As I sit here contemplating what to write, I wonder on the value of authors, people and the world in general. I enjoy reading, fiction and non-fiction and often consider the lives of the authors and the impetus that prompted them to write. My inclination to write comes from a desire to make a difference in the world, to add some thoughts that may come from a different perspective or give the reader food for thought.
I hear you sigh, thinking "here we go with another long winded life story, telling me nothing of interest to my life". Well I can relate historical facts, tell witty stories or just pretend that I am talking to a long lost friend for the length of this missal. I prefer to think the latter.
She closed the thick, worn book. Elizabeth sat back in the chair and took a deep breath, still engrossed in her own thoughts. A passing glance at her fine features and you would say she was ageing well. Her hair was still more auburn than grey and she carried herself as if she could dance all night. Slowly she raised her head and looked out over the top of her spectacles at the lake, still shinning in the late evening sun. As she peered through the window to the waters edge she noticed a shimmering like a heat haze. She rubbed her eyes and squinted at the scene again.
Seconds later she was down on the narrow strip of sand on her knees weeping. The air was static and the haze had human shape. The silver apparition had a hand held over her head as if bestowing a blessing. Slowly the image gained reality and a striking, elderly man with shoulder-length, white hair stood with his arms around her looking down at her with tears in his eyes. The couple moved further down the beach out of view of the house, oblivious to their surroundings.
