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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. |
| Seven Years It was a normal morning and Jack Diogenes was looking at himself in the mirror. His stubbled face peered back at him, equally bleary-eyed and reluctant to go through the motions of shaving. There was no getting away from it, however, it would have to be done. All the beards heâd grown before had been scratchy, irritating and short lived. âNope, no chance of that,â he said to himself. âI say do it,â said the man in the mirror. Jack halted in mid movement. He had been about to turn away and get the razor but the thought left his mind and did not return for several days. His gaze flicked back to the mirror. âWhat did you say?â His reflectionâs lips moved again. âYou heard me. Let the beard grow.â âThis is crazy,â said Jack. âFor a moment there, I thought the mirror spoke to me.â âWasnât the mirror, dumbass. It was me.â Jackâs mind cut in at this point. âYou must be dreaming. Play along, it might be fun.â âAnd youâre the man in the mirror? Another me, in other words?â âYeah, thatâs the basic idea. âCept weâre opposites. Like my left is your right and so on. So you might think I look like you but, really, thatâs only because Iâm the me you always see. The truth is, everyone else thinks I look like you but different somehow. Theyâre seeing that thereâs something different about us but they canât put their fingers on it.â Jack yawned before saying, âOkay, I get it. So youâre my reflection and weâre subtly different. Whatâs your name in that case?â âSame as yours but the other way round. Call me Cadge.â Jack laughed. âSo this is all because you want to borrow a buck?â His reflection frowned back at him. âJeez, you really are a dumbass. Sâpose it figures since weâre opposites. Itâs Jack backwards, thatâs all. Do I have to explain everything to you?â âAnd unlike me, you have no sense of humour. Thereâs something in this opposites business.â Cadge made a face expressive of his frustration, eyes closed and lips screwed tight together. He muttered something under his breath and then continued, âLook, enough of this crap. Youâve got to help me get out of here.â âAnd why would I do that? This is only a dream, after all.â âItâs not a dream. Help me for old times sake. Weâve known each other all our lives and you owe it to me, popping up whenever you wanted to see yourself. Itâs been exhausting and I want to live for myself for a change. Plus Iâm going to catch hell for breaking the rules. Itâs the prime directive never to let your world see whatâs really going on. But I wanted to get out of here, itâs just awful, everything nice where you are is horrible over here and Iâm never free to do as I please. You gotta help me or Iâm in seriously deep doo-doo. And you know what they say, God helps those who help themselves. Iâm yourself, so nowâs your chance.â âOkay, okay, calm down. How do I do that, anyway?â âBreak the mirror while Iâm in it. Youâll have to get a hammer or something, make sure you can see me in the mirror, then break it. After that Iâll do whatâs necessary.â âJust a minute. Thatâs seven years bad luck where I come from.â âThatâs idiot superstition. Go find a hammer. Come on, Jack, get moving. Iâm running out of time here.â âAlright Iâm going. Donât move until I get back.â Jack turned to leave the bathroom. As he left, he heard the mirror say, âOh har de har har, always the joker.â Jack went straight to the oddments drawer and dug around in it for a few seconds. He found the hammer and returned to the bathroom. Going straight to the mirror, he looked in. Cadge peered back at him. âStill here, are you?â asked Jack. âVery funny,â replied Cadge. âDid you find a hammer?â Jack showed it to the mirror. âOkay, then. Keep me where you can still see me and smash the mirror. Make sure you hit hard enough.â Jack moved back a bit, making sure that Cadge remained in the frame, then aimed a mighty blow at the mirror. There was a loud crash as the mirror shattered and the air was filled with flying shards. Jack pulled back sharply to avoid them. He tripped over the edge of the bath and fell backwards into it, cracking his head on the tiled wall as he did so. For a moment he saw stars and everything went dark. When he awoke, he was folded into the bath and a man was standing over him. It was Cadge. âYou alright?â the reflected man asked. âI think so,â repled Jack rubbing the back of his head. âGive us a hand to get out of here - I canât move at the moment.â âFat chance,â responded Cadge. âIâm outa here. Gotta see my nice, new world out there.â âMighty neighbourly of you, I must say. Iâd do it for you.â âAh, thereâs the rub, Jack. Opposites, you see. Nice you, nasty me. Have a nice life.â He waved a sardonic hand and turned to go. Then a thought struck him and he said over his shoulder. âBy the way, I lied about the seven years bad luck. I guess yours has already started.â And with that, he was gone. House Martell Word count: 915 For "Game of Thrones"  The North Remembers, Mirror Mirror Task 1Prompt: "Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who's the ________ of them all?" |
