The 30-Minute App Sprint

[Matra Hammer]

STARTING: Noon, EST.

The deadline for MOV's app submission phase draws near. A few of us have already hit the 3 mark submission wise, but we can still put the deadline pressure to good use!

This little exercise is simply a timed sprint where we, as a group, will do the following in this order:

1- Pick a category by preference or by https://www.random.org/
2- Set a 30 minute timer
3- Open your favorite notebook / word-processing app
4*- Focus on an image
5- Start the timer
6- Write write write as fast as you can
7- Stop when the timer dings
8**- Submit your result here when you're done OR polish up your new baby and slide it into the submission pool!

* - Feel free to PM me on Discord for one! Writing fast and under a clock is all about momentum and trusting yourself. Having a starting image to work in and around will help your character grow. As an example: you're given "A broken fence" as a focus item. Why is it broken? What does it look like? What is your character doing about it? What does our character think of it? A focus item in combo with a category can make for a potent situation.

** - Please, please, PLEASE submit any efforts in this thread if you do not plan on turning them into legit apps. No, it does not matter if they're incomplete. More important than submitting them here: please tell us about your process. What was going through your head? What was difficult and/or easy? What surprised you and when? Also feel free to comment on other people's bits too!

ABOVE ALL have fun and let loose!

[Airan]

Took part in this just for a little bit of fun. I was going through some existential thoughts after a friend of mine told me something and it led me to want to develop a character all about finding light where there is none, and being given the motivation to carry on even when it seems like there's no reason to or point to living.

The application here is not finished, and is honestly hardly started- but I'll likely come in here and finish writing it once I'm finished judging the MO5 applications.

[spoiler]Name: Crucio
Species: Stoat
Category: Guardian
Gender: Male
Age: Early 20s, Doesn't know specifics

Concept- Waif Assassin taken in after a failed attempt at the king of a country's life. Made to protect the princess of the kingdom. In love with her. Failed to protect her and doesn't have a purpose. Cannot speak. Scene is him being motivated. Wants to have the power of words- but has no voice.

Flickering torchlight danced along the walls of the dungeon cell, casting dark shadows within the grooves of the rough masonry. Crucio sat in silence behind the bars, listening to the shuffling metal of panicked knights hurrying past his cell window and the woeful cries of women in the streets. From their throats rose the same words- words that would not cease, words that echoed through the kingdom and the stoat's head alike.

"She's dead! The princess is dead!"

Crucio tried to form the same words on his tongue, but only a rasping whimper left his lips. He stared at his paws as they trembled in the dark. He recalled the way she once touched them, tracing her slender claws from his raised fur to the manacles on his wrists. With the power of only a few words, she replaced his rags with armor, his chains with a sword and shield, and his pain...

...with a purpose.

[More to come]
[/spoiler]

[Matra Hammer]

I'm sweating!

Below the spoiler cut at the end you'll find the entirety of the draft. What follows now is a reflection about my process, the result, and what I'd do to slap this into a workable shape.

Process: So, before any of this started I made two word pools. One contained a bunch of descriptive words like "Odd" or "Big" or "Dark." The other contained a bunch of nouns like "Nest" or "Cup" or "Gate." I drew one name from each bag and came up with Odd Nest. So, in doing step 4 I sat down, closed my eyes, and quietly considered what an Odd Nest meant to me. The initial scenario which popped up was those towering termite nests that look like spires, but I didn't want to deal with non-redwall stuff. The second scenario involved spiders and, well, I love spiders but I wanted to create something NOT in my wheelhouse. The third scenario stick: cliffside nests. I remember some BBC videos I've seen of birds who build nests into sheer rock faces. Not sure if gulls do specifically, but the idea enchanted me. The "Odd" factor came easy after as my mind clicked into "a seagull thief hoarding gold in its nest."

From there the rest came easy. What does a nest full of gold mean for a seafarer? Treasure, matey. The species and names all came by instinct as I sped along and created the bluff, the ocean, the bodies in the water, the Dread Twinkle. I didn't stop to ask "Is this good enough" or to find the right exact phrasing for something. Write first, edit second.

