadens, and then evaporates. No. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and relaxes his muscles. The Scriptures have foretold of our first meeting. Patience, my queen, my love.
His hands drip with sweat; his heart pounds. He shuts the camera off and carefully lowers it to the ground. She shows no fear, and he sees every move as flirtation. Using the sleeves of his shirt, he dries his hands, mops his forehead, and turns the camera back on. He calms the urge to go to her. He stays silent, motionless, but vigilant.
She claims her vivid imagination as a blessing, a habit, a hobby, a calling and sometimes a curse.
She now resides in Central Pennsylvania with her husband, two sons, and Boston terrier, Patches.
Wishing you much success, happiness and fulfilment with both your books, Yolanda.