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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. |
| Appointment It had been many years since I last looked up at the massive wall of the enclosure at Great Zimbabwe. That had been over fifty years before and I a callow youth only lately arrived in my teens. Nothing had changed in the ruins over the years when I moved from place to place and continent to continent. These ancient stone buildings endured the years in stolid immovability, only the lichen creeping year by year over the faces of the rocks and changing the colours as they did so. And now I was back again, briefly, to make good a promise made a few years after my visit. It had been a ghoulish idea really, a romantic hippy notion to meet in this place on one hearing of the death of the other. I do not recall ever discussing with Garth the existence or otherwise of ghosts, but I suppose the mists of Mary Jane dismissed from our minds any thoughts that such matters might impede the post mortem meeting we envisaged. Far from our minds, too, must have been the possibility that we would both travel so far in the intervening years that the choice of venue might be an obstacle. Garth and his wife, Sharon, with baby daughter Genevieve, did indeed move to Cape Town a few years later, and set up a shop selling trendy trinkets made by other hippies in the area. Some time later, I heard that the couple had divorced and Garth emigrated to Australia. That was the last I heard of him until a mutual friend advised me of his death, thereby sparking memories of the promise we had made so many years before. My own travels and settlings had left me a considerable distance from Zimbabwe, too. The journey back there took me across an ocean and across the equator, a long way to go in the hope of so unlikely a reunion. But I made the trip without expectation of success. It would be good to see Africa again, anyway. So here I was, wandering amongst the ruins of Great Zimbabwe, reflecting on old times and waiting for midnight, the appointed time for the meeting. In the late afternoon, I climbed the steep track up the hillside to the Acropolis, that fortress built into the top of the hill that towered above the main ruins in the valley. It was more difficult than I remembered, age having drained much of my enthusiasm for exercise, and I arrived at the top later than I expected, with the star-scattered African night sky already spread like a canopy over my head. I rested a while, then made my way around the edge of the escarpment to the whispering cave. This was a shallow indentation in the side of the hill, protected from the weather by an overhanging rock, with a marvellous view of the ruins far below. It was said that the acoustics of the cave meant that messages whispered there could be heard in the great enclosure and this had been used by the inhabitants to maintain contact between the two sections of the city. I sat down with my back against the rock and waited for midnight. It came eventually and, with it, a dark figure that walked along the path leading to the cave. I stood up, not believing that it might be Garth. But it was him alright, instantly recognisable with his shock of dark hair and voluminous beard, his glasses and confident swagger. Even his clothing was much as it had been in the old days. I greeted him as though the years had fallen away and we were young again. “Garth, you old bastard, you remembered.” He smiled that well remembered grin, revealing his top teeth resting upon his lower lip like some really bushy rodent. “There are some things that are never forgotten,” he said. “I heard you were dead,” I continued. “Such reports are wildly exaggerated.” He was always quick with the witty reply. But I knew that he was being economical with the truth. No one at our age looks exactly as they did in their early twenties. And Garth had not changed in the slightest. There was no doubt in my mind that I was looking at a ghost but, somehow, it did not matter. We fell into conversation as animated as it had always been, swiftly reverting to the hippy slang of those bright days in the height of the sixties cultural explosion. “Man, Garth, it’s really good to see you. What the hell have you been up to all this time?” “Oh, this and that, man. I’m an Ozzie now, you know? Just like Zim but drier.” “Still writing poetry, are you?” “Nah,” said. “Gave that up when I discovered I could make more money selling gear other cats made.” “Cool enough,” I replied. “And writing’s about all I do these days. Funny how things turn out.” “It’s all good, man. Cosmo has spoken!” And so it went, two old hippies living again their golden age, carried away in the nostalgia of a time that was gone forever. The night flew by as the memories were swapped in quickfire bursts. The dawn was breaking when Garth prepared to leave. “Gotta go, man. They only gave me the night. The powers that be, I mean. And that rumour you heard, about my death. I lied, man. Sorry.” “I know, Garth. It’s the same for me.” He looked at me with eyes wide in surprise. “What? I never heard anything about you dying.” I shrugged. “Word of mouth’s not a reliable news medium. But being dead sure made getting here a lot easier.” House Martell Word count: 949 For "Game of Thrones"  The North Remembers, Travel Marvel Prompt 34Prompt: 34. You arrive at a destination you promised an old friend you’d visit after they passed, only to find them there too. |