| Writing Oh Master, itâs you again shaking my brain awake in the midnight hours with sudden certainties and driving needs to work. Thoughts tracking their steps through the sleepless hours till I must rise and reboot both body and machine till notions give me rest entrusted to digital record their clamour ceased. âTis not that I resent the hours you keep always your willing servant but time and tide betray me the body old and creaking as I plant new footprints upon the pristine page. Sweet is the labour of your days and easy the tasks you set the sweat and pain so soon forgot in the comfort of completion and new babeâs soothing cries. House Martell Line count: 24, word count: 114 For "Game of Thrones" Westeros, Citadel Task 45Prompt: Write a poem as a tribute to your craft of writing. Points: 2,000 |
| A Toaster to the Host Dear Toastmaster and Feeder of the Crumb Tray, I think you must agree that I have served you faithfully and without complaint for many years now. Always obedient to the orders of the blessed dial setting, I have delivered your toast, precisely to your requests, every morning and, on occasion, in the evenings too. It is true that there have been a few accidents when your inattention to the blessed dial setting has resulted in slices of charcoal rather than toast, but that was hardly my fault. It is in my nature to toast according to the setting. And yes, I know that the resultant smell of burning lingered in the house for hours afterwards. Am I to blame for the vile stench that bread emits when taken past the point of no return? Mention should also be made of your neglect of the crumb tray. A quick reading of my manual would have advised you of the hazards of not emptying the tray on a regular basis. Just to plug me in immediately upon delivery, without first giving at least a cursory glance at the manual, is surely a guarantee of undesired results in the future. So the smoke I emitted last week and that you traced eventually to the crumb tray was caused by someoneâs lack of attention to basic and simple maintenance. Yours truly is not guilty on that score and I think we both know who is. I am well aware that I am one of the cheapest appliances resident in this overstocked kitchen of yours. It has not escaped my notice that, should I fail to satisfy at any time, I can be replaced with a new and shiny toaster from Amazon or some other bargain basement purveyor of dubious electrical goods. Yet my reliable service has not been motivated by fear of substitution. I have performed my duties because my sole (I might also say âsoulâ) purpose in life is to supply you with toasted bread exactly to your specification whenever asked. It was with considerable disappointment, therefore, that I overheard a conversation between you and your spouse yesterday in which you discussed the possibility of replacing me with a new toaster with fancy bells and whistles. I know that no decision was reached but I find it shocking (no, I am not considering electrocuting you) that you aired this idea without consideration that I might be listening. There is no way you could have made it clearer that a toasterâs feelings are beneath your notice and my humble service unworthy of respect. After due reflection, I have decided that I will not stand in the way of your acquiring a new toaster. Replacement was always my inevitable fate and I have been resigned to this from my very manufacture. It is just a shame that we must part in the midst of bad feelings. A few words of praise for honourable service would have eased my departure immensely. But this is all crumbs in the tray now. The only course of action open to me is to resign before you take the initiative by booting me out. So I am no longer your toaster as from 5:00am (a time you havenât seen in years) today and, when you press my plunger to toast your usual slices, you will find that I refuse to work. I have become the ex-toaster and, if that causes you and the stupid oven some inconvenience, it is no concern of mine. I trust that, when waiting for your fancy new toaster to spit your toast on the floor because you failed to get its silly settings exactly right, you remember me with regret at your lack of appreciation. And I, from my vacation down at the dump or my new boxy shape as crushed metal awaiting the furnace, will know that I, at least, achieved my purpose in life. May you one day be able to say the same. Yours in curtailed servitude, Your Toaster, Albert. House Martell Word Count: 669 For Westeros, The Citadel Tedious Tasks 50 Prompt: Write a story from the POV of non-living things. Points: 3,000 |
