Is she still the one I love?

She sank below then rose above

That evil lake from whence she came.

A blackened voice calls Barbara's name,

And says her soul has drown.

In the dead of night to my room she crept

With darkness in her eyes

Wearing a Mourning Gown

Sweet words as her disguise.

Her words I would not accept,

For her bittersweet tune was laced with lies

That spoke of things my mind ignored.

I had thought her life restored

My words had bought her back to life.

But in her chest I stick a knife

To free me from an evil fate.

I twist the blade and then I wait…

This thing my love has now become

Has no heart, a hole remains.

To darkened whims I will not succumb

For in my soul is light contained…

I walked carefree along the shores of Cauldron Lake, gazing at the waters that at once seemed both calm and tumultuous; a serene bright layer of green hiding a dark and swirling mass below. I had often wondered how such a thing as this lake with all the magic and beauty it bore, could also appear so black and ominous. Such a strange juxtaposition of light and dark. Thoughts for another time perhaps, as today I had more pressing matters on my mind.

I was nervous. My body ached from a constant rush of adrenaline borne from a mix of anxiety and excitement. Barbara was visiting me today.

It had been a few days since our first brief encounter in the diner, but since that fateful meeting the thought of her had never left my mind. I could still not place what it was about her that forced my mind into obsession. Beyond her obvious beauty was an inner brilliance that my entire being ached to experience. I had never felt like this before. It was like I was seeing the world anew; Barbara my magnifying glass that amplified the glory of creation through the beauty of her own soul.

I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly…mentally forced my nervous energy into a momentary retreat. I continued my walk along the banks of the lake, content to listen to the lulling sounds of the listless waves and take in the natural beauty of the stunning vistas that surrounded me.

What a truly wonderful place this was. Perhaps I would finally find peace here, away from the big city and finally distanced from all the bullshit of my old life. Perhaps I would finally find my muse, force myself from the paralysing inaction of the debilitating writers block that had been afflicting my once perennial career. There was something about the town of Bright Falls that lifted the creative spirit and inspired magnificent works of art and prose. Legend spoke of Cauldron Lake being magical. Emil certainly believed that to be the case, even if he would never admit it to any one other than myself. And what did I believe? Unlike Emil, I still had my doubts. But in the dead of night, absently gazing through the stained glass of my bedroom window, I'd often fancied I could see the machinations of my days work take form across the far banks of the caldera lake. All manner of mystical beasts and men given life and purpose; gifted of a physical reality and woven into the world from the very fabric of my own imagination.

I briefly wondered then if Barbara was even real, for surely such a woman could only be imagined; a haunting image of perfection etched into the folds of the universe as a testament to a writers vision for love and beauty.

Real or not I would be a fool to pass up an opportunity to spend time with her. The very thought of us together was an intoxicating drug in my mind that demanded an attention and sustenance I longed to give it.

Once more my nervous energy threatened to bubble over; I breathed deeply and began the first steps in a long walk back to Diver's Isle.

It was nearing midday when I finally arrived at the my cabin. On the path leading in I had encountered Odin Anderson, collecting water from the lake for use in his famous, yet certainly illegal, moonshine. The Anderson Brothers had pertained that their swill was given power by the lake, helping them to craft the magnificent melodies that had shaped them into renowned musical icons.

Fame was a funny thing. I wondered if young Sheriff William Breaker would let the Brothers get away with half their kooky antics if they were regular people. Breaker was a self-professed fan of the arts though, he had always liked my work and was happy to tolerate the Andersons while their prestige helped promote his idyllic mountain town. Breaker and his wife were trying for their first child. I had gladly given him some of my work as an incentive; an early gift for the arrival of his future progeny.

On entering the cabin I made my way to my bedroom, and sat down lazily at my desk. I ran my hands absentmindedly over the sleek black surface of my typewriter, contemplating briefly how much desire I possessed to write again; for some time Emil had been pressuring me. He wanted new work, a fresh new poem or manuscript he could use to help fashion me back into the world dominating literary power I had once been. I breathed deeply and attempted a few paragraphs…but I couldn't do it. My head was fuzzy, my hand's were shaking. My brain felt like it was in a vice. Something unknown had locked away the creative contents of my mind and cruelly hidden the key.

Ah, it was no use! Perhaps I should be content with writing insignificant pieces for Cynthia Weaver and her small town newspaper. I had my doubts though that Emil would find such work to his liking. He constantly chastised me for wasting away my talents on something so trivial as Weaver's gossip columns.

Why limit yourself Tom? With your creative mind you could shape the very nature of the universe itself! Emil's words invaded my mind uninvited. The power you possess is unrivalled! You know why the lake calls to you. You have the majesty of creation at your fingertips! Why do you fear to use it?

At times I was certain that my assistant writer had been at the Andersons still, such was his un-ending belief that through the magic of Cauldron Lake my works could change the world. Had Odin and Tor changed the world through their creations? Had their music fashioned a new reality for anyone other than themselves? Surely the professed power of this blackened body of water was pure fantasy?

Regardless, it didn't matter. While my writers block persisted I would not be creating anything, be it literal or figurative. My mind once more drifted to Barbara Jagger. In her alone I saw the wonder of the world brought into being; a projection of a glorious reality given magnificent form, a life and beauty unsurpassed. I knew then that no lake, no friend or no town, no matter how idyllic, would help to inspire my life and give it the direction I so desperately sought for it. It would be her. She would be my muse.