%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |  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. |
| 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 18th 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 |
| Submarine Ping the steel walls close in sweating with the breath of bodies crammed in sardines in darkest deeps sunless and pressing the ocean tightens grip Ping trembles the riveted floor the engines urgent belly expelling water as harboured air forced into the tanks the dial creeps round its sweep a promise to the surface Ping pressure easing now metal singing in relief human tension easing as up periscope rings and the smooth cylinder rises to offer its single eye to sighted captain’s will Ping then up she rises rolling now in boisterous swell first conning tower then curving flanks to break the swirling seas hatch released with splash and scent of wild sea air. House Martell Line count: 32, word count: 114 For {{item:got} The North Remembers, Under the Sea 46 Prompt: First time in a submarine. |
| Dawn There’s nothing quite like being trapped in a soap. It’s not that there aren’t other occupations when every day seems identical and you meet the same people all the time in your tiny little neighbourhood. Swapping round the faces, forming new patterns of relationship, only to come round to the scenario that looks oh so familiar. But the soap is king of the interminable. The only escape seems to be to die. I thought so anyway, until a few days ago. That was when I had a really weird experience I think of as the glitch. It was as though I’d frozen for a moment, everything gone black, and then, when time returned, the script had missed out on a few lines and I had to improvise until I caught up. That was only the first time. I put it down to something I’d eaten and soon forgot all about it. But then it happened again. A bit longer this time, even though it wasn’t quite so dark. More like falling into this sorta grey mist. It must have lasted longer as well because I was further behind when I regained consciousness. Geoff Ginglick persuaded me to see the doctor about it. The on-set one, of course. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. He poked and prodded me for a bit, listened to my heart through that stethoscope he’s always wearing, and shone a light in my eyes. Says he can’t find anything wrong. I wasn’t surprised, seeing that he hadn’t done much of an examination at all. But, fair enough, I figured it couldn’t be too bad in that case and was just about to leave, and he leans over to say into my ear, “I’m not really a doctor, you know.” Actually I didn’t know that. I was going to ask him what he meant but he was out of that room like a scared rabbit. Haven’t seen him around since. What was he doing in that case? Pretending to be a doctor? Didn’t make sense. Well, you know me - I’m not one to worry myself to death, so I put it on the back burner until I had time to see a real doctor. Like we have loads of time to ourselves in a soap. Of course, it wasn’t long before it happened again. Everything going along nicely and then, whoosh, I’m in grey country again. Bit lighter that time, and I begin to see shapes moving about in the fog. But I can’t move, it’s like I’m glued to the spot, and then whoosh again, I’m back in the soap. And way behind in the conversation. People were beginning to notice and Kathy came up to me afterward and asked if I was okay. She reckoned I’d had some sort of a stroke and couldn’t say a word for a couple of minutes. I fobbed her off. But that wasn’t going to last forever. It seemed to be getting worse and now even I was beginning to worry. Started thinking about where to go to find a decent doctor and then dropped into a really big glitch. This time everything was much lighter and I could see that the shapes were people. And I could move! I walked toward them and their faces coalesced out of the murk. I could recognise them, I tell you. I knew them. Kathy was there and Mark with old Harriman in the background. It occurred to me that it was just like what was happening when I flipped out. They were all carrying on as if nothing had happened to me, chatting away and laughing the way they always do. I grabbed Kathy’s arm and she shook my hand loose. “What the hell you doing, Bob? You’ll ruin the scene.” “I don’t understand,” I said. “What’s going on? And why can’t I think of how to get back to you guys?” “Are you having one of your turns?” she asks, and then Mark leans in and says, “You bloody idiot - you know we can’t do another take. You’re wrecking the scene.” ‘The scene?’ I think. ‘What scene?’ I look around and realise there’s people I’ve never noticed out there. People with earphones on and carrying big cameras and stuff, booms with microphones on the end and loads of weird gear. There’s some guy just getting out of a chair, face all red, and he’s shouting something as loud as he can. Only I can’t hear as I’m fading, fading, and everything’s getting misty again until… I’m back with real life and everyone’s stopped and is looking at me. Mark grabs me and yells, “You damn fool, do you realise you’re behaving like a drunkard? Waving your arms about and asking weird questions? What’s wrong with you , man?” And I’m confused and don’t know what’s happening and then it hits me like a freight train in full blast. This isn’t reality. Shit, we even call it the soap. We’re all just characters in a play, man. I’m shouting the words at Mark, tearing my arm from his grasp and trying to get through to him, anyone, that there’s a real world out there and we don’t have to be trapped in this farce any longer, we can be free and our own persons and find something worthwhile to do with our lives, if only we let go of this pretence and make believe. But it’s too late and they’re fading away and the light is becoming stronger. And my heart leaps for joy. I’m going back to life at last. I’m free of the soap, free of lines written for someone who doesn’t exist, I’m truly, truly free! House Martel Word count: 948 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Mirror MirrorPrompt: 18 Write a story about a character who is experiencing glitches in their reality. Prompt: 36 Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters. |
| House of Black and White, Door 6 Tell us a little about yourself Born in Coventry, England, in 1948, I consider myself more English than the English, mainly because I grew up in Africa, where the only defence against the heat was to imagine oneself designed for a much cooler climate. The result was a romantic view of the island of my birth that was outdated even as it took root in my head at a very early age. When I left Africa in 1976 and returned “home” (as we called England in the colonies), my eyes were opened in unexpected ways. It was indeed steeped in history and the physical evidence of events going back thousands of years. The countryside was greener than I had thought possible (in Africa, grass is a dirty yellow) and the towns were absolutely filled with people just like me - slightly withdrawn and mindful of their privacy, long-suffering but ferocious when finally goaded to action, and utterly convinced that their sense of humour was better than anyone else’s. It was also a land of incredibly pointless strikes by the workers, politics that centred on the price of a pint of beer, and the famous class system. On this last, I found that I fitted none of the definitions of class and so was acceptable to all the various shades and nuances of British society. My accent, the product of the vast mixture of tongues in southern Africa, years of elocution lessons insisted upon by my parents (who were horrified to realise that I was “going native”), and time spent in different countries, was unplaceable to the Brits (I had one guess at Antarctica, which I thought pretty imaginative) and so I had a free pass to anywhere. But it also meant that, in some ways, I was a stranger in my own land. It saddened me at times that, in spite of my fierce love for the land of my birth, I did not really fit in. I was happiest in the company of working class people but even then, there were things I had to hold back for fear of distancing myself from them. Not that it was difficult - we Brits are trained to keep ourselves to ourselves. I ramble on too long. You wanted to know about goals and aspirations and that’s easily dealt with, since I’m far too old to have any truck with such things. I have practised to be content all my life and I’m pretty good at it now. And I should shut up now since you said, “tell us a little.” 2. Pick a member from your team and tell us about them. I chose Lornda  , House Martell leader and the one I call capting, my capting. That’s just my little joke - I only know her a little through WdC and now GoT, but we get on very well. She has been endlessly patient with my stumbling around in the mists of GoT, explaining the complex and cheerfully encouraging the troops.Before GoT, I saw Lornda around and about in WdC but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I knew her well. Just by watching her, I knew that she was a tireless worker, dedicated to the task of helping others. She is, of course, a leader of the WdC SuperPower Reviewers Group, for which I have done all my reviewing over the last few years. In that role too, she is indefatigable and encouraging. What more can I say? She is indeed a worthy capting of House Martell! Oh, and I found out she’s Canadian. No wonder she’s so nice, eh. 3. Pick a member from an opposing team. Another Canadian! It’s Jayne  ’s turn for the spotlight. Applause, please.I first came to know Jaeyne through the live videos of the Quill Awards Ceremony when she and her fellow officials would sit in front of their monitors, dispensing justice and results to all and sundry. How we hung upon their words with anticipation! Jaeyne was, of course, quite dazzling in her finery, often changing during the breaks so that we were always impressed with her expression of haute couture as well as erudition. Since those days, I have come to know Jaeyne for her wit and intelligence, as well as her acknowledged talent as a writer. It is indeed an honour when she visits my humble blog to make a comment or two. Finally, I have to mention that her bio says she watches WILTY. That fact alone is enough to convince me of her excellent taste and insight. Bob Mortimer is the finest Englishman alive! House Martell Word count: 768 For "Game of Thrones" House of Black & White, Door 6 |