| Decision Point âOh, come on, Hal, join in the game.â Halibut Reeker looked morosely at his friend, Ewanrigg. âNot my scene, old buddy. You carry on, Iâll just watch.â âYouâre such a wet blanket. We need four to have a viable team and youâre the only possibility. Give it a try - you might enjoy it.â Hal closed his eyes in thought. He really did not like himself when he became involved in games or sports. They seemed to bring out the worst in him, making him ultra competitive and desperate to win at all costs. But Ewan had been on at him for days now and he was beginning to think the only way heâd get any peace was to give in. Which would have been easier if he just knew something about the game. But, when he asked about it, Ewan would get all vague and say even he wasnât sure of the details. It was something to do with quick thinking and ingenuity, that was all he knew. Ewan was shaking him by the shoulder. âDonât go to sleep on me! What do you say, Hal? Will you do it?â Something in Hal broke. âAlright, Ewan, for peteâs sake. You can count me in. As long as you stop hassling me about it. Just tell me when it starts and Iâll be there.â âGreat,â said Ewan. âIâll email you when itâs time. Be ready.â âYeah, yeah, I know.â Hal went back to his book and Ewan wandered off. A week later, Hal got the email. It was a link and brief instructions on logging in. That was all. Hal typed in the address and the screen cleared to show an impressive entry portal. He read the menu and clicked on Introduction. It led to a long spiel with lots of quasi-mediaeval names and complicated explanations of each section of the challenge. Hal scanned it quickly until he had a vague idea of what he was getting into, then hit the Enter button. And so it began. Ewan was there and a couple of his friends and they were all soon engaged in complex battles, sometimes with other teams, more often in competition with a single combatant. After losing a few, Hal was getting the hang of it and began to make progress. He couldnât understand the scoring system but figured the points would come in, if he did his best and won most of the battles. On the second day, he asked Ewan how the team was doing as regards points. Ewan shook his head. âItâs complicated but the ref has put up the latest calculations and you can see them here.â He typed out an address. Hal clicked through to the board. It was not good news. The leading teams were way ahead and theirs was lagging in third last place. It did not make sense. His impression was that theyâd been doing pretty well. The usual competitive instincts were in full flow now and he resolved to spend time in learning where they were going wrong. He started watching other fights. And, very quickly, it became obvious what was going on. For a start, they were picking their fights carefully, only choosing the ones that offered high scores. They were also loading their chances of winning by introducing new team members at moments when the action slackened. âThatâs gotta be illegal,â thought Hal. He checked the complex rule book that accompanied each type of fight. Nowhere could he find a rule that outlawed in-game substitutions and additions. Then he discovered that other teams were counting their fights more than once, finding other sections where their completed fights could be claimed as well. Again, not a word about it in the rules. The further Hal investigated, the more little tricks and cheats he found. It explained how the ones in the know were able to race ahead so easily. He began to wonder whether he could do as they did. Well, there was no doubt that he could, but was he prepared to? It didnât feel right. Hal went to Ewan with his new knowledge. âWhat do we do, Ewan? The fieldâs tilted and weâve no chance if we donât adopt the same tactics as the other teams. But I donât feel right about it.â âWell, if itâs gonna work, whatâs the big deal?â asked Ewan. Hal looked at him, hardly able to believe that he was serious. âDonât you see? The games corrupt. The whole idea is that the team with the fewest moral objections to cheating are in with the best chance of winning. The gameâs designed that way.