November 30th
Total Words: 49,999
Ambience: Rain in the Woods
“Yet that terror was not fright —
But a tremulous delight,
And a feeling undefin’d,
Springing from a darken’d mind.”
-The Lake, by Edgar Allen Poe
The crowd feels suffocating. You sit there, bound by both cords and dismay, reading nothing but distrust and aggravation from the guests (your guests?). “Can't you see what you've done!?” But you can't. You regard your hands, tied to the walnut arms of the chair, with disgust and disbelief at what unknowable things they have done, what incredible letters they have written. And suddenly, the feeling of a warping dream comes upon you, and you are no longer yourself.
“Fools! I was your keeper, your protector, your inspiration… your dark muse! You disregard my work so heartily? Look at the thickness of your manuscripts! I have elevated your work to the sacred level it deserves! No distractions! No requirements of yourself whatsoever beyond creation!” The dark muse– the host– you?– strains against the bonds that keep you in the chair, incensed like a deity spurned.
Prompt: Reveal something someone didn't know about themselves.
“You miss this simple fact, dear host– creativity loves freedom. Though we have written many words, we can no longer stay trapped here. An artisan cannot be kept in even the most gilded of cages. Where are your keys?” Your face contorts in slow understanding and bitterness, and a description of the hiding place of the keys spills from your downturned lips. First, the tiny tinkling of the silver shackles being undone. Next, the clicking of tumblers on the seven locks of the front door. Then, minutes later, a mighty clang as the front gate turns roughly on its hinges. And last of all, the soft working of the knots that bind you, and the cords crumple to the ground as rain begins to fall.
A headache splits your skull, white-hot, and for the first time you feel two of yourself fill your mind. The dark muse, proud of the manuscripts of the guests as they leave, disappointed at their lack of gratitude. And yourself, horrified at what has been done, relieved at the resolution of it all. And strangest of all, a unified sentiment– you have written. The dam that held your words back has broken, and your creativity is a flood again. With this thought, the headache abates, and the strange twoness dissipates as the dark muse passes into the background and you walk back down those front sweeping stairs, your manuscript hidden from rain beneath your arm. Inkhouse stands empty.
The Gravity Challenge: sprint 100+80+75+50+45+40+35+25+20+15+10+5=500 words by the time you're done. Do this 3 times. And feel free to revisit the other challenges from the month to help with the final push.
Question: How does your conflict resolve itself? Do any characters find that ending unsatisfying?
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