The ending surprised me. I'd expected to write more drama about the climb, with Briar fighting off gulls and facing a Boss Gull at the top where the Dread Twinkle rested. But subverting expectations makes for forward motion, and literally while Briar climbed I switched my brain into the question "What is the least expected thing right now?" A mole. Yes, the accent is AWFUL as I'm no Braineyes. However, the turn of it being a door and a mole - disappointment - into his mined home being a treasureland - subverted the audience's/Briar's expectations - turned out completely by necessity, as the clock was winding down and I needed a close.

The Result / What Would Change: Not good enough, but a fine start! This isn't a showcase of what Briar is and why he's compelling so much as it is a goofy little happenstance. So, what would I change? In the earlier portions there are just little hints about Briar wanting to restore his papi's fleet, and so many beasts dying trying to get that Dread Twinkle. I'd likely push the scene backwards a bit and give the otter captain some walking room. I'd show him walking on his tattered, rickety ship. I'd show the crew in shambles, muttering about the foolish idea of a dread glint. I'd show Briar making the choice to ignore the whispers and trust his instinct.

A good app also makes due with a tie to the contest material...which I didn't do at all. This is fine. If I were to find a link to the theme or overall story, then I'd likely move away from the comedy juxtaposition of "Look at these salt of earth moles living a lavish life!" I'd likely ground it more as a closing scene where these simple beasts are walking among absolute riches, but the riches mean something to them. They've golden idols, or murals of their gods (or the runes from the prologue!) made from studded gems. And they're so trusting and simple and giving to Briar, who is injured from the climb. Does he run them down and take their treasure? Does he walk away? Does he leave his life of back-talking pirates and the albatross of his father's legacy to feign his death and join the moles? Possibilities!

The key is to isolate the elements of the story (AFTER THE DRAFT) and ask what purpose they serve. If it's just "this is neat" then it likely needs a deeper association. "Hehe, simple moles living in a jeweled mansion" is neat, but it doesn't serve a deeper association to the character or contest.

[spoiler]Category: Seafarer
Image: An Odd Nest

A glint of gold too many meters up the bluff's face to properly make out.

At the bottom, Briar and his first mate bobbled along the waves in a second-paw rowboat. The otter ran a paw through his whiskers as he considered the height of the glint, the chalk dust pouch on his lap for grip, and a seagulls perched along the sheer stone wall.

"Nay, captain, let the dread twinkle rest." First mate Calhoon twiddle his squirrely tail tip in his paws, never once looking away from the myriad gulls watching them in sharp silence. "Probably an arrow head or a scrap of iron."

"And what if it isn't?" Briar took a drag of his pipe and a gnaw of a strip of dried fish, not once looking away from the glint above. "We could buy a better boat, a bigger boat. Maybe we can restore my papi's fleet if it's a gem of size."

"...I don't doubt the other seekers tried, captain. There are other means of fortune, fish to net and such." In the crystal blue water beneath rested the crab-cleaned bones of so many other seafarers who dare climb for the Dread Twinkle. "Tis a fool's errand is what I'm saying."

Briar stood up in the rowboat, steady as a climax oak despite the rolling vessel. Briar threw his pipe into the water, slapped chalk dust onto his paws, and signaled for Calhoon to row up to the bluff's base.

"I'd rather die chasing a legend than live beneath my dreams."

"...ugh, really? I'm takin' those books away should yah live..."

Briar did not see the depth and wheel of his first mate's eyeroll. Instead he screamed his challenge up at the gulls, launched from the rowboat, and clung to the stone like a squirrel to a tree's trunk.

The first few meters came sure and steady, as the waves along the bluff's base carved out chunks into the rock for pawholds. Paw over paw the otter ascended, only ever looking away from the golden glint above when the bluff's jut ran between.

