empty can of an energy drink that
was still sitting on my nightstand from two nights ago.
I groaned and rolled over, burying my head
under my pillow and wishing I could go back to sleep. I had been
close this time. At least, it seemed I had been closer than I ever
had to finding her. True, she hadn’t answered me when I’d called
out, but I could definitely feel that something was coming. And her
voice … it was Aurora’s voice. It had always been Aurora’s voice.
At least, it seemed that way now. My mind was racing at the thought
of it, but unfortunately so was my heart, which meant that I
probably wasn’t going to be sleeping again anytime soon. I sat up
reluctantly and ran a hand through my messy hair. A glance at the
clock on the wall told me it was already one o’clock. It had been a
late night last night, but I hadn’t expected to sleep so long. A
scratch on the other side of my bedroom door let me know that
Cowboy, my miniature pinscher, had been patiently waiting for me
wake up. I sauntered to the door and opened it, bending over to let
him jump into my arms.
“Hey boy.” I laughed as I tried to keep my
face as far away from his tongue as possible. “Have you been
good?”
My stomach led me to the kitchen and I saw
that he’d done minimal damage while I’d been in my coma-like state.
He was still a pup, and although he was getting better at not
destroying my belongings, we still struggled at times. I saw the
remains of a Rolling Stone magazine on the living room floor and
rolled my eyes at him. “If you’re going to eat a magazine,” I said
in the best authoritative voice I could conjure, “at least pick the
Sports Illustrated that keeps coming in the mail even though I
didn’t subscribe, okay?”
He cocked his ears back and looked at me
expectantly, letting his tongue hang out. I took that as a mutual
agreement and set him down. I checked to make sure his food bowl
was full and then made myself a sandwich which I chased with a
bottle of water I had in the refrigerator. I’d been craving a tall
glass of cold milk, but now that we were hitting the studio again,
it was time to take care of my voice and milk was out of the
question.
I showered and threw on some jeans and a
tee-shirt. Cowboy followed me down to my in-home studio. The scent
of guitar polish I’d used in here yesterday still lingered. The
smell was oddly comforting as I walked toward my Ibanez acoustic
guitar. It was nestled comfortably in its stand, waiting to be
played. Not only was it my first guitar, but it was pretty much the
only thing I had from my dad. He’d given it to me just before the
divorce, but it was months before I could bring myself to pick it
up and teach myself how to play. I’d viewed the instrument as a
useless object at first because all I’d really wanted was for my
dad to be around. It hadn’t taken long to realize that the old
guitar wasn’t the enemy, but rather a way to channel my frustration
into something productive. Although this guitar was now my
favorite, it was only one of the many guitars I had stashed in this
room. The closet (because this was actually intended to be a spare
bedroom) was full of guitars. I’d remodeled the inside to include a
mahogany rack to keep them safe and organized. A little
overindulgent, perhaps, but collecting guitars had become a hobby
of mine ever since I’d made enough money to afford it.
I snatched up a pick from the pile of them on
my computer desk and sat down on the stool in the middle of the
room. It took several moments of listening for the beat of the
strings on the guitar before I had adjusted them so the instrument
was in tune with itself. Then I began strumming chords. I played
for about fifteen minutes before I fell into the familiar magic of
a hook forming. I was humming along, but realized I needed to give
life to the song if it was going to grow. I reached for a notepad,
something else I always keep handy on the computer desk. Once I’d
found a
was still sitting on my nightstand from two nights ago.
I groaned and rolled over, burying my head
under my pillow and wishing I could go back to sleep. I had been
close this time. At least, it seemed I had been closer than I ever
had to finding her. True, she hadn’t answered me when I’d called
out, but I could definitely feel that something was coming. And her
voice … it was Aurora’s voice. It had always been Aurora’s voice.
At least, it seemed that way now. My mind was racing at the thought
of it, but unfortunately so was my heart, which meant that I
probably wasn’t going to be sleeping again anytime soon. I sat up
reluctantly and ran a hand through my messy hair. A glance at the
clock on the wall told me it was already one o’clock. It had been a
late night last night, but I hadn’t expected to sleep so long. A
scratch on the other side of my bedroom door let me know that
Cowboy, my miniature pinscher, had been patiently waiting for me
wake up. I sauntered to the door and opened it, bending over to let
him jump into my arms.
“Hey boy.” I laughed as I tried to keep my
face as far away from his tongue as possible. “Have you been
good?”
My stomach led me to the kitchen and I saw
that he’d done minimal damage while I’d been in my coma-like state.
He was still a pup, and although he was getting better at not
destroying my belongings, we still struggled at times. I saw the
remains of a Rolling Stone magazine on the living room floor and
rolled my eyes at him. “If you’re going to eat a magazine,” I said
in the best authoritative voice I could conjure, “at least pick the
Sports Illustrated that keeps coming in the mail even though I
didn’t subscribe, okay?”
He cocked his ears back and looked at me
expectantly, letting his tongue hang out. I took that as a mutual
agreement and set him down. I checked to make sure his food bowl
was full and then made myself a sandwich which I chased with a
bottle of water I had in the refrigerator. I’d been craving a tall
glass of cold milk, but now that we were hitting the studio again,
it was time to take care of my voice and milk was out of the
question.
I showered and threw on some jeans and a
tee-shirt. Cowboy followed me down to my in-home studio. The scent
of guitar polish I’d used in here yesterday still lingered. The
smell was oddly comforting as I walked toward my Ibanez acoustic
guitar. It was nestled comfortably in its stand, waiting to be
played. Not only was it my first guitar, but it was pretty much the
only thing I had from my dad. He’d given it to me just before the
divorce, but it was months before I could bring myself to pick it
up and teach myself how to play. I’d viewed the instrument as a
useless object at first because all I’d really wanted was for my
dad to be around. It hadn’t taken long to realize that the old
guitar wasn’t the enemy, but rather a way to channel my frustration
into something productive. Although this guitar was now my
favorite, it was only one of the many guitars I had stashed in this
room. The closet (because this was actually intended to be a spare
bedroom) was full of guitars. I’d remodeled the inside to include a
mahogany rack to keep them safe and organized. A little
overindulgent, perhaps, but collecting guitars had become a hobby
of mine ever since I’d made enough money to afford it.
I snatched up a pick from the pile of them on
my computer desk and sat down on the stool in the middle of the
room. It took several moments of listening for the beat of the
strings on the guitar before I had adjusted them so the instrument
was in tune with itself. Then I began strumming chords. I played
for about fifteen minutes before I fell into the familiar magic of
a hook forming. I was humming along, but realized I needed to give
life to the song if it was going to grow. I reached for a notepad,
something else I always keep handy on the computer desk. Once I’d
found a
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