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Edited on Wed Dec-29-04 10:33 PM by bain_sidhe
**Edit: Rats! Too late. Again.**
Mucking out the moat.
There is a castle, lost in the mists of time and space. Surrounding this castle is a moat, serving as both protection and trash heap for generations of castle residents. But, to maintain its primary purpose - defense - it must occasionally be mucked out. That's where our Intrepid Author comes in. Muck out the moat. In 500-1000 words, describe the moment that caused one of the items you found to be there. Try to include enough detail to make the moment fully understandable, not enough to "finish" the story. Do one of these a day until one of your "moments" screams at you to finish it.
Here's two of my favorites, to give you the idea:
THE CHAIR
"This joint is loose, and the left rail is uneven. If you can't be an artist, at least try to be a craftsman. Do it again." With that, John's father chucked the unfinished chair out the window, to break on the buttress below. The shattered pieces skidded down the sloped surface, into the moat, and slowly sank from sight.
John stood mutely, watching it sink, his tall, lanky form rigid with anger. That had been his best effort so far. He had known about the loose joint, intending to fix it before showing the chair to his father. And the uneven rail as well. Nothing that a little sanding couldn't correct. But, as usual, his father had come into the workroom before John was ready, pronounced his judgement and carried out the sentence without ever giving John a chance to explain or defend his work. Suddenly, the weight of sixteen years of his father's criticism came crashing down, splintering his effort to hold his temper as easily as the drop out the window had splintered the chair.
"I am done trying to please you." John said. He realized, not without some surprise, that he sounded almost calm. But something in his voice, or perhaps something in his eyes, shocked his father into silence. But that didn't matter now. Once, John would have given his right arm to still that hateful, critical voice. Now, he was only dimly aware of the silence at his back as he walked out of the workroom.
John had precious few belongings to pack. Just as well, since he hoped to be over the bridge before his mother knew what had happened, what he planned to do. She would only beseech him to stay, to understand his father's criticism as the training it was meant to be, an effort to give him the skills to make his way in the world without fear of poverty or starvation. Those fears were very real to his mother and father, wearing the face of his aunt and uncle, and their parents before them. Only his father had escaped such a fate, and only by grimly and single-mindedly learning and honing the skills that had made him valuable to the king. John understood the purpose of his father's relentless criticism more than his mother realized. But that understanding was no longer enough. He would either find another way to avoid starvation, or he would starve. Which of those two circumstances he encountered no longer mattered to him, as long has he encountered them without feeling the lash of his father's criticism.
The bundle his belongings made was small, indeed, and he hefted it easily to his shoulder and walked out of his room, out of the castle, and out of his parent's lives. He whistled a snippet of an old drinking song he'd heard in the taproom as he sauntered through the castle gate, across the bridge over the moat that held his last-ever effort at woodcrafting, and into his new life, where the only judgement that mattered was his own.
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THE MIRROR IN THE MOAT
Meadwyn hated the sight of her own loveliness. She didn't know why she bothered gazing into the mirror her father had presented to her as a bride-gift; her hair was always perfectly arranged, and she'd never needed to rub berry-stained cream into her lips and smooth cheeks as her mother and sister did. Force of habit, she supposed.
It was that beauty that had attracted the attention of the evil prince Fergus. Well, perhaps not evil, she chided herself. She had never heard of any black deeds done by him, and, by all accounts, he didn't even beat his servants much. But he was old - at least 40 summers. Winters, she corrected herself. They counted winters in this cold stark land she now must call home. As if mere survival of its harshness was the only important thing in life. Her own people counted summers. It was the times of joy and growth and laughter that made the years worthwhile to her clan.
Most of all, he was not Caradoc. Young, lively, gentle Caradoc, who'd had nothing to offer her father but his love for her and his willing, agile hands. That was not enough. Not after Prince Fergus had offered a treasure in bride price, and alliance with the third in line for the throne. Her father had called it a marriage that matched her beauty. Her father, who had bounced her on his knee and called her his princess and promised to keep her safe and happy. Who had promised her a future worthy of a princess.
As soon as the match had been made and sealed, her father had commissioned the finest artisans to make this hand mirror for her. He had paid a fortune, and had proudly presented it to her as she had started on this journey. The surface that reflected her delicate features was pure, flawless glass. The back and handle were silver. And inlaid in gold on the back was the ultimate betrayal: Not the beloved hawk of her clan, but a dragon, facing sinister. The device of Prince Fergus. The same device that flew above the castle she was now approaching.
Her carriage paused on the bridge as the great iron gate of her prison was raised. Well, she, too, would count winters now, she thought with grim finality. And never again would she gaze on the detested loveliness that had brought her here. The beauty that had cost her Caradoc. With an abrupt movement, she flung the mirror out the window, and watched its twisting, glittering descent into the green, weed-choked depths of the moat that formed the outer boundary of her new life.
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P.S., it works for Science Fiction too - just imagine a salvage crew "sweeping" the space lanes around a space station. Also, there's "Cleaning out the attic" for more real-world stuff... same rules, describe the moment that caused the thing you found to be there, with enough detail to convey the moment, not enough for the story to feel "finished."
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