The crash of waves soon replaced with the hissing of territorial gulls as he reached the first nests. Gulls in the hundreds scrabbled away shelves into the stone for nests, so inset that not weather or peeping eyes craning over the bluff's top edge could find them. Briar panted as he climbed horizontal to dodge the unglinting hovels, like a worm dodging the tunnels of hunting moles. Still, affronted gull parents craned their necks from the alcoves and snipped at the otter.

Some took strips of his tunic, one took a strip of his rudder complete with fur and meat. Captain Briar only redoubled his pace with another scream, scurried up the bluff as fast as his broken claws would allow, and rolled into the Dread Twinkle's recess.

In his panting he did not see what awaited him. In his pain, Briar could only shield his eyes from the blinding, golden glint.

"Moighty dangerish, misser otter! Dangerish indeed!"

Briar caught his breath, and squint and a kneel revealed not a nest, not a hunk of gold buried in the recess, but a mole in mining equipment and a gilded tunnel door built into the recess.

"...this is it?" Briar slumped. "A mole's home is all? That's why so many died!?"

The mole chuckled deep.

"Oi b'ain't 'sponsible fer beasters spinnin' tales!" The mole scratched his chin. "Thur wussa soign sum toime ago..."

"Of course, of course." Briar sighed and looked over the ledge, seeing Calhoon ant sized and flailing so far below. "Know an easier way down?"

"Roight thru 'ere, zurr!"

The mole bumbled over to the golden-fringed door and swung it wide. The glint from before triplified against the eastern sun's rise. Within the door, along the walls of the mole's home, studded thousands upon thousands of crystal shards. Rubies of the deepest blood, emeralds green than a Calhoon's squirrelish eyes, and stones dusted with golden flakes. The few hardwood chairs, beds, and the scrum of mole children - watched by one very surprised molewife at the otter's arrival - all swirled through the glittering wonderland as if it were a forest's undergrowth.

"You cumin?"

Captain Briar's jaw slacked, and he fell backwards over the edge.[/spoiler]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Fair warning, I get a lot done in half an hour. Weeeeeeeeeeell... not really. Still me we're talking about. In half an hour I came up with the concepts. Another half an hour later I wrote up some Bucky. And then thirty minutes later Whitebutt got some words.

[spoiler=Bucky 'Bucktooth' Anderson, Son of Ander. Beaver who uses axe to fell trees]

"He who axes a tree, looses his teeth. Remember that Buck!"

"Yeah, yeah." Bucky rolled his eyes and swung the axe down again. "'A proper beaver uses their teeff', he muttered, in imitation of every other beaver he had come across. The fact of the matter was that steel tore through bark easier than incisors. No beaver he had ever met seemed to consider that steel tools made shaping logs a piece of cake. And a beaver with a nicely-shaped log, complete with grooves for dam building, was a happy beaver.

Bucky 'Bucktooth' Anderson was a happy beaver indeed. At least... When the other beavers decided to leave his woodworking alone.

"Whatcha makin'?" Asked another of his fellow overgrown, club-tailed, paddle-footpawed, water-rats.

"A bird house." Bucky replied, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. He was an honest creature and not too big a fan of attention. Unfortunately, being as odd as he was (by beaver standards anyways) he attracted a lot of it.

"What's that?" Asked his curious companion. If he dredged through his memory enough he might have remembered a name to pout on that wide-eyed face, but as it was Anderson merely frowned.

"A house. For birds."

"What do they need it for?" To the more stoic beaver's horror, the curious one reached forwards and picked up the birdhouse-in-progress.

"To live in!" Anderson snapped, tearing his precious creation free of the other beaver's grip. Miraculously, it did not break apart. "Please, don't touch anything!"

"Okay, okay. Geez." The curious beaver scratched his chin and pointed at the nails on Anderson's desk. "What are those?"

Bucky gritted his teeth. "I have a better question. How much is dad paying you to bother me?"

"Dad? I don't follow..."

