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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. |
| Return Bianca, it’s you, isn’t it? I thought when I heard your voice… and you a detective inspector after twenty years gone missing oh, let me look at you what, you’ve reopened the case? but you would know more… did he treat you bad? I had terrible thoughts how I missed you, Bianca but if he never touched you so many years restrained I understand if I’d known who I’d have killed him then so I don’t see how I can help so much time has passed but now you’re back we can build anew if you can’t trace him and I never could why waste the time that’s left us with mere revenge yes, I know it’s justice but if you’re so intent he holds you still enchained but if you must will you return to me Bianca? House Martell Line count: 28, word count: 138 Free verse For The North Remembers, Mirror Mirror Prompt 4 Poetry Prompt: 20 years after your daughter was abducted, a detective finds you to reopen the case. The detective turns out to be your daughter. |
| Coming or Going They call him mister Yoyo, always on the go go, as fast as he appears he’s off again for beers, or maybe it’s for lunch, don’t matter - here’s the crunch, though he may be here now, and here’s my solemn vow, that soon he will be gone to north or south or yon, then give him just a while and he’ll be back in style. House Martell Line count: 12, word count: 75 Rhymed aabb For "Game of Thrones"  The North Remembers, Mirror Mirror Prompt 3 PoetryPrompt: Write about a character who keeps ending up in the same place. |
| Mirror Ah, always the same old question who’s this and who’s that who’s thinnest, who’s fat who’s pretty in pink and never mind the stink who’s wise as an owl with a voice that’s just foul who’s strutting today will be crawling in May who sings like a lark but shouts in a bark who colours her hair when nobody’s there who sings in the bath a complete psychopath who fiddles and diddles in the middle of riddles whoever asks me again will hear from me then I’m only a mirror and not wisdom’s pillar now think of another damn question. House Martell Line count: 22, word count: 100 Rhymed aabb For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Mirror Mirror Prompt 1 PoetryPrompt: "Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who's the ________ of them all?" |
| Atlantis Ah, my marble goddess, queen of the two oceans, bright stone glory of the people and beacon to the lost, are you now to sink beneath the waves, your wonders drowned at last, your traders white and bloated, your streets alive with fish? House Martell Line count: 8, word count: 43 Free verse For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Under The Sea Prompt 31Prompt: Write about the end of the world… of Atlantis. |
| Angels She says she talks to angels, but she doesn’t know their names, and the thing I’ve heard about angels, they have names ending in el, like Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael, and there’s Jerameel and Uriel; they’re all names male in gender, though, as far as I can tell, neither man nor woman are they; if it’s not angels that she sees, who’s talking in her play? House Martell Line count: 11, word count: 66 Free verse but with occasional rhymes. Call it experimental For "Game of Thrones" , The North Remembers, Musically Challenged Prompt 22Prompt: She Talks To Angels - Black Crowes. |
| Rain The old man relaxed back into the armchair. “Credence Clearwater Revival, hey? You know, that song of theirs, Have You Ever Seen the Rain? represented a turning point in history. Same as Jimmy Cliff’s I Can See Clearly Now, released about the same time, in the early seventies. They both introduced a rethink on something that had been a driving force in the sixties.” He gazed into the distance before continuing. “It was Bob Dylan who started it, I believe. Like he started so many things in those days. He brought it into sharp focus with his song, A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall. It was about nuclear war, of course. It hadn’t been an overpowering background to everything in the fifties because we didn’t know enough about it. But in the sixties we knew alright. Had plenty of detail on what it would be like. “And Bob wasn’t far from being right. There was the Cuban missile crisis, of course, and then it became a constant source of worry on everyone’s mind. Drove a lot of things back then, the anti-war movement, Vietnam, that sort of thing. Plenty of songs were about it. “Like a dark cloud hovering on the horizon, it was. And we were just kids, frolicking in the sunlight with our music and drugs, sex and freedom, trying to forget. A bright surrealist coat of many colours with an ominous lining of darkness. I don’t think the young today can understand what it was