The music flowed throughout the room in otherworldly tones. It was her favorite song, the song that had inspired her to do more and excel in her talents. Her house was warmly lit, candles reflected off of the metallic silver of her chairs. Wine colored rugs gave the room a renaissance feel. Paintings matched the red walls and favorite poetry was framed on the walls, written in blood. She sat on her leather sofa, looking out at the dark night through her three large windows. Clatters of dishes that recently had rare steaks and rice were coming from the kitchen door on the far right of the dark living room. Her husband was washing the dishes, since she believed using a dishwasher was lazy. The rain pounded on the tin roof, wanting to barge into the small home. The roof, being in good repair, stopped the rain's aggressive march. She laid back, relaxing deeper into the brown leather.

Never would she forget that day. That day so many years ago. On this momentous day, she was just a woman fresh out of college. Despite protests from her mother, she had moved to the coldest state in North America; Alaska. She had finally gotten the chief editor job. She was in control. Her apartment was cozy and cheap and not very filled. Most of her items and precious thins she had left back home in Pennsylvania. She ate, breathed and slept her job. Occasionally, she would go out into the world, but all she really wanted to do was work. For a time, this attitude was her way of life. Her pay was nice and her job excellent. That was all that really mattered. Yeah, she visited friends too and went out on dates. She wasn't a complete hermit. Writing just took her inside its world of complexities and imagination. Music and a laptop were all she needed to create something of wonder. She enjoyed tickling the average mind with her sorrowful and happy words. She writes like that, balancing the good and bad. Creativity threw in it's own ideas, tossing and turning the reader about until all is revealed. She was her job and her job was she. Work was not work, but fun, like a vacation. Sometimes, the office was more demanding than she wanted and liked, but those were only periods. She loved it all.

The rain hadn't stopped and it was late. She cuddled up to her husband as a fire was roaring in the hearth on the opposite side of the room. She sighed, sleepiness coming on slowly. Reminiscing always made her feel tired.

Her job soon got to be too boring. She needed an adjustment. Alaska was beginning to feel colder than she ever remembered from recent years. Lots of things were turning upside down at the office. She didn't want to be the boss anymore. She was getting tired of people always thinking she knew what was best, which sometimes she didn't even know what she was doing. Doubt was always present in those days and loneliness grew bigger, creating a black hole in her soul. The black hole pulled away all that she wanted preserved, even her own sanity. Writing about death and kidnappings and wars tired her heart. She needed to move on. Knowing this, she decided one day to leave.

Leaving Alaska was hard. Alaska was beautiful when snow fell, because snow always covers up imperfections. Everything is sacred in snow. Leaving her friends at the office and the apartment was also difficult. They had been her support when she needed it, her laughter when hers had been sucked dry from her throat. One old friend lived in Fairbanks and it pained her to leave that friend. Moving and changing was always hard on her and never easy. Realizing if she didn't act now, she would be stuck forever in the country of everlasting snow, she knew all of this pain was necessary.

She moved far away, farther than she had thought. It was like a dream, moving to her current destination. Since she was a little girl, she had always wanted to move to this country of lush trees and wild mountains. The land of sailboats and sheep. New Zealand. Her brother lived there, so she had moved in with him. It was an interesting time in her life. She lived off of doing side jobs and working at farms. She hadn't always been totally devoted to writing. Her father was a farmer, so she knew what was incorporated in making a farm work and stay alive. Her brother was also a farmer, working as a teacher at a school on the South Island. It took some getting used to, the weather being humid and warm. She loved it anyhow, reveling in the joy of being warm.

The fire died down, but the rainfall continued falling upon the house. It was pitch black outside. The air was cluttered with fog and she mused that the mountains would be invisible to the human eye. Thoughts of her golden days floated in the ocean of her memories, clumping together like kelp.

Finally finding her own place on the South Island, she moved out of her brother's house, which wasn't so difficult. He lived not that far away, so she could visit anytime. Words and plots began to configure in her mind and she knew it was time to write again. While working on the farm, she had not the time or energy to concentrate on her talent. Now that she had saved enough money to stay afloat and unemployed, she could write the day away. Ideas of distant lands and poor people came to her in dreams. She created maps, helping her story come along. Intensive writing went on for months. She didn't even bother to pick up the phone and only went out in the world for things she needed. She had a desk and office, but preferred the comfort of her own bed and couch. Occasionally, she would get struck with the dreaded writer's block and have to start a different story. Months went by and her money was winding down. Soon she would have to apply for a job. Her heart ached for the chance to publish her books and short stories and not go back to the boring lifestyle of being the boss. She began looking around, going all the way to Auckland for a publisher. Alas, no one would take her work. Nights of frustration clouded her sleep and dreams came less often.