"Ander. Chief Ander. My father." Bucky gently placed his birdhouse upon his work station/desk/thing, picked up his axe and strolled over to a nearby tree. "See I know what you're trying to do and I know what he's trying to do." Bucky lifted the axe off his shoulder and swung it hard at the trunk. "He's been trying to do it ever since I could tinker. And you know what? I'm sick of it!" Tearing the axe out of the tree Bucky turned towards the rest of the beaver colony down by the dam.

"Hey dad! You can give up already! I don't care what you say about tradition!" Bucky raised the axe high above his head. "Steal is the fuuuutuuuure!" The bucktoothed beaver swung with all his might. The steel was sharp and his blow was strong. The tree teetered over.

And came crashing down upon the dam. The pile of mud, the intricately weaved twigs and bits of wood were scattered from the blow and the mighty river hurried to sweep it all away.

"That... didn't go to plan..." [/spoiler]



[spoiler=Emille Watba (Emilly Whitebutt) Wolverine with name problems and identity crisis. Also lovesick.]

"C'mon. Ye know what ye have te do."

"Huh? What did ye say?" Emille snapped back into reality, and turned towards the weasel besides him.

Blacksnoot smirked. "Ye was starin'."

"I-I was not." The wolverine huffed indigantly. He hurriedly flatted his chest fur. "I never stare. Staring is rude."

"Ye was starin," the weasel went on. "At her." He pointed a claw in the direction of a pretty vixen, currently serving two bowls of soup a few tables down.

Emille could have bluffed, could have denied it. Could have used some subtlety. Instead he panicked and shoved the weasel under the table. "Shhh! Will ye quiet down? Ye tryin' te get me killed or what?"

Blacksnoot could not suppress a snicker. "Killed? I'm jus' tryin' te help ye out here. I know ye Emily-"

"D-don't call me Emily!" The wolverine growled, and once more shoved the weasel under the table.

"Fine, fine, Emille. I know ye. Yer gonna sit there an' stare at her for hours on end an' get nothin' for it. Maybe act on yer fancies once in a while, eh? Wax out some o' that poweh-tree, eh?"

"Poetry!" Emille snapped indigantly, before glancing anxiously about the restaurant to make sure nobeast had noticed his frantic little outbursts. His eyes seemed to linger on the vixen. "An' I don't 'wax' poetry. I write it." The wolverine cleared his throat. "An' yer not supposed te tell anyone about that coz it's a secret. Imagine if everybeast knew I was a poet."

"Ye've been teased plenny worse Whitebutt-"

"Watba! Ye know it's Watba!" The weasel continued to cackle regardless. "An' I didn't pick the name! My clans a thousand seasons old."

"Yes." Blacksnoot conceded, in between giggles. "B-but yer the first with such a er- -p-personal sigil." The weasel threw his paws over his face in a hopless attempt at keeping down the volume of his laughter.

The wolverine hurriedly pulled his tunic down as far as it could go. "Shhh! Q-quiet d-down! N-nobeast needs te know about that!"

"Know about what?"

Emille looked up and found, to his horror, that the vixen was upon their table. "N-nothin'. H-hi I-I'm Emille- er sorry n-no. I mean Emi-"

"Emily Whitebutt?" The vixen narrowed her eyes. "The wolverine poet? I think I've heard of you..."

"N-no m-my name is Emille. Er- no relation to poweh-tree, poetry, er yes. Also a Watba, n-not whatever the other thing was."

"Oh." The vixen frowned and began to turn away. "Well that's a shame. I like a good poem."





[/spoiler]


Now obviously these apps aren't something I'd submit as they are now. But I think it's a nice showing of where I am with first drafts and apps. I'm sort of still brainstorming as I'm going along. For example a finished Bucky app would have a more centered narrative arc rather than being the product of whatever dialogue I just thought of. Both Bucky and Whitebutt are mostly made up as I go along and as such have yet to develop clearly. But they were fun and I might have to use them in something at some point...

This was a lot of fun and I thank Matra for holding this creative whirlpool!

[Wednesdays Child]

Process:

Well, I very much already knew what I wanted to write. I spent the first couple of minutes of the challenge casting around for ideas (and having a very cursory wiki for certain necessary supporting facts) to give me a somewhat fleshed character with a somewhat fleshed foundation. And then I just sat and wrote.

