Author's Note: Just wanted to say this one thing before you dive into this story. I will say it's not for everyone, I get that. Everyone has their own thoughts, opinions, personal beliefs. But if you've got issues with the BGLT community, then go no further. I'm serious, don't read this, it wont do you any good, because you'll just criticize it afterwards.
Now, with that less enjoyable caution out of the way, and if you've stuck with me thus far, please enjoy the prologue to my first attempted novel. :) Feedback is greatly appreciated, as well as any constructive criticsm.
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It wasn't very often that you would see a person sitting by themselves at Watermill Lake. It was a place where the water was pristine and clear and long grass waved in the slightest breeze, creating an attractive, natural rippling effect. It was an area that just screamed of small town, remote romance. Not that you'd hear much screaming at the Rosewater Resort, which was nestled with a beautiful view of its central lake and branching rivers.
The lake was a spot for tourists as much as it was for love drunk local couples. No matter what season went through the town of Rosewater Valley, there were many different activities, including the mini-golf course, which took players through eighteen holes, ending at the old windmill with its four ancient wooden blades.
It was this old mill, built by the founder, Elias Yates, back when the town started in 1823, that gave Rosewater Valley its reputation as a peaceful and serene getaway for anyone who wanted to sit quietly, think and reflect on the beauties in life. The old grain mill, now only kept running to add to the serenity, was built by Elias himself and his hardworking family. Time nor weather had not worn down the ancient wood, giving the impression of old strength and wisdom beyond knowledge. The Old Yates Mill and Rosewater Valley's most famous lake stayed at the heart of the town, beautifying its inhabitants.
Though the lake itself was a constant hotspot for everyone and anyone, it gave the impression of serenity and stillness. It was an unwritten law that Watermill Lake was a place for romantic picnics, spending a quiet afternoon curled under weeping willows that dotted the landscape of the park or taking long walks around paths that smelled of acacia flowers and roses and led up to an overlook of the whole area. It was a place that made you think “If there ever was a place to get someone to fall for you with perfectly romantic candle-lit picnics, this was it.”
It was not a place to brood about the atrocities of love. It was not a place to wallow in bitter loneliness and utter hopelessness.
Yet brooding, wallowing and flicking pebbles morosely into the still water of Watermill Lake was exactly what I was doing. Hidden in my favourite secluded inlet, surrounded by thickets, it was the perfect spot by my standards. But if anyone else were to happen upon the area, they'd move on, for the shrubs that provided the secrecy were also an unkempt eyesore that was far from romantic and not in the least pleasing to look at. In my alcove, I found myself staring into the disturbed water as it slowly soaked into the sand until tiny waves lapped at my feet. I pathetically flipped another stone halfheartedly into the water, moodily watching the ripples expand outward.
All it took was one small action to disturb such peaceful waters. I threw another pebble. One small action that would spiral outwards for better or for worse. Another pebble sank out of sight. The resulting consequences that took their course after that initial action would no longer be under my control, just like the way that the pebble had no control over which way the ripples went.
Would I take that chance and throw myself into the heart of love by taking one small action for love, for Alexa? Would I throw myself into her arms and proclaim undying affection, while the ripples spread around me? And would the ripples themselves create dangerous waves, disastrous consequences? Or instead generate soft gentle water to lap at my feet, desirable outcomes?