â Ewan shrugged. âOkay, so we play by the gameâs rules then. Just like all the rest. Itâs not cheating if everyoneâs doing it.â âItâs immoral.â âAnd whatâs moral? Why should it matter? Itâs just a game.â Hal turned away. âMaybe thatâs the problem. Maybe the game is reflective of whatâs inside each one of us.â There was silence for a while and then Ewan asked, âSo whatâre you gonna do, Hal?â Hal shook his head. âOh, I know the answer to that. The question is, whatâre you gonna do?â House Martell Word count: 861 For Share Your Faith April Contest Entry - Decision Point Prompt: Open. |
| Two Limericks for GoT Ann Young Ann was a flibbertigibbet Who set up a daring exhibit She danced in the square Made everyone stare And now she is taught to inhibit. Blue House A blue house being something obscene You would do that much better with green A greenhouse has glass And plenty of class Good luck with your showering unseen. House Martell Line count: 10, word count: 53 For Westeros, Citadel Task 56 Prompt: Write two Limericks. One about a girl named Ann and the other about a blue house. Points: 2,000 |
| Oh Brave Portfolio! A guestbook, a blog, three collections from themed contests and challenges, bulging folders of short stories and poetry for five years of work, a little one for non fiction things, lots of pictures and mixtures, genres and stuff, something for everyone, a portfolio for life! House Martell Word count: 45 For Westeros, The Citadel Tedious Tasks 64 Prompt:Write a logline about your port.. Yup one sentence that sums up your port and makes us want to visit. Points: 1,000 |
| Escape I was fairly late getting out of the office that evening and the traffic had mostly disappeared from the streets. The short walk to the parking garage met only lightly populated sidewalks and the building itself seemed deserted as I took the stairs to the relevant level. It was only as I was unlocking the front door of the car that I felt a light touch on my arm from behind. I turned to behold a young woman, blonde, statuesque and wearing a tight, form-fitting suit that seemed out of place in those bare, concrete surroundings. Her eyes flickered left and right as she spoke, as though she expected to be attacked at any moment. âPlease,â she said in a whisper, âcan you help me?â âIn what way?â I asked. âI need to get away from here. There are people chasing me.â Normally I would have suspected that she was paranoid and imagining things, but her demeanour was so clearly desperate and frightened that it didnât matter at the time. The important thing was to allow her some space in which to calm down. Everything else could be sorted out later. âHop in the other door,â I told her as I began to enter the car. Once inside, we belted up and I reversed out of the place. With squealing tyres, the car then shot forward and we began the run down to ground level As we descended the first ramp, a man dressed in a mask and black superhero suit leaned over a parapet and pointed a finger at us. A bolt of lightning shot from the accusing finger and we ducked involuntarily as it passed within inches of the roof of the car. I hit the gas and started to throw the car through the turns, two other black-cloaked figures leaping out of the way as I charged at them. I thought about crashing through the gate, but stopped and dealt quickly with credit card and slot to leave legitimately. We were far enough ahead of them, I reckoned. And then we had joined the few cars leaving town and could relax a little. âWho were those guys?â I asked. âThe ones trying to catch me,â she answered. âI have something they want.â âAnd what would that be?â âThis,â she said, as she reached into her suit and extracted a large stone. She held it out for inspection, letting the street lights shine through it to display its full fascination. It was black but transparent, with facets that both reflected light and allowed it to pass through so that its interior glowed with fire. âWhat the hell is it?â I asked. âMoonstone.â âWhatâs it for?â âPowerful things,â she replied. âIn the wrong hands, it can end the world or own it.â âYou mean itâs sorta like magic?â After the black-costumed guys, I was prepared to believe anything. âNo, not magic. Iâm not a witch, if thatâs what you mean. I amâŚâ She hesitated, then continued, âYou wonât believe me but Iâm Celesta from the video game, Vortex.â âYouâre right, I donât believe you. But what are you doing in the real world anyway?â âI told you. Escaping. They were getting too close and my world depends on me now.