And after twenty words my son exploded.

An hour later, after he'd gone to bed, I gave myself 25 more minutes and wrote the below.



[spoiler=Egbert Claybore, Mole Seafarer]
"Ole Maggie Cleaver, Oi calls thee. Oi begs thee, 'elp Oi t' be serpint in these ruffy waters."

Egbert Claybore sat in front of a wooden shrine, no taller than a baby vole, in his cabin. Incense cut with earth from home smouldered in a tiny terracotta bowl that sat beneath a rough clay approximation of a mole.

"Come on, Eggy. Prayer, really? Look, if you're that worried, we'll just go over the numbers again, alright matey?"

The mole scowled at his workmate, then reached and placed two foreclaws reverently on the clay figure's forehead. "Oi thanks thee, Ole Maggie Cleaver. May Oi carve moi parth straight 'n' true, burr."

He stood, stomped over to his workmate. "Awright, thou gurt oaf. Go ovver them numbers again, aye? Oop on deck. May'aps th' sea breeze'll give us'n's some perspecktive."

The air bit hard. Egbert's breath turned to mist and was whisked away to the horizon, where the sea looked entirely wrong. He and his otter workmate stood at the prow of the Clarity and spent a little time talking and pointing and nodding.

"Look, Oi appreciates thy time. But et's not going t'elp Oi get shut o'this feeling Oi dun forgot somethin'. Get thyself i'th'warm, an Oi'll 'ave a think."

The otter nodded and withdrew below deck, grumbling something about moles not being allowed to tell otters what to do at sea.

Egbert chuckled to himself.

"Is all looking well, wot?" The hare captain, standing ready, maintaining as hares so often did perfect discipline in the face of the bone-deep chill and the brutal wind.

"One larst point check, zurr. Loike t'do it moiself, that Oi would."

"Very well!" The military bark. "Shout when ready, we'll stay warm as best we can, wot?"

"Wot wot indeed. Boi okey," Egbert lowered his voice to complain. "These 'ares d'n'arf milk they'm accents, bo urr."

And he checked the vessel, taking itinerary of his design for what might well be the very last time. The great curved prow of burn-welded iron, honeycombed ribs beneath to let the ship use every bit of its weight to crush the ice sheets ahead of it. Where the figurehead should have been, a great lance of mahogany and steel, held aloft by scaffold and ropes and counterweights in such a way that even if the Clarity tried to break apart a berg too grand to chisel through, all the breaking force would be taken instead by the cantilever assemblies. Where the sails should have been, instead great whirling millvanes, turning the brutal frozen gales into chain motion which was turned again into paddlewheel spin by the great machinery below decks.

"All clear, zurr! We'm ready!"

"Alright chaps! You heard the mole! To your stations! Gearing mechanism to full ahead, keep her steady! And pray, to whatever spirits inform your lives, that we make it to Northvale in one piece!"

"Ole Maggie Cleaver, who guides moi diggin' claws, Oi prays to thee-"

The Clarity leapt forward, and charged hard for the great ice sheets that separated the dock cities of Northvale and Peron Tam.



The Result / What Would I Change:

I'm pretty happy with what's here, for 25 minutes writing. But immediately the following comes to mind:

Build much more atmosphere; hit hard with the fact that they're sailing around ice sheets. Dig deep into the ideas attached to Ole Maggie Cleaver, the smells and sensations of home standing against the bleak cold.
Dig further into Egbert's workmate otter friend. Who is he, why's he here, how did these two end up together working on such a mad project?
Dig further into the hare captain, and the fleet they work for. Who's commissioned the icebreaker work and why? What promises have been made to the world at large about a better trade relationship between Northvale and Peron Tam? Some beasts will be skeptical and others supportive; explore the politics and surface it in just a couple of small ways throughout the app.

[/spoiler]

So yes, I hope you enjoyed! I enjoyed writing it!