Finally, she spotted gold. Christchurch had an independent publishing company looking for new authors. Only with an once of hope left, she went to their in town office. Handing over copies of all her pieces of work, finished and unfinished, she waited. They said they would call. Two weeks went by. She never left the house. The phone would ring, her standing over it, hoping that it would be the publishing company. When it would be a Tele marketer, she would handy up right away and curse violently at the phone. Tele marketers annoyed her, especially when she was on the brink of being hired. One night, the call came, just after three. She had got the job.

The publishers loved her work. Over the phone, she and her new editor discussed schedules and salary. Her editor, a sweet woman around her age, put all her energy into the stories. After more months of continuos writing, editing, and revising, her first story was published. The publishers went small and sent the book to local bookshops across the South Island. Sales began suddenly and went up dramatically. She had never felt so good as to watch people buy her book, adults and kids alike excited about reading her story. The book was doing so well, the publishers decided it was time to send it north. Sales boomed as her book was getting more recognition. Australia wanted to be apart of the action, so the publishers sent it across the sea. She had so much money and didn't know what to do with it, but save.

One day, a year after her first book was published, she and her editor published another story. She had been working vigorously on it for two years. The next book did better than the first as it was now deployed to Asia and Europe. Suddenly, on her day off, her editor called her with exciting news. Her books would be sent to America. Her heart lightened and breathing became difficult for a few seconds. America, her home. Her friends and family would finally see her work in the spotlight. She could just image it, her mother looking around in Barnes&Noble and seeing her daughter's name on a book that took time and effort to make on the front display crowded around other books. Her mother would think all that reading at home did not go to waste. Her friends would spot it on their way out of a bookstore and say, hey; she was my best friend in school. American kids would be saying J. K. Rowling who. Her Alaskan friends would see her book and know that she had finally lived her dream. It took awhile and was hard, but it was accomplished.

Shuffling with slippers on, she walked through the door across form the kitchen. Laundry had to be done, so she decided to get to it. A framed picture of her biggest selling book's cover hung above the washing machine.

Her nest book did better than all of them, raking in thousands of dollars. It was also the start of a series, one of her favorite books she had written. She had also enough money to get a new home and move away from the shack she had been living in. With her salary and part of her saved money, she bought a house near the southern mountains, miles away from her postal address town. A cute two story hut with a nice living room, kitchen, entry hall and bedroom downstairs. Upstairs was another bedroom, bathroom and another room. A nice balcony opened her up to nature at a faraway look. Fields and farms surrounded her, mountains looming over the valley, green and plentiful. Sheep grazed by her house, stupidly gazing at her cabin. Birds flapped about and made use of the birdseed that she had sprinkled on the grass to make them happy. Sunshine and foliage made this a realistic paradise.

Calls soon came in from family members. Her mother had the most emotional call. The proudest parent would have to be her mother; her eyes lighten by the words pouring out in joyful tones. Friends from all over called her, some from Alaska, others from college. So many people called to share their happiness and in her house, happiness is everything. Spastic sobs were conjoined in the shear being of just to cry each other's heart out. Messages of hope for the future, for success in the future, for love in the future and forever happiness were equally passed through wire cables and between bodies of water. Love, so much love.

Sometimes, she would think that this must be fake. There seemed to be an overload of happiness. She was still used to cold and being empty and sad. To have something as life changing as having a book that is selling out and on the New York Times Bestseller List was too much so soon. She was expecting something terrible to happen, a death or accident. Anything, but more happiness.