| Rago’s Diet This is what is called a dilemma, thought Ragobimini del Marnoc Carabindiay the Fourth. Since I don’t fancy writing all that again, I had better explain that dragons have exceedingly long names and that it is common practice for other dragons to shorten them into something more practical for everyday use. Ragobimini was known to his friends as Rago and that is how I shall refer to him from now on. As I was saying, Rago was musing on the matter of a dilemma. His dragon doctor had advised him that his pump was in such a bad condition that, if he did not do something about his weight soon, he would lose the ability to fly. You should know that dragons have both a heart and a pump. The heart functions pretty much in the same way as ours, pushing the rather turgid dragon blood around the body to visit all stations and deliver the mail. The pump, however, takes the methane produced by the dragon’s digestive processes and pumps it into enormous sacks within its torso to keep them inflated and, as a result, lighter than air. This is why dragons always look rather fat, as though they have just eaten a monstrous meal (they probably have but it’s not what causes the huge bellies). Without this balance against their weight, dragons would not be able to fly. They are really living blimps whose wings do provide some lift, but are much more important for steering, directing, and braking their forward momentum through the air. The methane does give the dragon a secondary bonus in that it is the fuel for the flames it is able to shoot out at will. And knights with other names as well. Anyway, it seems that Rago’s pump was being damaged by his diet of too much ogre and not enough troll. Damsel would have been a fine substitute for the ogre, but they were so hard to find in this day and age. And fairies were hardly a decent source of the fibre needed to stimulate methane production. No, the dilemma for Rago was that his only option, apart from swearing off ogres, was a rigorous exercise regime to reduce his weight. And ogres were his favourite food. Cheap, plentiful and endlessly amenable to a variety of cooking methods, Rago could not see his managing without them. So exercise it must be. And with that came another problem. To exercise, he needed to leave his cave under the mountain to spend several hours flying around and generally burning off the excess fat. Which would leave his hoard unguarded. The very thought was anathema to Rago. You don’t live next door to a colony of thieving dwarves and not know that they are just waiting their chance to nip in and steal as much treasure as their little bodies could carry. If anything likes a bit of shiny metal more than does a dragon, it’s a dwarf. The dilemma gnawed away at Rago, keeping him awake at nights and ruining his enjoyment of his meals. But, no dragon can stand the notion of being flightless. They are ridiculously vulnerable on the ground, being clumsy, slow to move, and an easy target for a knight with a sharp point to deflate one’s methane bags. The decision would have to be made and Rago was the dragon to make it. The hoard must go, he decided. He set a date for his departure into the big, wide world. When it came to it, he could not bear to leave everything. First he slipped a few crowns around his neck, then followed that with a golden torque or two. Then some necklaces set with the largest jewels in his collection. When the stash reached from his shoulders to his muzzle, he stopped. It would have to do, he thought. He staggered with rolling gait and swinging neck toward the entrance to his cave. Once outside, he flapped his wings a little to test the muscles. Then he held his breath, filled his sacks, and tried to take off. His rear quarters left the ground and began to rise into the air. But his front quarters remained solidly on the earth, refusing to move. No matter how he struggled, his front feet (well, they’re hardly paws, are they?) stayed resolutely on the earth, as though glued in place. When he became aware of how undignified a sight he must be, flapping his wings and sticking his rear end way up in the air, he stopped trying and considered his position. He knew that the jewellery was the problem. But, if he were to fly, it had to go. Sadly, he lowered his head and allowed each item to slide down his neck and fall to the ground. Too ashamed at his sudden reduction to penury, he turned his head away and leapt into the air. This time he succeeded and, almost before he knew it, he was gaining speed and starting a series of zigzag curves in space out of sheer delight. He had forgotten how much fun it was to fly. In a field near the village, he spied a flock of sheep with attendant shepherd boy leaning against a rock as he played the panpipes. Rago swooped down to scare the living daylights out of him and the sheep. As the boy dived for cover, Rago grabbed a sheep for lunch later. And, as he flew off looking for more fun and mischief, Rago felt not a pang for his lost hoard and all its treasures. He had discovered that a life of freedom is worth more than all the treasure in the world. House Martell Word count: 950 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Fantasy & Fairy Tale Prompt 23Prompt: Write about a dragon who doesn’t know what to do with their hoard anymore. |