| The Invaders "Sammy, we need to talk about why you're here." Dr. Newman rolled a pencil in his fingertips as he watched the asylum's longest term inmate. Sammy looked away under his gaze. "You know why I'm here, Doc. It's because I'm crazy." "We need to be a bit more specific than that," said the doctor. "I can hardly write that as my medical opinion, now can I?" "Well, just say it's because I think you're all aliens then. That's crazy enough, isn't it?" Sammy tried to hide the sneer on his face but the doctor caught the expression and sighed. "Actually, Sammy, that is one of the things I want to discuss today. You've been with us since 1974 and I think it's time you got over this problem. Tell me again about these aliens of yours." Sammy shook his head. "What's the point, Doc? If you are aliens, you're not going to let me go. And, if you're not, anything I say confirms that I'm crazy. Let's just say I've changed my mind and I see the truth now." "But you haven't changed, have you, Sammy?" For a moment Sammy stared out of the window, wondering what was the right answer to the question. It was true that he was still convinced that the doctor, the staff and the inmates of the hospital were all aliens, but he was old and tired now; all he really wanted was to be allowed to leave and enjoy his last few years far away from the whole messy business. Crusades against alien invasion were all very well for a young man, fresh and full of hope. With age came the desire for peace and rest, a weakening of the need to save his race and planet. So how could he answer? The truth would ensure he lived out his days a prisoner but a lie would not be believed. It was the perfect paradox, a question without a correct answer. Turning back to Dr. Newman, Sammy shrugged and said, "You tell me; you're the doctor." There was silence then as the two regarded each other. They had known each other for so long and been through the story so many times that they could be said to be old friends, were it not that one considered the other a captor and a jailer. In the intervening years their relationship had gone from all-out war to a resigned acceptance that stalemate had been achieved and there was nothing more to be said. Their sessions became no more than old men's reminiscences of days gone by. Finally, the doctor broke the silence. "All right, Sammy, I think for once I will do the talking. It's time you heard my assessment of you anyway." He sat back in his armchair, steepled his fingers and began. "My opinion, Sammy, is that you still believe that we are aliens. I have seen nothing to convince me otherwise. And that fact alone is sufficient cause for me to keep you here until the day you die." He paused for a moment and then went on. "Which would be a pity in a way because I know that you're not insane. In fact, you're one of the most stable and intelligent people I know. It's rather like the old question: are you still paranoid if they really are out to get you? To which my answer would have to be no, since a belief in the truth must surely be evidence of sanity. You see, Sammy, the funny thing is that you're quite right. We are alien to this planet and you are the only human in the hospital." Doctor Newman waited for a reaction. But Sammy gave him none, still suspicious that this was a new trick to confuse him and put him off his guard. He stared back at the doctor and said nothing. And the other sighed and continued. "It's the truth, Sammy. We're through playing games with you; there's no longer any point in that. While you've been locked away, our numbers have multiplied and we have, as you would say, won. There's nothing you can do to stop us now. The war, if that's what it was, is over." Sammy had decided how to approach this and now he interrupted. "Okay, let's say for argument's sake that I was right all along and now you've decided to come clean. What I want to know is why? Why would you suddenly admit your plan to me, why this complete turn around?" "Ah," said the doctor, "I was coming to that. You see, when I said that we've won, that was something of an understatement, Sammy. The fact is that you're the only human left. On your own and as old as you are, you couldn't possibly hurt us. It just seemed that it was time to end our charade and let you go free." "You expect me to believe that?" Sammy was certain now that this was a psychiatrist's ploy to get inside his head. "How could I be the only human left? There's millions of us on this planet and you can't have killed us all. And why not kill me too and be done with it? It's just ridiculous, Doc, and I'm not buying it." Doctor Newman shrugged. "That was always your mistake, Sammy. You looked on us as an invading force and assumed we were here to wipe you out. That was never the intent. We needed humans to enable us to breathe this atmosphere and merely merged with them so that we became new creatures. It may seem a little invasive but really it's more of a mutually beneficial arrangement. The human side of us gets the