Aww, that's such a sweet story QoE! I'm glad your doing art now! You should scan some of your work, I'd love to see it!
To answer your question IDLP, I think I'm more of a do-er too. I usually go by feel. If I feel like drawing something, I'll draw it. Like Stephen Colbert, it's all in the gut!
Ok, I posted this short story in another thread a while ago, but I don't think anyone read it and I think it would be more suited here. It's a ghost story my dad has told many times and I decided to write it down when we were assigned to write one for english class. Here it goes!
The Ghost of Sugar Loaf Pond
As I stood, with my father, overlooking the mirror like pond and gazed upon the rock that protruded from the water about thirty yards from shore, I tried to imagine the scary ghost story my father had told us so many times when we were young. Sugar Loaf Pond always seemed deeper and darker in my imagination, seeing it on a clear summer day made it harder to believe that this place was haunted by a young boy whom had drowned one fateful night. As a young man, my father rented a cabin near Sugar Loaf Pond. The cabin was down a heavily wooded path with kissing trees that created a tunnel effect. One late October evening in 1970, as the fog quietly rolled in, drifting over the pond and blanketing the forest and land around, the soft sound of a boy's whistle traveled along through the windless dusk and quickly made its way into the ears of my father's cats. The cats, frightened by the eery sound, jumped and dashed out of the cabin. As my father opened the door to see what caused the cats to jump, he himself heard the whistling. He ran out in the woods, through the tunnel of trees, his heart racing. Suddenly, as he came to the end of the path, he came face to face with a man holding an ax. My father's heart nearly stopped in terror.
"Did you hear the whistling ?"
said the equally frightened man. His name was Jocko and he lived in a house on a hill that overlooked the pond. He had also heard the whistling. After a brief introduction, he invited my father to come inside. Jocko wore a plaid shirt and overalls and looked like a gentleman farmer that one imagines living in an idyllic English countryside. Since his retirement, Jocko had taken up gardening and had installed fish ponds with streams that quietly trailed through his garden and down to Sugar Loaf pond.
Jocko told my father that he believed the whistling was the ghost of David Eveley. My father knew about the drowning of a boy named David Eveley who as a boy scout, like my father, had camped at Sugar Loaf pond. Intrigued, my father told Jocko that, in a dedication he had read about David Eveley, the boy was known, amongst other talents, for his whistling. Jocko's face turned white. He then, proceeded to tell my father about the night David drowned.
As the fog rolled in, one cool October night in 1960, David Ian Eveley and his friend got ready to secretly take the camp canoe for one last row on Sugar Loaf Pond. David laced up his heavy boots and went to grab a warm jacket, the fog slowly rolled over the tranquil water and blanketed the pond where a smooth dark rock protruded 30 yards from shore. In his home by the pond, Jocko sat with his wife in the living room sipping his tea. Dusk settled early that evening.
Sugar Loaf Pond was now covered with a thick blanket of fog, hiding the rock, like a child hiding under his covers. David and his friends suddenly hit the hiding rock and jolted. Before they knew it, they were in the water. David struggled as the water seeped into his heavy clothes. The other boy managed to take off his boots and swim to shore. The boy ran to Jocko's house up the hill.
As Jocko's wife comforted the boy, Jocko grabbed his gaff and ran with a neighbor to his row boat that lay turned over on shore. Gliding on the smooth motionless pond, Jocko leaned over the side of his boat with his flashlight, looking for the boy. Suddenly, Jocko met David's dead and empty gaze. David stared calmly up from the cold clear water, his mouth closed. Jacko froze staring at the boy scout's glassy eyes, 10 feet below. This image would stay with him forever.
Ever since that fateful night, on cool quiet evenings, as dusk falls early and the soft gray fog rolls in over the still water of Sugar Loaf Pond, if you listen carefully, you might just hear the whistling ghost of Sugar Loaf Pond.