| The Painting Jim’s main problem was daydreaming. It was not that it prevented him from writing but, now that his books were beginning to sell, he had realised that his cover photograph was unsuitable. The choice had been very limited as most of his photos had been lost, and the one used did not really reflect him as he preferred to see himself. Jim wanted something that showed him at his present age, with life and wisdom reflected in the wrinkles that held his craggy features together. He should, perhaps, be resting his chin upon a closed fist, to demonstrate his serious, thoughtful approach. His silver hair could be a little windswept, just enough to show an adventurous spirit. For a while, he considered holding a pipe but discarded the idea as too old fashioned. The blame for his original choice of photo he laid squarely at the feet of John Grisham. The early legal thrillers had shown Grisham as a dashing young fellow with a knowing and worldly wise smile on a tanned and chiselled face. Though Jim loved the books, he hated that self satisfied gigolo that gazed out of their back covers. To compete, he chose a picture of himself in his youth, long before he began to write in earnest, in his hippy stage, all long, romantic hair and smouldering grin. How he hated that photo now. After a few years, Grisham had changed his cover photo for a much later one that showed him as he really was. His older, more weathered, and slightly pudgy visage now gave a much more respectable impression of the writer. Jim realised how silly he looked in his old photo and longed for a better one. He dug out his old camera and took shots of himself from all angles. None were suitable. Having to prepare the camera with delayed shutter and then hurry to assume the required pose, left him with pictures that never said exactly what he wanted. He bought himself a new phone with advanced camera facility and twisted himself into knots, trying to get that perfect pic. Nothing worked. He always ended up looking nothing like his imagination had decided upon, and too much like himself. There were days when he did nothing but stare into the mirror, changing expressions and poses, in search of that moment that said all the best things about his writing ability, while retaining a passing resemblance to himself. He came very close at times,even hitting upon reflections that were so near to the desired result that, had there been some way of freezing the moment, he would have been satisfied with that. It was one of these occasions that produced a possible answer. A painting. There had been a time when Jim had harboured ambitions of being a great artist. At the time, he had acquired sufficient skill in oils to be able to produce a pretty good picture. Though his dreams in that field had withered as writing began to get a grip on him, he reckoned he could still produce a worthy portrait of himself. He and the mirror could work together to create the perfect cover photo. He rushed out to buy a canvas, a few brushes and paints, a new easel and anything else that looked as if it might help. The bathroom was chosen as his studio. The mirror was at exactly the right height and he only needed to see his face and shoulders. Plus, all those polished, hard surfaces of porcelain, tiling, and plastic would be easy to clean afterwards. Jim began the painting gingerly, uncertain of how much of his former ability he had retained. He dabbed at the canvas with little strokes, patting away at it like a pointillist. That did not last long, however. This was not him at all, he realised, and launched into the great, sweeping strokes he remembered from his youth. Very quickly, he had a basic shape representing the head and shoulders. So fast was he working that drops of sweat ran into his eyes and blurred his vision a little. He found that he did not need to see with great precision; his mind held fast to a vision of the pose and expression he desired, and now the mirror was only required for confirmation of detail and nuance of light. He worked far into the night, at last turning from the portrait in exhaustion, and staggering through to fall asleep, fully clothed, upon the bed. In the morning he awoke with a mouth as dry as the Atacama. He felt his way to the kitchen and made some coffee, before wandering through to the bathroom, mug in hand. He wanted to see the portrait in the cold light of day. It waited for him, propped up on its easel, like the head of a very thin and spindly man with legs spread. Jim looked at it in disbelief. The painting was very, very good. He could see at once that it was him. Oh, he had never been a strict realist, attempting to duplicate exactly what the eye saw. And this painting was typical of his old style, with emotion visible in the colours and attack of the brushstrokes. It was the face of Jim laid bare for all the world to see the complex creature