Canada and the Moon

In creativity class today, we redid an interesting exercise (which we also did last week, though with a different group).

Each participant wrote two random nouns on two separate slips of paper and threw them into a pile. Each participant then withdrew - at random - two slips of paper (not his own) and the resulting word combinations ("The noun1 and the noun2") listed on the blackboard.

The exercise was a demonstration of the human need to extract order from chaos and the use of metaphor to do so: each participant picked a word combination on which to base a piece of creative writing (short story, poem, whatever 'voice' one wished to use).

I came up with:

Hoofbeats echoed on the empty cobblestone street as the draughthorse pulled to a panting halt outside the penny hostel. A minute passed before the heavyset old man, wrapped in a thick, long overcoat to ward off the brisk autumn night, heaved himself out of the carriage and into the deserted street.

There was a pained - almost rueful - look upon his face as he raised an arm at the door of the hostel. A second's pause, then: rap, rap, rap. The man's hand trembled ever so slightly as he banged his knuckles against the oaken door. Inside, there was a stir, the the sound of bare feet padding against an uncarpeted floor. That heavy oak door swung open of its own accord as the latch was released from within; it its place stood a slim, young Native wearing traditional garb.

A blank stare gave way to a look of instant recognition on his finely chiseled features, and he bowed his head slightly.

"Monsieur Lapierre !"

The old man touched a finger to the brim of his hat as the moon seemed to shift ever so slightly behind him, shifting his silhouette to something more sinister.

"Kahwanese, I bring grim news. Kanata is no more. The village is... conquered."