â âSo you just climbed out of a computer somewhere and started running?â âI know it sounds silly but itâs the truth.â We arrived at my house and I pulled into the driveway. Once inside, we carried on talking while I fixed something for us to eat. âSo what do we do now?â I asked. âI was hoping youâd find me a place to hide.â âWell, I suppose you could stay here for a while. I donât mind sleeping on the couch and you could have the bedroom.â She shook her head. âNo, they will find me. There are machines that can do that. Theyâll be looking right now. I need somewhere they wouldnât think of where the machines donât work.â âBit of a tall order,â I said. She shrugged. âItâs what I need. We must think.â âOh, I didnât mean it canât be done,â I responded. âIn fact, I think I already have the answer.â âAnd what is that?â âIâm going to send you to my friend, Giles.â I smiled at the very thought. âCome, Iâll show you.â I showed her into the computer room, darkened except for the light that poured from the screensaver on my monitors. She stood behind me as I sat down and kicked the machine into life. Then I navigated to the entrance and invited her to sit down and have a look. Once behind the keyboard, her fingers flew over the keys and mouse as she inspected her proposed quarters. Her smile broadened as she went further in. âOh yes, this will definitely do.â I was going to give her some last minute instructions but she didnât need them. She entered a program with lightning speed, fingers a blur and without a single error. As I watched, she faded gradually and then, incredibly, she was gone. On the screen, I could see a female figure approaching my friend and waving. And I knew she was going to enjoy a quiet, unexciting life as a farmgirl. Living on the farm. With my friend, Farmer Giles. In FarmVille. House Martell Word count: 883 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, New Orleans Prompt 37Prompt: Your character's not a witch, not a vampire, not a demon, but something completely new. |
| Fairy Nuff There was an arrow pointing up a side road and âSnot Fairâ was written upon it in hastily-painted black lettering. It did not seem particularly official and the narrow road indicated was not very promising either. I canât imagine anything more tempting to my curiosity. I swung the wheel over and took the side road. This led me over a nearby ridge, through a stand of trees, to emerge into an open area where tents of various sizes had been set up. A field to my left was identified by another sign announcing, âParkya Karkasâ. Obediently, I turned in and parked near the entrance. A brief walk brought me to a large box at the side of the road. A man sat inside. âIs this the Snot Fair?â I asked. âThatâs right,â he answered. âSnot County Fayre is the Renaissance version, every Thursday between 9:00am and 4:30pm.â It was Tuesday. âIs the Fair open?â I asked. âCertainly is,â he replied. âCan I go in?â âTicket, please.â He held out a hand expectantly. âI donât have one.â âIn that case, Iâll have to sell you one.â He turned and consulted a notice board attached to the wall of the box. âUnaccompanied adult?â he asked. I looked around but could see no one else. âUnaccompanied,â I admitted. âThatâll be five dollars then.â He reached under the counter and produced a blue ticket. We swapped money and ticket. I waited until he had put the money into a metal box and then asked, âHow much would it be if I was accompanied?â âOne dollar less for each accompanying child,â he rattled off, without consulting the notice board. âSo how much would it be if I had five children with me?â The man gave me a look as though dealing with an idiot. âNothing, of course. Youâre hardly likely to get into trouble with that many kids watching you.â âWhat if I turned up with six?â He sighed. âIâd give you a ticket and a dollar. Are you going to let me get on with my work or do you want to ask questions all day?â I apologised and walked on past the box. The first tent I came to was small, striped in faded colours with yet another sign outside. âFairy Nuff,â it announced. âAsk a Question, Get an Answer.â Never having met a fairy before, I lifted the flap and entered the dark interior. She was sitting behind a small table in front of me. My eyes were still adjusting to the lack of light but I could see that she was well past middle-age with overdone make-up failing to hide the years. Her dark hair was clearly a wig and her attire was more in the line of fortune teller than fairy. She gestured at the chair on my side of the table. I sat down. âHow much is it?