that looked back at the world through his eyes. It was really quite exceptional, easily the best thing he’d ever done. Jim went closer to examine the details. In doing so, he became aware of his reflection in the mirror. He turned to look at it. The face in the mirror was the image of the painting. It was not that the portrait looked like him - he looked like the portrait. He was now a colourful, ragged construction of strokes dabbed in feelings intense and absolute. So true to life was the painting that its subject had abandoned reality for the greater expression of creation. House Martell Word count: 997 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Stolen Artifacts Prompt 26Prompt: Write a story about someone trying to paint (or otherwise create) a self-portrait. |
| The Other Tomb Yes, this was the Valley of the Kings, but everyone was agreed that all the tombs had been found now. So Egyptologist, Henry Gardner, was there merely to pay a measure of respect to the great ones who had gone before him. Meaning the archaeologists, of course, not the kings themselves. It was a bit too late for any gesture of honour toward them. So when Henry’s toe stubbed a stone as he plodded across the floor of the valley in the oppressive heat, he thought little of it. But it was just enough to make him turn in curiosity to see what had nearly sent him sprawling from his reverie. It was a sharp edge of stone, ruler straight, that emerged from the sand for a few inches, before disappearing under the surface again. That straightness did not look natural. Henry turned back for a closer look. He brushed more of the sand away with his foot. The straight edge continued for several more inches. Henry bent down and began to dig with his fingers into the sand, deepening the dip before the vertical face of the stone. At the same time, he worked on the edges, widening the exposed area to prevent sand falling in from the sides. The vertical section continued downward and then stopped abruptly at a horizontal surface of rock. Henry was working quickly now, shoving great handfuls of sand out of the hole as he followed the stone’s profile. He had not gone much further when he came upon another sharp edge, this time pointing downward again. He knew now what he had found. It was a flight of stone steps leading down into the ground. To where? he thought. Or what? It couldn’t be a tomb, surely, not out here in the open on the valley floor. All the tombs were in the cliffs that ringed this depression in the desert. As he continued deeper, it became a matter indisputable. These were steps leading down into the ground, presumably to an underground chamber of some sort. If not a tomb, it must surely have some connection to the other tombs in the valley. He stopped and considered what to do. Strictly speaking, he should inform the authorities and then try to get permission to arrange a dig for the site. But he did not know yet what he had found. It might just be a storage room of some kind or even a practice tunnel for the stonemasons to learn their trade. Before he entered the web of bureaucracy that surrounded archaeology these days, he needed to know it was going to be worth it. He hurried back to his camp, grabbed a shovel and called his cook and bearer to assist him. Back at the site, the work progressed at great speed as the afternoon wore on toward night. As the last light crept into the tunnel they had exposed, they reached the end. They stood at a flat stone preventing further progress. The typical caulking around the edges showed where the stone fitted into the space prepared for it. The original stonemason’s emblems were pressed into the now hardened seal. It looked as though the tomb was untouched by robbers. Henry was now convinced that it had to be a tomb. Why seal anything else with an official seal? Dreams of spectacular finds within swept through Henry’s mind and he cast aside all caution. Grabbing a shovel, he began to work away at the seal, digging it out of the crevice to loosen the stone. When he’d finished breaking the seal, he inserted the shovel into the crack and levered at the stone to turn it. Incredibly, it moved and, with the other two helping him, Henry began to walk it slowly back, rocking it from side to side, millimetre by millimetre, until there was a gap between stone and wall at one side. Then they pulled at it with brute force and it moved just enough to create an opening large enough to squeeze inside. Henry forced his way in and then, with trembling hand, switched on his flashlight. The tomb contained nothing but a small box, hardly bigger than a shoebox, on a low pedestal in the middle of an empty room. The box was wooden and Henry knew better than to touch it. Most likely it would crumble into dust with the slightest disturbance. With disappointment yawning in his belly, Henry turned the flashlight to the walls. On the back wall there were some hieroglyphs. He went closer and tried to remember all the symbols. It read, as closely as Henry could decipher it: Here lies Tiddles, the honoured and most heavenly cat of the pharaoh Imhotep, on whom be praise and glory. --ooOoo-- House Martell Word count: 795 For "Game of Thrones" Stolen Artifacts Prompt 9Prompt: A treasure hunter finds a tomb buried beneath the dirt. |
