tuckova

The moat the drawbridge the tower the turret the little holes where the archers peek out… you know, the usual castle features. You can embellish it up, make it a superfancy metaphor, where the moat is your tears and the turret is where you hide your fragile heart and the archers are, oh I don't know, those catty asides, sarcastic barbs, your explosions of wit and cruelty. High walls, one assumes, well defended and whatnot, not to be scaled by the cowardly. Also vines from years of neglect. 

Everybody wants a castle and by everybody I mean you. You wanted a castle, you built it, you carried in the cold smooth stones and fixed them into place; the fortress the buttress and you the mistress. Walking the ramparts, then. Surveying. Taking the measure. Games of strategy in the throne room and needlepoint by candlelight. Remembering all the stories you once knew.

Well that's all very fine but what now? You should probably have a conflict of some sort. You can't have a story without a conflict. You can't have a conflict until you lower the drawbridge. You had thought you wanted a wonky spell cast upon the walls: nobody ever goes in and nobody ever comes out, except that gets boring after a while. Perhaps a horse of the trojan variety or maybe some circus performers could come by. A bard, singing songs of other castles, everybody likes a little peek at the neighbors and if the wandering minstrel (wandering minstrel!) beds the queen at night well that just livens up the tapestry a little, doesn't it.

Of course there is a part of you that is frightened; not everybody comes out of every story alive. Digging your nails into the rough wooden underside of the banquet table to stay calm; the shadows of strangers against the walls turn into monsters by firelight and pebbles have been carelessly skipped across the moat as if it doesn't hold the history of a thousand sadnesses. It's still okay though; you wanted a story and now you are getting one. Quick, look or you might miss something.