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 |  All the GoT stuff, 2024. |
| Apparently this is going to be a load of writing of various types - stories, poems, reviews and, no doubt, just about anything else you can think of. I'll probably update this when I know more. |
| West Oklahoma When I first came to the states, I lived for a while in Oklahoma. It was no more than a few months but, in that short time, I developed a deep love for the landscape of the west of the state. Out there, around Lawton, the great plains hold sway but there is a ridge that heads west from the town, proceeding all the way in ever lowering steps to the border with the Texas panhandle. Apart from the hills gradually disappearing into the flatness as one travels west, the plains stretch in a huge vastness and expanse of bleached blue sky to the horizon. The towns are few along that road, little places that time forgot and left in the fifties. Houses lean away from the winds and storefronts are decorated with rusting and peeled advertisements for Coke and Burma-Shave, the dry dust is ever present and wooden boards skeletal in the heat. Out on the open road, the harvested cotton fields spread their white and floating remnants over the fence to line the edges with litter like plastic bags. In places the tumbleweed collects against those same fences, trapped by the wind until it changes. Over the border, the road becomes black and well tended, farms are neat and prosperous, and Oklahoma becomes a distant memory. Yet still it calls, with dreams of a simpler life and beliefs that never change. The plains always remind me of the endless distances of Africa and its good red earth spread like a tablecloth on its vast plateau. There was something about Oklahoma that unites with my memories of Africa and turns and twists with it in a dance of nostalgia. The cultures were so similar in the fifties and sixties, as well as the land being alike. I remember so well the drive-in restaurants and theatres, things that made sense in lands with so much space and little rain. Gone now from both of them, but there is much else that remains. Once again, I turn out to be a creature of too many homes and none that will really own me. House Martell Word count: 357 For The North Remembers, Western World Task 48 Prompt: Write about a State or Country you like. Highlights, culture, etc. |
Battle Diamante Kursk vast empty strive fight war steel steppe tank dance wheel turn fire burnt ash death House Martell Line count: 7, word count: 16 Form: Diamante For "Game of Thrones"  Westeros, Citadel Task 109Prompt: Write a Diamonte poem about a battle, any kind. Note: Kursk was the largest tank battle ever. It took place in World War II after the defeat of German forces in the Battle of Stalingrad in 1943. |
| Holdfast’s Big Case Holdfast leaned back and crossed his ankles on the desk in front of him. It had taken a while, but he felt at last that his private eye business was well established, his reputation growing and the future reasonably secure. He existed largely by tailing various unsavoury or sleazy individuals through a succession of bars and hangouts in the toughest parts of town, but sooner or later, the first case that called upon his hidden talents of perception and deduction would come along. And after that, who knew? The glamorous world of jewel thieves and cat burglars spread its riches before him and he dreamed of the time when he made the breakthrough to stardom. He was awoken by a pounding at the door to his shabby office. Before he could remove his feet from the desk, the door burst open to reveal a large, red-faced man in a sharp suit. The fellow strode to the desk and and boomed at the detective, now with his feet on the floor and trying to wriggle his way into a more upright posture. “Are you the guy running this outfit?” Holdfast straightened his tie. “Er yes, I’m Holdfast of the Holdfast Detective Agency.” “Good,” said the man. “Saw your advert in the paper this morning and I have a job for you. I want you to follow my wife.” “Ah, I see. Not a problem but I’m going to need some details.” “Of course you are,” said the man. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a leather billfold, slapping it down on the desk with aplomb. “Everything you need to know is in there. And the name’s Grimsby, by the way, Arnold Grimsby.” Holdfast immediately paid a lot more attention. Arnold Grimsby was the town’s millionaire, owner of several businesses and a man of ostentatious wealth. Although it sounded like the normal domestic troubles type of case, it was bound to pay well. “Shall we discuss payment, Mr.Grimsby?” “What’s your usual rate for this kind of job?” Holdfast answered with a slightly inflated version of the truth. “Fair enough,” said Grimsby. “I’ll double that if you can guarantee you’ll drop all other jobs for mine.” “Done,” replied Holdfast, with the knowledge that it shouldn’t be too hard a stipulation, as he had no other jobs. When Grimsby had departed, Holdfast studied the file. It contained a photo of the lady concerned, a stunner by anyone’s definition, names and addresses of connections and places normally visited, and a description of her