She would write with a lupine hunger, hunting the words into the hot breath of the day’s ending. The feral imaginings of her dreams were given life in these moments, these fading moments, when the sun’s cosmic tethers were clipped, and the light fell from the sky.
This creative hunger gnawed at the edges of her. Ravenous, her fangs would grow and glint, catching shards of the failing light. She would stalk the words quielty, circling those fearful and frightened phrases, sniffing them, trying to catch their scent from somewhere hidden deep in forrest shadows of her flat.
Rare nights when the words kept themselves hidden in bushy thickets, she would howl and spit hot breath at the empty pages in naked attempt to scare them from the underbrush.
Patiently, she hunted. Dilligent and dogged, she would embrace the creative hunger, letting it swallow her whole. She knew eventually her intincts would flash, in the moment she needed them, released in a gutteral growl, catching the word she needed in just the right momemnt, pinning her prey at the edge of her periphery.
This half-glimpse would be all she’d need. With a snarling lunge, she’d sink her teeth deep into the anatomy. She’d shake the words free from their camoflauge, hers now to devour.
On this night, she hunted still. From her window, she prowled the lowlight of the approaching darkness, but the words elluded her still, just out of sight, hidden from gaze in the cool dark catacombs of the city beneath her.
She drifted and dreamed. Of the hunt. And of prey captured from dusks past.
The words, “she that writes the night”, escaped her lips, the sound of its intonation fighting to voice iteslf again and again, but the echo of it anatomy was was swallowed whole by the hot breath of the still night.