like to live under the shadow of that damn bomb. “Anyway, it went on like that for years. All the way to the beginning of the seventies. And then things began to change. First of all, here comes Jimmy Cliff singing that he can see clearly now. The rain has gone, he told us. D’you know, I don’t think he knew what that meant to us, that he was announcing that the nuclear cloud had gone. But the unconscious mind knows how to get the message out and we heard it. Some of us looked around and realised that he was right. The immediate danger had passed and depression was lifted. “Then CCR chimes in, asking whether we’d ever seen the rain on a sunny day? Well, I had, for one - we called it a monkey’s wedding in my part of the woods - but we understood the hidden meaning. The message was clear: the weather’s too good for the rain of bombs to start now. “And they turned out to be right, at least for a time. We were allowed to be happy again. It played hell with the music, all that disco and stuff, but at least we weren’t so damn serious all the time. I just gave up listening for the decade, the music was so frothy and pink. Had better things to do at the time anyway. “Yes, I know, people are beginning to think about nuclear war again, now. But I think it’ll be okay as long as there’s a few of us old bastards still around. We know what it’s like, going around with that hanging on your shoulders all the time. We’ll hold you back from that as long as we can. Just heed us when we tell you, that’s all I ask.” He fell silent then. Seemingly only seconds later, the sound of snoring tore at the air. House Martell Word count: 562 The North Remembers, Musically Challenged Prompt 4 Prompt: Have You Ever Seen The Rain - Credence Clearwater Revival. |
| A Slight Adjustment He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with craggy face and outrageously dashing hair that swept across his forehead, just above his right eye. He leaned against the front desk nonchalantly. Sally looked up from her keyboard and smiled. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked. “I’d like to speak to the editor,” he replied. So would I, thought Sally, but she answered sweetly enough. “I’m afraid he’s in conference right now, sir. What’s it about?” “This review of my book,” he said, producing a newspaper folded precisely so that the relevant article was central to the page. His finger rapped at it accusingly. Sally glanced at it briefly. “You could talk to the literary critic,” she said. “He’s in today.” “That’ll certainly do.” He flashed a grin at her and winked. She pretended not to notice the wink and reached across to open the hatch to allow the visitor through the counter. “Just follow me, sir.” The man complied and Sally led him from the front office, through an open door to a short corridor, and into a large, open office filled with people at desks, talking into phones, typing at keyboards and having shouted conversations across the aisles. Sally plunged into the chaos and arrived at the far wall, where a man was sprawling back in his chair, feet on his desk, arms up and folded so that his hands supported his head, while he stared at the ceiling. “Mr. Brenner,” said Sally. The man’s eyes shifted sideways to regard Sally with a bored look. “What is it, Sally?” She turned to indicate the man standing next to her. “This is Mr….” she paused before continuing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask your name.” “Chandler B Rhodes,” replied the man. Brenner’s eyes shifted to look at Rhodes. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked. Rhodes produced the newspaper, still neatly folded, and jabbed a finger at the offending passage. “This,” he said. Brenner dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward to peer at the article, “Ah yes, my piece on Paradise Tomorrow. I guess you’d better sit down.” The author moved to take the chair in front of Brenner’s desk. Sally mumbled something and disappeared into the crowd, obviously heading back to Reception. The two at the desk stared at each other for a moment before Brenner asked what the problem was. “It’s your review,” said Rhodes. “You’ve rated my book with one star only.” Brenner nodded. “Yes. Sorry about that but we never give less than a star. Don’t want to be too discouraging, after all.” “That’s ridiculous,” returned Rhodes. “Seems sensible enough to me.” “But, if you never rate at no star, giving one star amounts to the same thing.” “How so?” “If it’s impossible to get zero stars, one star is the least possible. With both, you’re saying that the book has absolutely no redeeming qualities. The ratings are the same.” Brenner looked thoughtful. “Well, yes, I suppose you could say that. So what do you propose instead?” “Look, all I’m asking is whether you really meant this rating. If you think my book