Plot Bunny!

I know every aspiring author's had one. That cute little rascal of a plot rabbit that slips out of the game bag of your mind and just starts running. Well, one escaped last Tuesday, started running, disappeared behind a bush, and reappeared this morning. And I think I'm going to have to chase him down... which is unfortunate, considering the three or four more mature rabbits I am currently trying to grow with large helpings of caffeine cabbage and creative carrots. But he's just too interesting to let go!

So I started out on his trail this morning, and pretty soon found signs enough to begin tracking him down. This is what I found:

My name is Arson. But only a few folk call me that. To most, I am simply the Stallion-burn. And though this tale is not about me as much as it is about another, it began with me, and I was there when it ended. The place was the Levelcourt, the time late summer. My trial before the Conclave had just begun.

“Arson, sometime called the Stallion-burn, you are brought before the Conclave today, on the third of Summerfall, to answer charges brought against you by the people of Cloudford. These include arson of public and private buildings, thievery of private goods, destruction of private and public property, and the assault of three freeborn. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

The court erupted in angry shouts and cries.

“Say for himself? The criminal can say nothing for himself!”

“He does not deserve the right to speak at all!”

“He is guilty, there is proof enough!”

“Silence!” thundered the judge, bringing his gauntleted fist down with a crash on his podium. “Let the accused speak!”

I said nothing. There was nothing to be said. I was guilty.

“As the accused has nothing to say, I hereby charge him guilty, and sentence him to twenty-nine lashes in the public square.”

A muttering filled the open-air court. Evidently most folk thought my sentence far too light.

“Your honor, if I may speak?”

The clear voice cut through the low murmurs in a way that could not be denied.

“Name, master freeborn?”

“Marcel, Fox-brave.”

I made no movement to see the face of the speaker, but the voice was young.

“As is written on the walls of the Hope-Chamber, it is the right of any freeborn to take the punishment of a criminal on himself. I now exercise that right, and ask that the twenty-nine lashes be placed on my back instead.”

The crowd gasped, and any attempt at remaining stoic on my part fled as I whirled around to face the speaker. It was a young girl.

Coincidentally, this is the first time I've ever used first person. Well, at least since my very first story... which I try to forget usually... :)