Goodness! I was not expecting so many requests. Thank you! I will strive to have them all fulfilled before the day is out. :)

Could you do me, please?

Woah! I may not be able to finish all of these today-- those I don't get in now, I'll try and finish by next Saturday. Thank you all!

Ginger says nxup. Next up? Are there any requests I've missed? 

Daisy

Scritch...scratch...scritch...scratch…

The parchment shifted. Only a whisper, but the sound sang unheard about the silent room.

Scritch...scratch...scritch...scratch…

To a casual onlooker, the quill seemed to be wandering aimlessly,

free of the slackened hand, the limp fingers about it.

Scritch... scratch...scritch...scratch…

So subtle-- subtle as the first breath of spring.

The seed of a story was sown.

Scritch… scratch… scritch...scratch.

The quill ducked and leapt and whirled. The hand was no longer lifeless-- it’s grip was sure and firm, guiding with ardent art the lissome lines, crossing and re-crossing in an ever-shifting dance.

Scritch...scratch...scritch...scratch...

The pen poured forth its silken filling, the page received it as the parched field swallows summer showers.

Scritch...scratch...scritch...scratch…

Growing in vigor, growing in fervor.

The roots of the seed drew deep. A slender shoot reached up towards the light.

Scritch...scratch...scritch...scratch…

Down it stabbed, as a streak of lightning strikes the night.

The parchment groaned, ink ran like blood through its wounds.

Dusk-splattered fingers flexed, stretching aching joints and tightened muscles.

Scritch...scratch...scritch...scratch…

Again the pen smote the page. Black frustration brewed in it’s every stroke, a dark cloud, an ill omen. A storm was brewing.

Scritch...scratch...scritch...scratch…

Crumpled papers piled like heathen skulls over the dust-strewn floor, terrible in their rejection.

The seedling had met with biting cold, scorching heat, bitter rain. It’s tiny leaves writhed and twisted in the darkened night. The storm must be weathered--it’s young life hung in the balance.

Silence.

The quill cast a long, sharp shadow disproportionate to its size.

In the moonlight seeping through the window, it seemed strange, otherworldly.

Silence.

Shade-dark shapes floated nebulous over the ghost-white surface of a lone parchment.

A hand, pale and waning as the moon without, held a weary forehead-- a load it could but weakly bear.

Silence.

The storm had passed, and the new-sprung life of a story had been beaten down at last-- down, down into the dusk. It’s promise choked. It had not yet even begun to bud.

Now, it was gone.

And yet…

Scritch...scratch...scritch...scratch…

The first light of day, valiant in its very subtlety and solitude,

touched the frail feathering of a jaded quill.

Scritch...scratch...scritch...scratch…

Pale spun-gold dawned over the ragged paper, and then a coral warmth, weaving rose-blush light into the tracery embedded there.

The grasp of the hand was still drifting, uncertain-- but it would not loose it’s hold.

Scritch...scratch..scritch...scratch…

Hope poured into the parchment with the ink, spanned it in the ranks of narrow dots and dashes.

The seedling raised up its head. The storm could roar as it liked. It knew that time would lend the strength to bloom-- and, in the meantime, it had leaves to grow.