| Raiding History “Why do I have to wear the silly clothes?” asked Hubert. Professor Mannerly continued to make adjustments to the controls to the machine standing in the corner of the laboratory. Without looking up at his assistant, he answered, “To fit in with the period. They’re the normal sort of things worn by an Anglo Saxon freeman in the ninth century. Anything else would make you stand out like a sore thumb. “Fade into the background, that’s what you’ll need to do. And, for pete’s sake, stay away from any chance of being spoken to. I don’t suppose you’ve been keeping up with your lessons on the language, have you, Hubert?” “Well, no. I…” But the Professor was still talking while he fiddled with the fine tuning of some arcane dial on the control panel. “I can only give you twenty-four hours there so you’ll have to work quickly. Don’t take any risks, however. I’d rather you got back safe and sound than to have to wonder forever what happened to you. There’ll be plenty more expeditions after this one. If it’s too difficult to pick something up, just leave it.” “I’ll do me best, Professor,” said Hubert. “I do know a few words of Anglo Saxon, like hello and goodbye, yes and no, so I should be able to get by if I’m asked a question.” “I doubt they’d do anything drastic anyway, even if they did think you a bit strange. Most likely dismiss you as a madman and give you a wide berth. Just be careful, that’s what I’m saying.” “Will do, Professor. These clothes don’t half itch, however. Why do they have to be so scratchy and all?” The Professor seemed to have completed his preparations for he looked up at the assistant. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. It’s the materials that they wore at the time and I know they’re a bit coarse. But the artefacts, Hubert, they’re different. It was the golden age of English art and their jewellery and weapons and the like were really exquisite. Pick a few of those up and we’ll be rich. But even the common stuff is fetching a good price these days. The Dark Ages are becoming popular, Hubert.” “Well, maybe with them that hasn’t gotta go there,” grumbled Hubert. Mannerly shook his head. “Now, Hubert, don’t start that again. We’ve been through it all before and it’s what I pay you for, after all.” Hubert looked at the floor. “Not much, you don’t,” he muttered. “All in good time, said the Professor cheerily. “I’ve promised you a raise if we’re successful.” So Hubert was strapped into the machine, the Professor pressed and pulled all the necessary handles and levers, and his assistant dematerialised from the machine. Mannerly allowed himself a cigar and a rest in his armchair before starting to work on the settings to pull Hubert back in twenty-four hour’s time. He could, of course, have done it immediately, but preferred to experience the real time involved along with Hubert. The man deserved that, at least, since he was the one taking all the physical risk. And Hubert arrived in a place he recognised as England’s green and pleasant land, not far from a little village that would, if his calculations of the Professor’s house address and positioning were correct, would be the centre of Orpington in Hubert’s time. He began the walk through the fields toward it. The houses, quaint affairs of wattle and daub on timber frames under thatched roofs, were clustered rather haphazardly round an open space with a tavern and a mill pond. On the green, a market was in progress, buzzing with activity, animal noises, and the chatter of conversation in a language that sounded very unfamiliar to Hubert. The place was packed with people dressed very much as Hubert was. He decided to mingle but say nothing, whatever happened. In the event, he need not have worried. Everyone was far too involved with their own concerns and Hubert was able to wander through, looking at the wares available in various stalls and tables. There was plenty that could sell for a decent amount in Hubert’s world, but no chance at all of “borrowing” any of it. There were too many people about for that. At the far end of the market, Hubert saw a little stone church standing a way off on its own. Now there, he realised, was a potential source of some pretty valuable things. If he waited until nightfall, he could be in and out of the place very quickly, and then it would heigh-ho for the nineteenth century. He found a suitably hidden spot under a hedge and waited for the sun to go down. As the shadows lengthened, an idea came to him. Instead of taking things back with him, he could bury them here and then return to the place in his own time. Then time would have worked its magic and the process of ageing the items done for him. So it was that midnight found him digging a hole in a carefully chosen and calculated spot in the churchyard. The church would be rebuilt, he knew that, but its position would remain the same. The jewelled cross and several precious receptacles were buried in the satchel he had brought to hold his findings and then Hubert set off across the fields to the interception point. All went well and he arrived back in the professor’s laboratory as expected. Mannerly