is so awful that it has no redeeming qualities, you should say so.” “I guess that’s true.” “What? That my book really is that bad?” Brenner waved a dismissive hand. “No, I mean that I ought to consider giving out no stars at all.” “But don’t you see that’s unfair to me?” asked Rhodes. “The way it stands at the moment, you’re saying that my book is totally worthless. Are you saying that?” “Well no, as I recall it, there were some good points about it.” “Ahah. So it deserves more than one star in that case.” “I suppose I could give it another one,” said Brenner. “Wait a minute,” said Rhodes. “You said it had some good points. That’s plural. Just one would have been enough to push it up to two stars but you say it’s got several.” “I don’t know that I could do that.” “You’re the damn critic. If you can’t do it, who can?” Brenner frowned in indecision. “I’m only the damn critic, you mean,” he muttered. Then he brightened and said, “What the hell. I am the critic and I’ll do it. Three stars for Paradise whatsit.” “I’m still not sure you’re being fair,” Rhodes came back. "Think about it, man. Surely it’s worth more than that. All those good points after all.” “I dunno,” said Brenner. “You’re taxing my memory. It’s some time since I read it, you know.” “Well, let’s approach it from a different angle then. What was so awful about it, in your estimation?” Brenner looked off into the distance. “Damned if I can remember,” he said. “There you are then. It can’t have been that bad if you can’t even remember why.” “Look, I just recall not liking it, that’s all. There must have been reasons but they’re all gone from my head now.” “So you’re gonna knock off a star because you didn’t like it. And you don’t even know why. You might just have been feeling a bit dyspeptic on the day.” “True,” said Brenner, a far off look in his eyes as though recalling some outlandish lunchtime feast he’d had in the past. “And?” “Alright, alright, it can have four stars.” “Well thank you indeed, Mr. Philanthropist. I lose a star because you have a lousy memory. There’s probably nothing wrong with my book at all.” Brenner held his fists to his temples in frustration. “Okay, you win, it gets five stars. Now will you leave me alone, for pete’s sake?” “Full adjustment with apology in print?” “Yes, yes, now get the hell outa my office!” Rhodes stood, turned smartly and marched back to Reception. As he passed through the counter trapdoor, Sally looked up. “Get what you wanted, Mr. Rhodes?” “I always do,” he said. House Martell Word count: 979 For "Game of Thrones" , The North Remembers, Newspaper Clippings Prompt 18Prompt: Start your story with someone receiving a one-star review. |
| Nine to Five Another day, another damsel, another call to go and save, puff out the chest and feel manful, buff the armour, have a shave. Saddle Dobbin and hit the road, wend the way to dragon’s nest, stab the brute and prod and goad, eternal round, he knows you’re best. Free the gentle charming lady, set her on your tired steed, lead the way to Castle Brady, drop her off and home to feed. Line count: 12, Word count: 72 Rhymed abab For "Game of Thrones" , His Story Prompt 4 PoetryPrompt: 4. You are a knight on the way to save a princess, which is something you do on a weekly basis. Unfortunately, no princess has been interested in marrying you, even after witnessing your heroic acts. |
| Leaving Left the city on a cold day in November took the car and filled the tank flipped a coin for the road to take headed north when it landed heads Parked in a side road in the mountains left the car and breathed the air climbed a slope and drank the vista scrambled down and kept on going. Line count: 8 Free verse For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, His Story Prompt 1Prompt: He packed up and walked out the door to never return. |
| The Family Albert Freen loved yard sales. Especially the really big ones that spread out across the lawn and then offered entrance to rooms in the house where the stuff was piled on every horizontal surface. These were the ones where a diligent searcher could find things of magic and mystery and romance, items that spoke of times and places far away, the stuff of dreams indeed. In time, Albert became a well known face at these more professional sales, the ones where the owners had their own collections and did their own searching and accumulating before selling what no longer fitted with their current obsessions. Both sellers and buyers would see him coming and call out a cheery greeting, with suggestions of good areas to begin his hunt and news of something really special being considered by a competitor. And Albert would smile and follow the tips, always ready to take advantage of another’s special knowledge and taste. For Albert would buy anything, it seemed. So broad was his interest