Prose by any other name . . .
Inspiration comes to be in images, usually. This morning the follow bit came to me, no story to go with it, just this:
At the end of the day there remained the husk of a boat. No engine. No sails. Not a length of rope. Paint curled from the hull, faded blue revealing a white underbelly. The craft doomed, gutted and stripped of all worth.
The sun sighed as he slipped beneath the horizon, another passing bleeding across the sky. Brilliant red smeared the water about the bobbing ship, chum on the surface to draw in the scavengers. Below the surface something toothed cruised, ever in motion driven by ceaseless hunger.
It’s full of metaphor, and yet is a metaphor in its entirely. I see no boat, but a relationship done and over, waiting to sink. I see it being picked to shreds by carrion eaters, refusing to let it slip peacefully beneath the waves.
What does it mean to find a boat without an anchor? Did the knot unravel or did someone ride the weight to the bottom of the ocean in absolute surrender?
I know. Melancholy thoughts. They are what they are, though.
I’m off to shred one of my main characters heart, take it beyond breaking. So I can’t help that my thoughts are a bit bloody.