was there, rubbing his hands with glee and demanding to see what Hubert had brought. And Hubert explained. Mannerley’s face went white as he listened. There was silence when Hubert had finished. Then the professor spoke in a hoarse and high-pitched voice. “I was reading the paper over breakfast this morning. It seems that the grave digger at Orpington church dug up an Anglo Saxon hoard near the church yesterday. Right there in the graveyard. “They say it’s worth millions.” House Martell Word count: 997 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Stolen Artifacts Prompt 8Prompt: In the nineteenth century, there’s a thriving trade in stolen archeological artifacts. Write a story from the perspective of an annoyed, minimum-wage employee whose job is travelling back in time to obtain otherwise unobtainable artifacts, then has to bring them back to the present (the 1800s, that is) and artificially age them before they will sell. |
| Poor Old Hieronymus Bleeg It wasn’t often we had deliveries out there in the backwoods of Amphitrite, a remote planet in the furthest reaches of the Leto Expansion. So it was a surprise to open my door to a knock one day and find a delivery guy outside. He was standing with an order form in one hand, an anti-grav trolley in the other. A tall, rectangular box stood on the trolley. “Hieronymus Bleeg?” he asked. Without thinking, I answered, “No.” “Damn,” he commented, rechecking the order form. Then he looked back at me. “I don’t suppose you’d sign for the thing anyway? Thing is, it’ll take years to transport it back to the depot on Nubia, then who knows how long to sort out the mess and decide who actually ordered it. I’ll be dead and gone before it ever gets where it should be. So you might as well have it and everyone’s happy. ‘Cept Hieronymus Bleeg, of course. And he’s probably forgotten ever asking for it by now.” I had a quick think. My surreptitious look at the order form had given no hint of what was in the box and delivery guys never know nor care about that, so it would be a bit of a lucky dip. And what had I got to lose? “Okay, just dump it in the hallway and I’ll sign the form.” Which I did, hoping I’d spelt Bleeg’s name right. Later, I examined the box before opening it. It was as tall as me and covered with New Sears logos but nothing to indicate what it contained. Inside was another box, this time plain and without labelling. I stripped it off and revealed a woman. She stood there in my living room, totally naked, with me frozen in embarrassment. Oh, don’t get me wrong, there was no mistaking her for a real woman. For a start, her entire body was silver, highly polished, and reflective of her surroundings. But already I was referring to her as a female rather than a machine. Even then, when I had yet to switch her on, she had some strange, attractive power over me. I found the Owner’s Manual buried in the pile of discarded packaging at her feet and sat down to read. It was fascinating stuff, even with the presence of that metallic female hovering nearby. That was the first thing I was going to do - get her some clothes and a bit of dignity to go with them. Couldn’t have her standing at the windows, scaring what few neighbours I had, I reasoned. It was an excuse, of course. The truth was she unsettled me in her nakedness, unused to any sort of company as I was. And with no experience at all of naked females. They are rare creatures indeed in the farthest reaches of the galaxy. The manual informed me that she was a Household Assistant Android mark seven point four two. Fully conversation capable and with optional voice selection. When I thought of the parlous condition of my little house, I could hardly believe my luck. Someone to get the place into shape and a bit of company to boot. It seemed I’d won the lottery. On the last page of the manual there was a little square in which someone had written the name Angela. Angela the Android, I thought. That’s appropriate enough. I turned her on through the simple but embarrassing expedient of opening the hatch between her breasts and flicking the relevant switch, then set her to clearing up the packaging mess. While she did that, I nipped next door and persuaded Ozzie’s wife, Sheila, to part with an old dress she was never likely to wear again. Angela put it on as though she’d been dressing herself all her life. Then she cleaned and tidied the house with incredible speed. I could not believe how easy she made it look. But then, I guess she was designed for it. She was also interesting to talk to and we got into the habit of spending most days deep in conversation as we came to know each other. Oh, I know you’re thinking of some pretty weird stuff by now, but I’m far too old for that. It was just wonderful having someone to talk to. And then one day, she told me how she was made. I knew already that scientists had worked for centuries to create an organic-based computer, on the assumption that only that way could a computer be designed to think the way we do. And nothing had worked until a hundred or so years ago. They’d discovered that a human brain could be persuaded to unite with digital computers and so give access to all that humans are capable of. Which is great