usual daily routine, as far as it was known. Holdfast’s task was merely to follow and record her movements, then report back to Grimsby. He locked the office and set out for the diner where the lady was known to take most of her lunches. Once there, he settled himself into a corner where he could see the entire room and waited. In time, she appeared, all five foot five of her, blonde, statuesque and dressed in practical jeans and sweater that still managed to look expensive. He watched her eat and then followed her out to her car. Several days later, he had trailed the lady through all her known haunts, seen nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary, and was becoming thoroughly bored with the whole thing. He was on the verge of giving up and making a final report to Grimsby, when she at last changed her routine. She drove down to the marina, Holdfast trickling along in her wake. Out into the maze of piers and yachts she went, while Holdfast sneaked from one hiding place to the next behind her. And she stopped at a particularly large and pristine boat, gleaming in polished finery. Leaning out to reach the hull, she knocked. A man poked his head out of the hatch and saw her, then gestured for her to come aboard. He emerged and assisted her across the gangplank and they disappeared below. Holdfast had been kept busy, photographing the procedure, but now he settled back to wait. It was a long wait. When they finally emerged and Mrs. Grimsby departed for her car, Holdfast followed and then returned to his office. He spent the remainder of the afternoon typing out his report. That evening, he phoned the number Grimsby had left as his contact. A voice he did not recognise answered. “Grimsby residence.” There was a drawl in the delivery that spoke unmistakably of a butler. “Arnold Grimsby, please,” said Holdfast. “Mr Grimsby is not currently available. If you could leave a message, I shall relay it to him at his convenience.” “Just tell him Holdfast called.” Holdfast put the phone down and reread his report. He made a few detail changes, then stood and gazed out the window at the nighttime street below. The same, dreary view, lit into an orange glow in the streetlights, stared back at him. He waited a while longer, gave up and went home. The next day, he was sitting at his desk when Grimsby burst in, his usual bluster and energy nearly making Holdfast fall from his chair. The report was produced and Grimsby settled long enough to read it quickly. He gave no sign of satisfaction or otherwise, merely grunting occasionally as he read. When he finished, he reached into his coat and produced a chequebook, scribbled quickly into it, then tore off a cheque and handed it to Holdfast. “Very good, he said. “Didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know, but that’s what I wanted to hear.” Holdfast was astonished. “You’re not angry?” Grimsby barked a quick laugh. “Hah, not at all. You just confirmed that my wife bought the yacht for my birthday from a man named Bertie Leeman. I just wanted to be sure she wasn’t being taken for a ride by some wheeler dealer. And Bertie’s a good man.” “I see,” said Holdfast. Grimsby laughed again. “Dirty mind, Holdfast. Shouldn’t let your work get to you.” House Martell Word count: 994 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Western World Prompt: 3Prompt: You are a private eye in the heart of the city who is often tasked with scoping out adulterers, people who skip out on their girlfriends, or shady business deals. When a young woman comes to you, teary eyed, and tells you her story, you... |
| The Nurse She’s here again middle of the night and I groggy trying to be cheerful in answer to requests turn over, take these her good humour impenetrable though I’m only one of a hundred old men with tubes attached grumpy at not being at home and disturbed at night to swallow this and drink that hands flashing in practised skill with tiny cup and little pill and then she’s off, trolley ahead and eyes on the next on the list. I’ve done night shifts, I know the tiredness determined will to stay the endless hours my patients machines, but the same attendance, the same relief at end of shift. House Martell Line count: 19, Word count: 108 Free verse For "Game of Thrones" House of Black & White Door 122. The Nurse Write a poem (any style) about a nurse However you want to approach the subject 150 words max. 20 lines max. |