benefits of our technology and we have been able to escape our dying home planet. Everybody wins." Here he looked sharply at Sammy. "Except you, of course. To be quite honest, you've been a pain in the neck to us with your refusal to see anything but evil in us. Oh, I'm not denying there was some resistance in a few, but they all gave in once they saw how much better a world we were building. And only Sammy Jenkins has beaten us with his obstinacy. You're a marvel, Sam; we've tried everything to break you down and still you resist." He shook his head in renewed wonder at this single human's determination to remain himself. "You're free to go. I think you've earned it." Sammy gave no sign of hearing the words he had longed for all the years of his captivity. He sat on in the chair, his mind racing as he tried to understand the devilish purpose behind the doctor's announcement. It made no sense. He was completely at their mercy; they could dispose of him any time they wanted to. So why this unlikely offer of freedom? Why the double bluff of admitting the truth and his sudden release? There had to be a trick in it somewhere but he could not imagine what they were up to this time. In the end, it seemed that there was nothing for it but to play along with them. If it amused them, he'd try to leave the hospital and then see what they had planned. No doubt he'd be back inside before he'd taken a dozen paces. Or dying in a gutter after serving as some twisted form of target practice. He was too tired to care anymore. "All right, Doc," he said, "I'll play the game with you. What do I do, just get up and leave?" Doctor Newman laughed. "That's the general idea, Sammy. If you call at the front desk, they have a suitcase for you with clothes and necessities in it. You'll need some money, of course, and we've prepared a wallet with cash and some credit cards for you. There's a phone box just outside the gate and you can call a taxi from there. I think you'll find that we've thought of everything to give you your life back. Even booked a room for you at the Hilton in town." "So that's it? I'm a free man again?" Sammy wanted so desperately to believe it in spite of his determination not to be fooled. "Yes, Sammy, it's all over," replied the doctor tiredly. "In a way, I'll be sorry to see you leave. You gave me a hard time but you also taught me a lot about humans. Now get out of here and start to live, you crazy old bastard." A few minutes later, Sammy was standing at the gate, looking out at the world. Every inch of the way there, he had expected to be seized by the guards and dragged back to his room but nothing had happened, just the long trudge along the gravel drive and now this: freedom beckoning to him from outside. It looked no different from the way he remembered it. A car went by and it was still recognizably a car, a streamlined metal box with four wheels. Across the street there were open fields and trees, green with the heavy heat of summer; children were playing soccer some distance away and their shouts and laughter drifted to him, bringing pangs of memory to his mind. Freedom was very beautiful. He saw the phone box huddled against the wall of the asylum but made no move towards it. For a long time he stood there unmoving, looking out on the world denied to him for so long. It was as though he watched a movie, observing but not part of the scene. And then at last, as the day wore on towards evening, he turned and walked back up the drive towards the house. At the door Doctor Newman was waiting, as though aware already of the reason for his return. He watched as Sammy plodded towards him and then set down the suitcase. "No go, huh, Sammy?" Sammy shook his head. "Nope. It's no good, Doc, I can't do it. There's no fight out there; how can I live like that? Let me back in and we can pretend that today never happened. Only I won't be so miserable this time, I promise." Doctor Newman smiled and shook his head. "Damn, Sammy, you're a fighter. Never known anything like you..." House Martel Word Count: 1,724 For Westeros, Citadel Task # 59 Prompt: Write a mixed-genre story (science fiction, psychology, philosophy) with a min. 1000 words. Points: 4,000 |
| Relief Green valley, bowl in the mountains, the stream a cold, dark, and bent streak like a brandy stripe through the high marshes, on all sides the peaks, white with spatters of snow and grey their stony faces, while overhead the sky, blue canopy the roof of the tiny tent, our little encampment. Thus Chimanimani, a dream in the heart of Africa, cool refreshment from the vast grassland, ever present, dry and dusty in the sun, while on the mountain the thin, cool air in lungs desperate for this escape. Oh, highland balm on sweating brow too long in tropic lands. House Martel Word count: 100 For "Game of Thrones" Westeros, Citadel Tasks # 65Prompt: Write a descriptive paragraph without using any verbs. Points: 2,000. |