that those who watched him never managed to discern a particular propensity for a type or class of collection, some fine specialisation that preferred one style or period or type over another. Speculation was rife over what drove his eclectic collection of just about everything under the sun. They figured that the collection must be enormous, although no one had ever seen it. For Albert never sold anything. Not for him, this matter of spreading out his unwanted goods upon the lawn for the world to gawk at. He just kept adding to his hoard, buying new houses when the existing ones became full. People guessed that each house held items that, together, constituted museum class collections of period and style and use, but no one was ever allowed entrance to see for themselves. Albert just smiled and said nothing to the neighbours as he came and went from each house in turn, living for a while with one collection and then moving on to live with the next. In this way he became well known throughout the various neighbourhoods of the city and yard sellers felt honoured when his battered old pickup pulled up at the kerb outside their sales. So it was that, when Albert arrived at Ken James’ annual sale, he was welcomed profusely and led immediately inside the house to view “the good stuff.” And Albert smiled and began to sift through everything in sight and much that was not, while the little pile of things he was going to buy grew taller and taller. Albert worked meticulously through the rooms, even digging into containers of assorted junk, on the off chance that some disregarded gem was secreted under the rest. And he came at last to something large and black, rectangular and heavy. He could see that it was a book, obviously old and worn, but with the potential of being worth a lot of money. He cleared away the trash pinning it to the table, produced a rag to wipe away the dust, and opened it carefully. It was a family photo album. He guessed that the first photos might be from the mid 19th Century, which would make them very valuable. They showed serious faces looking out from dark and severe backgrounds, assembled into grim family groupings or single portraits just as forbidding. Albert knew that this was caused by the necessity of their holding a pose for several minutes while the camera did its magic, but he still thanked his stars that he had not been raised in so dolorous a family. He turned a few pages and marvelled at the continuing line of serious faces peering from the photos into his eyes. The album was valuable, yes, but a bit depressing. And besides, he had other stuff to inspect and add to his haul that day. He closed the book, hefted it into his arms and took it down to the first room where his pile awaited further acquisitions. In the late afternoon, Albert paid the asking price for his items and piled them into the back of his truck. The sun had set by the time he arrived back at the Wensford house and he unloaded in the dark, with only the porch light to assist. When he came to the photo album, he took it into the house, set it on the kitchen table, pulled up a chair and opened it. It was time to make a first assessment of its worth. He ploughed through the first pages fairly quickly. These he’d seen before. Then he was into the mid section and he slowed down to examine each photo more carefully. They were now late Victorian by the dress, but the expressions on the faces remained as unremittingly miserable as the earlier examples. He did notice that the people seemed uglier now, that the family resemblance had degenerated into a common reversion into coarse and unattractive features. He turned the pages with growing revulsion at the faces. It was as if the family were turning into a race of evil, misshapen goblins and demons. Still he kept turning the pages until he was close to the end. It was the Edwardian period now and the faces were indescribably and unbelievably ugly. The last photo was of a woman, with eyes like saucers in a face from which the flesh sagged like drapes from the underlying bone structure. Her ears poked out, huge and flapping, from her wiry and unkempt hair, her large mouth fell slack and open, dribble issuing from both corners and her pallor sickly unto death. Albert stared at her transfixed. And then he felt the weight of a heavy hand placed on his shoulder. In his ear, so close that he could feel the cold, unnatural breath, he heard the words, “Ah, so you’ve found me at last, have you? Feast your eyes on my prettiness, little one, for we’ll spend many years in hell together.” House Martell Word count: 999 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, His Story Prompt 23Prompt: 23. Start your story with a character looking through an old family photo album. |
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