Death was exactly what she got. The death of her father shook the ground she had made for herself. Death, a shuddering word with a shuddering meaning. Death and despair always seem to catch our best moments. When at the height of glory, when you see the clouds part and the sky is open, it comes. The grayness of depression comes up like a hawk, ready to catch the prey. You may only see a glimpse of the gods and goddesses smiling down at you, their faces glowing with otherworldly charm, before it brings you down. It comes, laughing, and drags you by your ankles. Its claws are sharp and hot, tingling your nerves and burning your skin. Down and down you go, screaming all the way, struggling against the tides of ultimate sadness. At first this angel of death is as still as stone, but when on the hunt, it becomes wild and angry. Angry at those who created it, making its purpose to crumble others lives away. This in mind, the death spins you down, tumbling into a gorge of rocks. You hit your head, but what does it matter? A loved one is dead, why not hit your head again? The blood gushes out, red as coral. The demon laps it up, laughing again as it plummets down. You try to pry from its white-hot grip, but blinded by the pain. Darkness becomes eternal as it stops in mid air and releases hold of you. As you fall to the cold stone of this gorge of undying despair, you look upon the evil guardian that sent you there. Now without a captive, its eyes open themselves up. Inside, you take a glance at a soul that once was real. This angel had fallen and gazes at you with unspoken sorrow.

Different call came in this time, ones saying, "I'm sorry" instead of "I'm happy for you". The next week, she and her brother drove out to Wellington and took a flight back home. The funeral was large, since he knew many people. Her black dress caught in the wind as she looked over the hills of her home. He was lowered in the ground, all women crying, but her. She stood still and thought of cows and his farm. A stab of pain went straight to her heart. In her mind, she looked on top of the barn, knowing the angel was watching her. It did not glare, yet unlike before, it did not show pity. Instead, it was the cold and hard as the face of death.

Weeks went by. She had returned home and relaxed. She turned off her phone, so she could live in peace. Most days she sat on the deck, sipping a mug of tea and reminiscing. She wanted to go back to the farm, but it would seem empty without her father there. She could image him, milking the cows, tending to the calves, making his farm a better place. Sadness still had a strong hold and she didn't want it to live in her soul. Death wore her out and stretched her thin.

One day, she decided to go out into the world. She went to Christchurch, to her office. Her editor had already given her condolences. She didn't want to hear anymore pity. It was time to release the next book in her series. After working the afternoon away, she went to a bookstore in Wellington. She needed to zone out and become one with a fantasy world. While there, she saw him.

She saw him from afar. What shattered her sadness was his grace. He gracefully swept across the coffee shop and into the bookstore. She didn't want to be recognized, but at the same time wanted to bounce right up to him and say hello. Thankfully, he did it for her. Their eyes met and something clicked. At once, she knew. His grace came from his sadness. He looked like an orphan, alone and without a happy memory to comfort him at night. Immediately, he knew who she was. He was even clutching one of her books like a girl clutching her favorite doll. He took a seat next to her and they began to talk. At first, she found him boring. Then he mentioned how great stand up comedy was and she suddenly realized that with the books coming out and her father's sudden death, she had not watched her favorite programs. She opened her self up just a little. They sat for hours, talking and when conversation lacked the roll, they read.

They quickly started to see each other. He took her out for dinner and made her laugh. Her laugh sounded choked and like a gurgle, but it was a laugh all the same. Their relationship escalated dramatically. Every time she met him, she opened up more. One night, she cried for an hour, because she had been talking about her father. He didn't mind.

The wedding was beautiful. Flowers were everywhere and the mountains looked down with the happiness of old men. Everyone she knew was invited, down to the mailman. Drinks were shared and food joint cooked by her friends and family was delicious. She wished at one point that her father was there, but knew that he was somehow there. His grave might be millions of miles away under a field, but his soul was in the earth. The grass that she walked on and the trees she admired and the soil that fed her plants. He was there. He even got a little wine, because her drunken sister had accidentally tipped some over. Gifts piled up in the far corner of the lawn. Music was loud and joyous. She gazed at her husband and knew that everything had amounted to this day. The angel had never taken all of her hope, but her husband had rescued the broken pieces and repaired her. The moon shone brightly as she twirled around on the grass, shoes off and dress hiked up.

She had finished brushing her teeth and was extremely tired. Tomorrow was Saturday, so she could sleep in as long as she wanted. She never likes to though. The bed was all ready and the lights were out. Her husband was fast asleep. She crawled into bed, pulled the sheets up and did the same. The rain pattered now lightly on the roof, ending its march and stopping so the sun would have enough time to get up slow and dreamlike..