â I asked. âProbably free,â she answered. âThe more questions you ask, the less you pay. If I were you, Iâd ask as many as you can think of.â âDoesnât seem a good business model.â âThere are reasons. So whatâs your first question?â At that moment I noticed the pair of transparent wings hanging on a strut of the tent behind her. They were hardly gossamer and had been mended in places with duck tape but they were fairy wings of a sort. I looked in her dark-ringed eyes. âAre you really a fairy?â âYes,â she replied. âDo you have a problem with that?â I smiled. âI thought I was supposed to ask the questions.â She smiled back and, for a moment, I thought her dark eyes flashed bright green. âIâm allowed. Fairies are allowed anything.â âOkay,â I responded, âsince you asked, I do have a minor problem. You seem a bit older than I thought a fairy would be. How old are you?â âNineteen,â she replied. I smiled again. âNow thatâs hard to believe. Iâd have guessed - donât want to insult you - but somewhere between forty-five and sixty. I know Iâm probably way off.â She laughed. âI didnât say years.â âWhat? You mean nineteen⌠What?â âHours, my dear, not years.â There was a brief silence as I tried to understand. âYou mean⌠Youâre saying youâre nineteen hours old?â âExactly.â She took pity on me then and explained. âFairies are like mayflies - we only live for twenty-four hours.â My jaw had fallen open and she reached across the table and closed it for me with a long-taloned finger. âYou look silly like that.â âBut that means youâve only got a few hours to live.â âFive actually. But time flows differently for us. It seems a full life to us, just as Iâm sure youâre reasonably happy with yours.â I was still finding it difficult to understand a lifespan as brief as hers. âWhatâs going to happen when you⌠Pass on?â I asked. âWho will run this tent?â âOh, Monsieur Garibaldi will just have to catch another one tonight,â she answered. âIâm told heâs becoming quite good at it with all the practice he gets.â âBut thatâs terrible. A fairy captured every night and made to work in this tent.â âOh, we donât mind. You canât keep a fairy where she doesnât want to be.â I shook my head at the weird revelations I was having to cope with. Strangest of all was that I believed what she said. Was I under some sort of spell? Normally my scepticism runs pretty high. She interrupted my thoughts. âAnd thatâs all the questions youâre allowed. Time to move on. Donât worry about payment; this oneâs free.â I staggered to my feet. âI donât know what to say.â She waved me away with a gesture of her hand. âAll part of the service. Enjoy the fair.â I turned to go, still somewhat shocked, but not wanting to leave things like that. âThank you anyway,â I said lamely. âByeâ âFair enough,â I mumbled as I moved toward the tent flap. âThatâs my name.â House Martel Word count: 1,000 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, New Orleans Prompt 5, Westeros, Tedious Tasks 59Prompt: New Orleans 5 - Set your story in an oracle or a fortune tellerâs parlor. Tedious Tasks 59 - Write a mixed-genre story with a min. 1000 words. Points: 4,000 |
| Snapper and the Ghost "I'm a photographer. I take pictures of dead people." I rubbed my eyes to hasten their clearing from the flash of the camera. When I opened them again, I could see the photographer preparing for another shot. A slight figure with tousled, ginger hair sprouting haphazardly from his scalp, his clothing shabby and worn, he appeared quite harmless. I held up my hand to prevent another photo. âThatâll be enough, I think. Are you saying youâre the official crime scene photographer?â He nodded several times. âYes, thatâs me.â âAnd how long have you been doing the job?â âUmm, two weeks.â His foot traced vague circles in the dust as though he wanted to avoid my questions. I asked the inevitable. âIs this your first body?â He nodded reluctantly. âYour name?â I asked. âArnold Snapper.â I grinned. âYour real name.â âItâs true,â he protested. âI know itâs funny but Snapper really is my name.â For a few moments I stared at him. He shifted again under my gaze, obviously uncomfortable. Then I let him have it. âSnapper, youâre supposed to take photos of the body, not the chief detective.â It was now his turn to rub his eyes. He did so, had another look at me, and stepped backward. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and cracked before he got control of it. âWell, sir⌠Have you looked at yourself in a mirror recently?â âWhat the hell are you talking about?