For a while (I’m almost embarrassed to mention how long), I’ve been working on a “children’s” story – inasmuch as the Chronicles of Narnia are children’s stories, but you get the intent. Because of school demands, outrageous work hours, and a cavalcade of health setbacks, this story line took a back seat to, well, life, and its trouble-making hoodlum buddies. It has been this particular story, though, that has been tugging at my ‘novelistic’ heartstrings, begging that I return to my innermost passion, picking up the pieces that I had left scattered across my multiple flash drives as well as what I can recall from memory, having lost nearly the full beginning chapter to a virus-ridden hard drive. I was recently struck with a bolt of inspiration, almost audibly hearing one of the young characters in a conversation with her wise, gentle mother. I seized the opportunity to share an intimate moment with Mademoiselle Muse while she decided to grace me with her presence, despite the ungodly hour on the clock – sleep, be damned! – and such progression is always high-potency fuel on the fire! I’m hoping over the course of the next few weeks, this creative awakening takes up residence without fail and I’m able to continue developing this particular story line; I would love to see these characters come to life and be enjoyed by others!
For now, a tidbit to share with you all:
Willow was coaxed from the comfort of the den, the silken fur tipping her ears swayed by the melodious fog that caressed the timbers as it rolled up from deep within the valley. Against her nature, she sat quietly, watching the wispy air finger its way up and through nearby trees, convincing stubborn leaves to twirl and tremble, wave and waltz with a commanding gentleness. A shimmer of brilliant light shone from around the high back root of the Borealis tree, drawing Willow’s attention. Where the light was coming from was a mystery, as the fog still rested in the canopy overhead. The young fox crawled toward the illuminated root, battling curiosity and trepidation.
“What is it, young one?” the soft, tender voice of Sequoiasong patiently beckoned from just outside the den’s opening.
“A light…” Willowwood stammered, refusing to turn her gaze from the mysterious spectacle. “A brilliant light, like nothing I’ve ever seen before, Mother! I don’t know where it’s coming from; but I don’t want to lose it! ”
“And what is your plan for this light, Willowwood?” Sequoiasong needled. “Will you snatch it up in your jaws and drag it off somewhere, burying it as a prize for yourself?”
“I just want to see where it’s coming from and where it leads.”
“Are you sure you want to know that much about something so mysterious?”
“Of course I want to know!” The petite fox hopped up and down on all four of her dusty paws in a dance of wild impertinence. “And I want to know why the fog sings.”
“You hear the fog singing? What is it saying to you, my young one?”
Willowwood’s frolicking halted and she tilted her right ear toward the sky. “I don’t understand what it’s saying, Mother.” She pinched her eyes tight as if shutting out all light helped with auditory senses. “I’m not even sure there are words… Just a haunting song… A haunting song – so beautiful – my heart, Mother…”