until you begin to wonder where they could get the brains to create such creatures. In the end, they found a source and it wasn’t pretty. Angela was chosen when she hit a series of bad luck decisions and found herself at the bottom of society. She woke up one morning in the body of a machine. I was horrified and couldn’t wait to get out and raise a rebellion against such evil. But Angela calmed me down with the thought that nothing could help her now. “And our chances of ever raising more than a feeble outcry in some backwoods colony are pretty low. I dare say we’d both be dead long before we even got that far. “No, Andy, I’m happy to live out my days far from the centres of the vicious power that designed me. I want nothing more than to spend what time I have in conversation with you, looking at the stars, and being content with what we have. It’s more than most achieve, you know.” I looked out from the porch at the galaxy wheeling through the night sky and knew that she was right. House Martell Word count: 990 For "Game of Thrones" , The North Remembers, Stolen Artifacts Prompt 3Prompt: A package arrives at your character’s house, but they didn’t order anything. Write about what happens next. |
| The Hunter Hunted Vulpen lifted his head and listened intently. That last kill had dulled his senses as the fresh meat filled his belly and lulled him into contentment. He had been dozing off when a distant sound had somehow penetrated his languor and propelled him into full awareness. It was a sound like a human voice, so far off as to be indistinct, but out of place in the deep woods. A sound that meant either prey or hunter, something to be wary of instinctively. He stood up and moved away from the body of the man he had been feeding on. Vulpen had taken him for a lone hiker, probably lost and wandering in circles, but was there a companion somewhere? He listened for the sound to come again. It did and was immediately followed by another, apparently answering it. At least two of them then, thought Vulpen. They were too muffled by distance for the words to be discerned, but clear enough to put the matter beyond doubt. And then the smell reached his werewolf nostrils. Thin, it was, woven as a strand among the vast background of the forest trees and decay and moss and trickling water and hidden creatures beneath the dead needles from the pines. Just one strand, but so distinctive and unnatural midst the rest, that it stood out as a single purple thread in a sheet of white linen. So noticeable it was, with its acrid scents of sweat and chemicals, leather and plastic and urine. Then more voices came to his ears and Vulpen knew what was happening. There were many voices, slightly nearer now and spread out in a line, calling to each other. A search party, and it was heading his way. They must be looking for the one he had killed, he reasoned. The idiot must have been lost for longer than Vulpen had thought, and now they had found the man’s camp and were tracking his movements from there. Which meant that it wouldn’t be long before they found the remains of Vulpen’s meal. It was time to be moving on. He turned and began walking deeper into the forecast, away from the increasing sounds from the searchers. There was no hurry; it would be a while before their search became a hunt. Ten minutes later he heard the sudden increase in shouts and sounds behind him that meant they had found the body. There was no mistaking the horror and anger in the voices, the growing stench of adrenaline in the air. Then the sounds spread out to right and left of him, definite signs that their motivation had taken on a new meaning and a more dangerous intent. Vulpen broke into that tireless and liquid lope inherent in the blood of his ancestors. In that darkest of the night hours, he headed for the black heart of the forest, a place that even he seldom visited. He could lose them there, he was sure. But still there was no need to panic. If it came to that, he could run much faster than mere humans. And they remained several minutes behind, though it was clear that they had found his trail. The stream could help with that, he thought. He changed direction slightly to angle down the slope toward the water, still in that easy lope that he could keep up all night if necessary. Then he was at the stream and stepped into the cold and chattering flow over its stony bed. Downstream he went, determined that no trail of muddied water would flow past his entrance point to give away his chosen direction. It would take him in the wrong direction for a while, but he could bend round after leaving the stream and still find a way to the deeper forest. The noises came more clearly now that he was closer to the left arm of the attack. It seemed that they might even get ahead of him and, unnerved slightly, he left the stream earlier than he had intended and began the run back toward the darker parts of the forest. The trees closed in, ever closer together. Now the pursuit on the other side seemed too close and Vulpen picked up his pace to a trot. No need to panic, he told himself. The extra speed allowed him to increase his advantage again and concern slipped away from his mind. He slowed to a lope