If you’ve ever written a climatic battle scene, you know how tense it can be.
The din–the clang of blade on blade, the war cries, the sweat and blood–overwhelms the imagination. I feel like I’m standing in the midst of it, dodging arrows and evading blows, while watching the narrator wield her knives against daunting opponents. Musical selections from soundtracks (from the Fields of Pelennor to Waterloo Station) feed the tension. Then, just as the narrator urges her weary limbs to block a death-blow and a plot twist of mythical and detrimental proportions is about to be unleashed, I hear it.
A big thud. On the sliding glass door right behind me.
I nearly scream. My heart races. Part of me wonders if the enemy hordes from my imagination are coming after me. The other part reminds me that birds fly into the windows all the time.
I cautiously creep to peek outside and find this.
It had never happened before and has not happened since. Of course, I’ve also moved past the climax for now, so who knows? Perhaps this mischievous creature is lying in wait until it hears my Climatic Playlist before it pounces again. Or perhaps it was only a very strange coincidence.