| Kiya’s Lunch “What, she doesn’t remember what she had for lunch? But that was only a couple of hours ago. How can she have forgotten so soon?” My memory is bad enough but, with a little effort, I’m sure I could have remembered the events of the day so far. Gaby ~ Keeper Of The Realm  shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe she has more important things to think about. But it doesn’t matter - it’s still your job to bring the chef something so that he can prepare a very special dish for her to eat now. You’d better get busy.”Always the bridegroom, never the bride, I thought. No wait, that can’t be right. But it sounded right for the situation, somehow. I’ve been sent on some pretty strange quests in my time but never before to find the magic ingredient for a special meal. Not knowing what the chef had in mind was not going to help either. It would be pointless to rush around in square circles, looking for the ideal thing, I reasoned. I needed to have a definite goal in mind, some specific thing that could form the basis of a rather special treat for the young lady. This required careful thought and consideration. I sat down to ponder the matter. And promptly fell asleep. When I awoke, a few minutes later, a word had entered my mind. “Avocado,” it said. “Don’t mind if I do,” I replied. “If you do what?” “Have a cardo, of course.” “No, you idiot. Av-OH-cado.” Now, that wasn’t a bad idea. My mind wandered back to my father’s property in Zimbabwe and the avocado tree that grew at the bottom of the garden. Those avos were the best I’ve ever tasted and the largest as well. Oh, those were the days. They had spoiled me for the pathetic versions on sale in the northern hemisphere, however. Nothing could approach the wonders of the avos from that tree. Unless it were… An idea marched through my brain and I realised that this might be possible after all. I found a convenient cell phone and dialled the Sleepy Lizard Avocado Farm Shop in Florida. Yes, there really is a place called that and its owner has videos on YouTube telling you all you ever wished to know about avos, including the best varieties to buy. This has been an unsponsored recommendation to point you to a source that will advise you on how best to experience the wonders of the avocado. But I digress. They confirmed that they could indeed deliver a selection of avos to the chef and even, by dint of a little magic, ensure that these reached the chef in time for him to prepare a suitable surprise for her ladyship. And I’ll bet you didn’t know she was a nautical lass (think about it). I paid for the order from my little stock of gift points and went back to sleep. House Martell Word count: 489 For "Game of Thrones" House of Black & White, Door # 12Prompt: 1. Kiya's Lunch Before the game, Kiya said she doesn't remember what she had for lunch Check out "Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Want to participate?" Write a (500 words or less) story as to what you brought her to eat If you are iKïyå§ama-House Targaryen , you have to give your lunch to someone else! |
| A Green Balloon A few days ago, a green balloon floated by my window. I rushed to the window to see what was happening. Far below, a small child was crying in the street as his mother attempted to comfort him. I ran downstairs, out the front door and around the corner to Fred’s Toy Shop. “Quick, have you got any green balloons?” I asked. Fred sold me one and I dashed out of the shop to find the child and his mother. I gave him the balloon. He burst into tears again. “He didn’t like that colour the first time,” she said. House Martell Word count: 100 For "Game of Thrones" Westeros, Citadel Task 95Prompt: Write two Micro-Fiction stories in exactly 100 words. Use the following prompts: Story #1: A black cat; Story #2: A green balloon floats by your window. |
| A Black Cat Lucky enjoyed living up to his nickname. Although not exactly superstitious, he was aware that it would be foolish to tempt fate. You would not find him showing off to his friends by walking underneath a ladder, for instance. Thus it was, when he saw a black cat crossing his intended path one day, he immediately decided to use a different route to his ultimate destination. His brother, Buddy, on his way to identifying the body, decided that it was mere coincidence that Lucky’s changed path took him past the zoo, where a black panther had escaped only minutes beforehand. House Martell Word count: 100 For "Game of Thrones" Westeros, Citadel Task # 95Prompt: Write two Micro-Fiction stories in exactly 100 words. Use the following prompts: Story #1: A black cat; Story #2: A green balloon floats by your window. |
| Door # 9 One morning I woke up and was stranded somewhere on a deserted island. Which I found to be a strange position to be in, particularly as I’d just walked through a door. I knew, of course that this course of action could result in certain unspecified demands of me, but I’d not expected a complete and unprecedented change of locale. I decided that the situation was best met by using my imagination. Beginning at the beginning, I should state that I am still Beholden and, well you may ask, Beholden to whom? That would be you, of course, since the admonition is clearly addressed to everyone. No responsibility attached, however. Then I must deal with the question of how I ended up here. That would be easily dealt with by pointing out that walking through a door has already been mentioned. But I shall go further and explain that I am compelled by, let us call them, “The Powers That Be,” to go through a series of doors to assist my team. Not that it’s my team, as such, but I do own to be a member and to be subject to the wishes of my capting, therefore. I could go into a lot of detail about the team but it would not really be relevant to this particular story, would it? Let us keep moving. Well may you ask whether I am alone! Now that I’ve had a chance to look around, it seems