Icy Deeps

On my way out to the barn I drive by a small, dark pool. It sits on the outter side of a curve in the winding road and seems to be carved out the forrest. Last spring there was a layer of ice over the dark water long after the large lakes and the ocean were melted and now, in the fall, the ice has begun to grow like cancer. It streaches over the surface seperating the icy deeps from the outside world.

I notice this seemingly harmless pond every time I drive by. The cows don't pay any special attention to it. The birds fly over it unaware. Yet there is a feeling of darkness that seeps through the still surface.

Two days ago I began imagining a mermaid kindgom under the ice. My mermaids were not sexy sea virgins, but the stolen souls of heroine addicts, taught, streached, bony. Their luminescent skin enemated a silvery green hue and their dark eyes sucked the light from the surrounding world into their void. I shiver in my mind.

I want to write something about this lake, inconspicious and shrowded in mystery. I want to know what breaths in the frigid, lifeless deeps. Days and days go by and my book sits still.. still and lifeless as this little lake.. and I am filled with longing.. heroine? Writing? Cold?