Indeed. Write daily, you said? Indeed. Where hath the burns of Muse gone? From mine hand they departed, as I lay long idle and stolid. Rust and dust I gathered ere I awoke and came to know that my gift I had squandered. Alas, I morn the days of wet and firelight, for now all is gray and dying, and I fear I shall never recover.
But to the word again I turn, if any chance may be that a day may finally come and when at last the gears are greased, the wheels freed, and the mill begins to churn once more to the merry sound of falling water and the creaking of the paddle.
So, the word: seethe (simmer, stew, burn)
Tentatively the sailor walked deeper into the wood. There was a cold, wet feeling in the air, aided by the low hanging fog, and he pulled his jacket close about his chest. The forest creaked softly in a breeze that whistled in their crowns, but otherwise all was quiet. No birds sang their tunes; no insects scratched or clicked. The forest was waiting, it seemed him, and he felt a tingling expectation curdling in his fingers, that at any moment the wood might spring to life in a flurry of tree and root and swallow him wholly.
Still, he pushed on, for deeper than the tingle was the absence of the bundle in his grasp, and still his heart longed for it. Curious it was, that such a change should have come over him. He remembered the feeling in his heart as he rowed up the shore in the dawn hours, how he had felt a black heat coming from the bundle as it sat before him in the stern. With every pull of oars he had felt the feeling grow, till it seemed to him that the shadows in the stern seethed and rolled with desire, a desire to – be free. There, that was it: the bundle wanted to be freed; it wanted to be free of him and its rope and casing. But the more it pushed him away the greater he had felt compelled to hold it close, until at length, when he had arrived at the cove of which the Rodent had spoken, he found that he desired greatly to keep the bundle and not deliver it to whom it was due. Within in him burned now a growing desire to retrieve it, to not be parted with it, for it had been his, and he would not allow it to be rent from him before he had seen what lay beneath the wrapping.
Purposeful became his strides, then, as he moved farther from the shore and deeper into the Waiting Wood. He began to hear (or was it only a fancy) that a call floated with the breeze, hidden just within the hanging fog; a call of It, from It. For did it not want to be found? Had it not chosen him as its bearer? The Rodent had simply been It’s chosen messenger, till he the sailor had been found. And then the Gray Lady had come and taken It from him. They were parted, and he felt in his heart that it should not be.
His walk became a run, and the Waiting Wood swallowed him in its shadows.
Huh. Interesting. Better, I suppose. I think what would help is to have a story that I actually set out to write. These little things are good, and I should keep doing them. But I think I might find a writing contest somewhere that has a theme and actually set out to write a story for it. Remember what it was like to get an idea and then just go for it? That’s the freedom of writing: to get an idea, a small kernel, an image, and build upon it, to run with it and see where the path might lead. That would help a lot, I think. And if my wrist didn’t hurt. Weird. Well, anyway, that’s today’s writing. Hopefully there is a tomorrow.