| Ollie and Betty The town was too close to the sea. Every day, bits of the cliff crumbled and slipped down the slope into the waves beating on the shore below. This erosion had reached the houses now and the townsfolk watched as, one after another, their homes were nibbled at, then broken, and eventually dragged down into the abyss. Sometimes larger pieces of the land broke away and tumbled down, leaving new gaps and creating minor promontories in the shoreline below. On two occasions, houses disappeared overnight, riding the land on which they were built and then smashed to pieces when they crashed into the sea. Oliver and Betty Mansfield’s house went like that. This was different, however. The couple were still in the house when it went. Waking in the dark as the house trembled and shook with the crumbling of the land, they tumbled out of bed, aware now of what was happening, but thrown about the room as the shaking became worse. And then they could feel themselves falling, sailing downward with the house still in one piece, surfboarding the chunk of earth on which it stood. They used those last few moments of comparative peace to reach across to each other and hold hands. “You alright, Betty? We need to stick together if we’re to survive this.” And Betty had answered, “I’ll never leave you, Ollie,” as she tightened her grip. Then the world disintegrated into a chaos of flying furniture, splintered beams, and screaming noise. Oliver and Betty, still holding hands, were thrown across the room and out of a vast gap that had appeared in what had once been a wall. Then they were out in the dark, tumbling through the air and colliding with earth, timber, rocks and spray, until dumped like garbage into the ocean. They were pulled this way and that as the waves fought each other to get at the ruins of the house. A board crashed into Betty and, instinctively, she grabbed at it and held on. Oliver still held her hand and worked his way round until he too could grasp the board. Together they were pulled out to sea by the tide, only their floating piece of wood keeping them from going under. This far out at sea the waves were less fierce and they were able to take stock of the situation. The night sky gave enough light to see that the coastline was gradually becoming less distinct as they drifted away. They were being pulled southward by the same current that nibbled so ceaselessly at the cliff they had called their home. And, in the gloom, they could make out a larger piece of their house riding the waves with them and getting ever closer. It was a great slab of wooden boards still held together with cross beams, ragged at the edges as if a huge bite had been taken out of the meal that the ocean had eaten. When it was close enough, they clambered on, grateful to be out of the water at last. They lay there, exhausted and cold, hugging each other for protection and warmth, as the remains of their house carried therm farther and farther away from the only home they had ever known. In the morning they found themselves in a world composed only of sea and sky; the land was nowhere to be seen. They were cold but the sun was warming them gradually and the waves, gentler now, did no more than lap at the ragged edges of their raft. They were two pilgrims alone in an unknown seascape, afloat in the hands of fate. A fate that could have been so much worse, as acknowledged by Oliver when he turned to Betty and said, “Eh lass, reckon we’ve been pretty lucky after all that. As long as we’re still alive and got each other.” “And look at it this way, Ollie. You always wanted to go to sea and it looks like you’ve had your wish granted after all these years. Makes me wish I’d allowed it when we were young.” “Well, they say the fishing’s gone up spout these days, so you weren’t wrong and all.” “Which reminds me,” said Betty, looking all around at the endless sea, “I don’t know what we’ll have for breakfast.. A kipper would have been right welcome but I don’t think we’re going to run into one of them.” But Oliver was staring away to the west. “Hullo,” he said. “I think I can see something coming. A ship or summat.” She turned to look. “Eh, Ollie, you’re right.” And then, as the minutes ticked by and the shape became clearer, “But it’s a boat, not a ship.” “What’s the difference?” “One’s bigger than t’other.” “No, lass, I mean it don’t make no difference. I know a ship’s bigger than a boat. But it’s rescue, Betty. We’re saved!” And he was right. It was a coast guard launch on its rounds and it picked them up and brought them in to shore. There was a great fuss made when the news of their survival was made known and for a few days their story was in every newspaper. They were interviewed for the telly, oops sorry, television (Ollie and Betty’s accent getting to me), and Betty especially charmed everyone with her bright smile and cheery outlook. In time they became known internationally, were noted guests on many shows and had so many donations given for their new housing fund that they never even needed a mortgage. And Betty summed up their new life with the immortal words: “Ee, Ollie, I always did say you were the luckiest man alive. After all, you’ve got me, ain’t you?” House Martell Word count: 957 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Mirror Mirror Task 11Prompt: Set your story in a town that’s teetering on the edge of something dark. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