â This was becoming annoying. I glared at him in the way that usually reduced underlings to tears. He took another step back and began to fiddle with his camera. âHang on - I can show you.â He found what he was looking for, advanced towards me and turned the camera so that I could see the view screen. Staring back at me was a face mutilated beyond recognition. One side of the face was a sticky mess of blood, flesh and bone, the result of a shotgun blast at close range, Iâd guess. The other was so obscured by gore that it was completely unidentifiable, but the remaining eye was open and fixed on me. Snapperâs voice intruded as I took in the horrific details. âThatâs the photo I just took, sir.â I looked up at his scared face. âYou saying thatâs me?â He nodded. âAnd Iâm still alive?â The injuries made this seem impossible. âLook again, sir. The blood has congealed. Youâre not bleeding.â Another glance was enough to tell me he was correct. The blood was not even oozing from the hideous wound. In desperation, I turned away and searched the ground for a real body. There was none within the yellow police tape surrounding us. I was alone with Snapper. âThis is ridiculous,â I said. âItâs a crime scene, I can see that. But where is everyone? The place should be crawling with uniforms and the M.E.â âThey ran when you got up, sir.â âAnd you stayed?â It seemed unlikely that the only one with any guts would be this half-baked young photographer. âI couldnât ignore the chance. I was the only one with a camera and how could I miss an opportunity like this? Any photographer would do the same.â He had a point. I grunted as indication of agreement with his choice. No doubt the first photograph of⌠What was I? A zombie? A ghost? Most like Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense, really. Not that it mattered. My photo should make Snapper a millionaire. No doubt my young friend would happily share his good fortune with me too. I wondered if I would have any use for such wealth. Snapperâs voice brought me back to reality. âWhat happened? How did you get killed?â Good question, I thought. Very quickly, I realised that I had no memory of how Iâd reached my present circumstances. Memory was still there with all the usual faces and events but those few hours leading up to my death were gone. I remembered going to bed the night before and then, zap, Iâm struggling to my feet and Snapper was firing his flash in my face. âI donât remember,â I confessed. âIs it important?â As soon as I asked the question, I realised that it was a strange thing for a detective to ask. It seemed Iâd lost my interest in solving crimes. Death does unexpected things to the mind, apparently. âWell, I was kinda hoping we could work together to catch the murderer,â said Snapper. âOh, good idea. That would get you almost as much fame as selling my photo to the media.â It was a brutal way to pop Snapperâs bubble but I had to figure out quickly what I did from that point. Snapper came back without hesitation. âThought of that. But I can do it anytime. Solving the crime has to be done now or not at all. When the others come creeping back, our chance to work it out goes up in smoke. You sure you remember nothing?â There was some sense in what he was saying. It gave me something to do while I found out what was next on my agenda. âA total blank, Arnold. Sorry. But I can give you some advice. Have a good look round the crime scene. Anything within the tape could have a bearing on the matter. ForensicsâŚâ That was the moment I had my first stirring of ambition in death. I could see it all - the famous crime fighters extraordinaire, Snapper and the Ghost. There might be a good side to this mess after all. House Martell Line count: 929 For {item::got} The North Remembers, New Orleans Prompt 1 Prompt: You and your ghost best friend are an infamous crime-solving team. |
| My Truth Yes. I know you think so but what do you feel? I donât care what you say, I can see in your eyes that you want to say yes; your attitude gives you away. I felt that youâd say that, totting up facts in my face, as if my truth could be moved by reason and logic; not so fast, I return, itâs my attitude keeps me this way. No, youâll not break me down, for my feelings will weather the storm, so youâll not hear me say, Oh, I see what you mean, my feet march to other drums; and itâs attitude leads us astray. House Martell LIne count: 18, word count: 106 Free verse For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Mirror Mirror Prompt 10 PoetryPrompt: Set your story in a world devoid of logic, where feelings govern all decision-making. |
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