that I am indeed so. And, though you haven’t asked, I feel led to describe the island as standard fantasy tropical, with white sandy beaches, coconut palms towering over lush vegetation, and sun beating down from the inevitable cloudless blue sky. Even up here, on the highest spot of the island, I can hear the surf whispering upon those sandy beaches This vantage point also allows me a perfect view of an unknown ship approaching what I am beginning to regard as my island. What, there’s going to be none of that Robinson Crusoe thing with appropriate digging for clams, building of makeshift houses, and chasing wild pigs through the undergrowth? It’s a sad day when a cliché proves insufficient for the task. But caution must be the order of the moment - there is no reason to assume that these ship owners will be the cause of my rescue. Why, they might be pirates or cannibals or even lost themselves. My best plan is to get down to the beach that they seem to be aiming for, stay hidden, and watch their actions until their nature is more obviously revealed. So that’s what I do. From my carefully chosen hiding place, I can see that the ship is a three masted sailing ship of late 18th Century design. That does increase the chance of the crew being pirates but it does, also, give us a vague date for these events. It also means that the door must have been a portal into the past, which is interesting. Time travel as well as teleportation in space - amazing. The ship is anchored in the bay now and, as I watch, I see that a boat is being lowered into the clear and aquamarine waters. Then the crew pile into the boat and begin to row toward the shore. There is a large object stowed in the middle of the boat which the crew unload once they have reached the shore. It is, just as I had surmised, a trunk, wooden and bound with stout metal bands. It seems I have stumbled upon a group of pirates about to bury their treasure on this very island. The odd thing is that the pirates seem in no hurry to get on with digging a hole for their ill gotten gains (there, slipped a cliché in at last). Some of them are walking along the beach (and coming uncomfortably close to my hiding place at times) while others have taken off their shoes and are wading around in the water. And no one seems to be the captain, although there is one guy sitting on the trunk as though loth to leave it unattended. But the crew seem to have had their fun now, for they are assembling around the trunk again. To my surprise, they open it and, instead of gold and jewels, they produce from it a large blanket which they proceed to spread upon the sand. Then they begin to empty the contents of the trunk on to the blanket. It’s all sorts of food and drink and very soon they are all sitting around, filling their faces with the most appetising stuff I’ve seen in a long time. It dawns on me. I am watching a picnic! So much for buried treasure and all that. But it does raise the question of whether pirates have picnics or not. And, having considered the matter, I am inclined to think not. So my initial impression may have been a little hasty. Perhaps I should just risk it and saunter out there to join the fun (I am feeling a bit peckish, after all). I might even be able to persuade these fellows to give me a lift back to civilisation. Hopefully, the time travel thing would fix itself at some point along the way. In fact, it seems I don’t really have an option since you’re insisting that a bargain be struck. Throwing fate to the rather pleasant tropical breeze, I step out into the open and walk along the beach toward the picnic. There is a chorus of surprise and questions as they rise to greet me, and I feel a little foolish claiming to be a castaway, dressed not in rags and unbearded as I am. But they accept my story without demur (perhaps they’re working to a script too) and in very short order, I’m sitting with them and tucking into the fare. You’ll just have to take my word for it that it was very tasty and welcome. I’ll not deny that there may have been a percentage of alcohol in the drink so that the party became increasingly jolly as time went on. We spent the afternoon sleeping off the effects in the shade of the coconut trees. As the sun was going down behind the very height on which I’d first set foot on the island, a fellow who I had identified as most likely to be the leader approached me. “I was thinking we might make a deal,” says he. “Fire away,” says I. “We’re prepared to rescue you and return you to civilisation on one condition.” “Which is?” I asked. “That you sign this slip of paper as proof that we really did find a castaway on a desert island and help him to get back home.” He handed me the paper and a pen that looked suspiciously modern. I mean, a ballpoint in the 17th Century? Doesn’t seem at all possible. I gave him a knowing look. “What, you too? Some sort of challenge and a task to do, a bit like my doors?” “Got it in one,” he replied. I signed and that was that. The funny thing was that, the moment my foot left the sand as I stepped into the boat, I found myself tumbling out through Door 9, back into the real world. It seems that all I had to do to leave the island was step off it. House Martell Word count: 1,245 For "Game of Thrones" House of Black & White, Door # 9Task: 1. Use your imagination Who are you? How did you end up there? Are you alone? 2. An unknown ship approaches the island Who is on it? Do you stay to meet the crew or run? What are they bringing ashore? 3. A bargain is struck! Who made the deal? What kind of deal? Do you get off the island or stay? Or something completely different? |
