I used the theme of love as a jumping off point for a short drabble, which I figured I'd publish instead of letting sit around on my hard drive doing nothing.

I love Bush, and I love boats. What more needs to be said?

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Enthralled

William Bush was not a man who loved easily. He was too stubborn for that, too set in his ways to ever give thought or voice to fanciful notions like love. He loved his country and his king as any good Englishman should, loved his mother and his sisters as any good son ought to, if pressed he might even admitted to having loved Hornblower after a fashion, but love — true, encompassing, earth-shaking love — was not a sentiment he was familiar with. But like the landlubber who cannot sense the squall lurking over the horizon until it plucks him from the deck of the ship, Bush did not anticipate love until he was already well within its thrall. She captured his heart the moment he laid eyes on her; she was proud and graceful, unlike any other ship in the harbour, and the moment he set foot on her deck and ran a hand against her polished wood he knew that while she was his in name, he was hers, in body and in soul. It was the love a man might spend his whole lifetime searching for, and in the end it would be the truest love he’d ever know.