She stood looking at blonde tones of the polished spruce on her guitar resting in its stand. Not feeling, not wanting, but needing to give it more yet the late hour and the dull throbbing of her knuckles would not let her. She cast her glance away feeling unworthy of the instrument in her possession, the most expensive item she owned costing her far more than the considerable money spent on it.
She rested her eyes on the tiny slate slab floating on a milky white sea of bedsheets. Crashing into the wave of blankets, she landed within reach of the object and grasped it in her hand like an unfamiliar artifact. With a press of a button, the smooth slate surface glowed faintly with the only information present on the screen; little white numbers broadcasting the time of 11:11 pm.
She could find no missed notifications on her social media, no new email besides the usual spam, and no missed texts on her phone. She long ago gave up anything that remotely resembled a social life when she moved to the city to state her truth that she held in the strings of her vessel, her guitar. Here she was, another anonymous face of hope in a sea full of other anonymous faces. Would her voice matter? Would anyone listen to it?
She clicked the top button of her phone, sending it back into its cryostatic sleep wishing that she could relax enough to do the same. These same four white walls choked whatever air and life came through the outside window. She knew she must get out into the open air of night to breath again.
Looking towards her keys on the night stand, she spied a long neglected book she had meant to start reading. She picked it up studying the words on the jacket with care for a brief moment before placing the book inside her purse. The words of the spine mirrored the truth of her life. Those words, “This Lonely Climb.”
Adam Buker is a freelance author living in Springfield, MO. When he’s not writing he’s usually cooking, playing with his kids, making music, taking photos, or otherwise pondering the mysteries of life.