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Story Notes:
Written for a contest (on another site) that required the following words to be used in a story totalling under 1000 words: spaghetti, provision, chaotic, adapt, swoon, fragile, agitate, realm, restrain, elitist.
The scene in the south field was chaotic: Sam Gamgee was chasing Tom Cotton around the big tree, wielding large stick. Young Mik Cotton was trying to pacify his agitated sister.

“We boys can’t very well be doing the swooning, Rosie.”

“I don’t care! I’m not cooking the provisions and fainting and doing nothing else, just ‘cos I’m a girl.”

“Come on, Rosie,” Sam turned to reason with her, “You have to swoon, so we noble warriors can come rescue you.”

“Fine.” Rosie collapsed inelegantly, crushing the fragile grass beneath her. “But I’m not doing the cooking.”

“Mik, you rescue her now, then you have to do the cooking, ‘cos she’s still recovering,” he adapted. “Meanwhile I’m still fighting off the evil goblins.”

“I’m not doing the cooking,” objected Mik, “that’s girls’ work.”

“There ain’t any girls to do the cooking when you go adventuring in furrin realms,” Sam reminded him, “Everyone has to take a turn.”

“Well, why’s it my turn? I always get the boring bits.”

“Well, we’ll all go fight the dragon then,” decided Sam, fitting actions to his words as he hefted his stick and began walking.

“Someone had better restrain young Master Gamgee or you children will be off on an adventure,” observed Bilbo Baggins as he walked past.

“’S’only a game, sir,” protested Sam, “we ain’t really chasing dragons, we know they don’t exist.”

“You went and had an adventure last year,” accused Rosie, “how come we can’t?”

“I think you’ll find that adventurers can be rather elitist when choosing their companions, lass. You lot are still a little young.”

“What’s elitist?” asked Mik.

“It means choosy, don’t it Mister Bilbo?” replied Sam.

“That’s right, Sam. Now I had better be on my way. Mr Frodo is waiting for me.” Bilbo walked on toward Bag End.

“I wish I could go see the elves, like Mister Bilbo,” said Sam dreamily.

“No you don’t,” said Rosie, “’cos you said this morning you wish your gaffer made spaghetti like my ma’s and you don’t get spaghetti on adventures.”

“I’d rather see the elves than eat your ma’s spaghetti,” retorted Sam, “Anyway, I ain’t likely to get either.”

“Leave him be, Rosie,” said Tom, “Let’s go fight the dragon.”
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