| Potion # 10 I choose Potion # 10 and I name it “Reality.” Comprised mainly of a clear eagle eye and a bagfull of sense (the common kind - rare won’t do), Reality is able to bring things sharply into focus within seconds, dispelling idle dreams and contradictory thoughts as though they had never existed. Whoever takes this potion, nay elixir, will be as witty, sharp and accurate a critic as ever trod the boards at WdC. Be careful how you use it for the bottle contains only enough for 24 hours. |
| Door 7 1. Invent something useful What has been the rudest invention of all time? The answer must be the machine that interrupts you any time it wants to, regardless of what you are doing or where you are. It’s initial inception was bad enough, but it has since been “improved” so that you can take it with you wherever you go and, therefore, you are never free from its high-handed insistence on being attended to. I refer, of course, to the phone. In its mobile phone form it is even proving to be the downfall of our civilisation. The thing needs a complete redesign. For a start, it must be taught that we will no longer tolerate loud bell ringing, infantile tune playing on some farty instrument, or just plain silly noises as notifications that it has something to say. From now on, the phone is going to learn a thing called manners. When it wishes to speak, it will cough once, politely and into a fist that we will design into it (something like “ahem” would be fine). It will then remain quiet until we deign to reply. Should we ask what it wants, it should give details such as who is calling and the gist of the message. Only when we give permission should it continue into its true function, the carrying of messages between its owner and another human being. If, rather than asking, we tell it that we’re busy, it should shut up and send a message to the caller that we might contact them later, when it’s convenient. Otherwise the phone will be happy to record a message. Now that the phone has learned some manners, it becomes a useful means of remote communication again. To ensure that it never again manages to attain dominance over us, it will be stripped of its stupid little games, advertisers will be sent away or told to try knocking at the servant’s entrance (without being told where that is, of course), and the phone will be supplied with a personal minder program that monitors its thoughts for rebellious ideas and prevents AI from ever getting near it. It would be so easily done, after all. Word count: 362 2. Make changes Funnily enough, only recently I wrote a blog post on how to answer the question, “If you ruled the world, what changes would you make?” My answer was that I would be a fool to make any changes, since I am as human as the next person. And humans make mistakes, especially when trying to improve or “fix” the world. The sad fact is that, no matter how good the intention, changes invariably make things worse through unexpected consequences. Merely to answer your question, therefore, and with the understanding that I know it could never happen, I would make a law that every child be taught to recite these words every day: “I am human and I do not know how to make the world any better than it is. I hereby promise never to avail myself of the possibility of changing a thing, even if the opportunity presents itself.” I leave you with this thought: Every step on the road to hell can be defined as progress. Word count: 168 3. Time Time was not invented 5,000 years ago. What did happen, possibly around that long ago, was the measurement of time. And that is what could be changed. Time itself is a function of the universe and cannot be changed without divine intervention. However, we could, for instance, make our time measurement go metric. That would get rid of these messy numbers like seven days, four weeks, twelve months, and twenty-four hours. So we could have hundred hour days, ten days in a week, and ten months in the year. Time would fly by with hours that short! But it wouldn’t work at all well, of course. It wouldn’t fit the real intervals, so that we’d have to have leap days,months and years. It would so chaotic that any benefit gained from the decimalisation of time calculations would be overwhelmed by the constant changes and adjustments necessary. In the end, it’s like evolution theory. Did you know that, for every mutation that works, there are millions that don’t and so are erased by extinction? Probably only 99.99% of mutations are beneficial and so survive. And that’s even more than the 89% of statistics that are made up on the spot. Change is not necessarily a good thing, especially when it’s self-induced. Word count: 213 |
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