again. And then he heard cries rising up from the woods before him. Somehow they had a group that had completed the circle and was closing in on him. Of course, he thought, they must have radioed ahead and now another search party was zeroing in from there. He stopped, needing to think of a plan. Still no need to panic. He could hide and let them pass by. Once outside the circle, that would be it, he could run then and leave them with nothing to find but cold and darkness. Looking around, he saw the perfect place to hide. An old tree had fallen and was lying over a rock that emerged from the pine needles littering the ground. Bushes had grown up around the tree so that they hid whatever space remained between the tree and the earth. A perfect hidey hole. Relieved at this solution to his problem, Vulpen lifted his leg against the tree. As the golden liquid streamed out, he saw the mist rising from its passage though the cold air and smelt the fierce stink of a werewolf’s urine. So strong was it that even a human nose could detect it. Damn, he thought. That’s one bit of territory I shouldn’t have marked. It’s time to panic. Word count: 957 For: "Game of Thrones" , The North Remembers, What’s His Story Prompt 43Prompt: It wasn't quite yet time to panic. There was still time to salvage the situation. |
 Sharif The road ahead was scattered with dark shapes, in places low heaps of the same formless objects gathered together. Auberon held up a hand and his band of mounted ruffians brought their horses to a halt. He stood in the stirrups and turned his head to survey the flat, featureless plain to the horizon. Nothing moved in that empty waste, shimmering in the heat. He relaxed back into the saddle. “If it’s an ambush, it’s a damn good one,” he announced. “Hold on here while I take a look.” With a jab of his heels, he encouraged the horse to walk forward, while he shaded his eyes from the burning sun. He peered at the shapes, becoming aware that he had been right in his initial assessment of them. They were bodies, lying flat on the baked earth of the desert and made shapeless by the robes they wore. The larger objects were dead camels, sprawled in weird attitudes amongst the corpses. Auberon halted his horse at the edge of the carnage. He knew this road was famed for its ransacking of caravans, but he had not expected this level of wanton slaughter. There was a difference between taking a toll on the passing trade and obliterating whole groups of men and camels. Whichever band of ruthless criminals was responsible for this atrocity, he wanted nothing to do with them. He turned in the saddle and waved his men forward. They did not linger at the scene. The men were silent in the face of such evidence of cruel slaughter and they moved past the dead with eyes averted. No one suggested that they search the bodies for anything the murderers had missed; they wanted to be on the open road and far from the place. It was two days later and the flat and parched desert had given way to low hills of tortured rock, before Auberon and his bandits came upon any sign of life in that forsaken land. They were travelling up a dry wadi between steep hills when the sounds of battle reached them from ahead. Auberon ordered an increase in pace and, at the next bend in road, they were presented with the cause of the racket. It was, indeed, a battle, a confusing melee of warriors, all on foot, apparently every individual fighting another, the similarity of dress making it almost impossible to decide for which side they fought. It might have been just a street brawl were it not clear that these were men accustomed to the blow and parry of spear and sword, the skillful use of shield in defence. Auberon kept his men out of it while he tried to make sense of the fray. It did not take him long. Some of the warriors had a spike emerging from the top of their turbans, clear indication of a helmet underneath. And from the tip of each spike there floated a short and narrow strip of red cloth, a sure sign of allegiance to Akbar Ali Bilol, the sharif of those parts. This decided the matter for the watching bandit. If he could gain the favour of the sharif, the very least of gratitude would be for him to grant the band access to a well and passage through his land. “Let us join the party,” said Auberon. “We fight for the red flags of the sharif.” The little band of ruffians went thundering on their horses into the fight. So unexpected was their sudden assault that it broke up very quickly, the red flagged realising their sudden advantage and beating their opponents into submission and flight. The bandits chased them for a short distance, then returned to the sharif’s men. Their leader was Husan Hidayat, a man Auberon had dealt with before, when he fought for another ruler in a different land. He stepped forward with hand extended to greet Auberon as he arrived. “Salaam, Auberon! It’s been many years since I last saw you. And your intervention is most welcome. It was a hard fight we had with those scum.” “Salaam to you too, Husan,” said Auberon, taking the proffered hand. “Who were those men and what is your quarrel with them?” “Just a bunch of wandering robbers and cutthroats. Their evil reputation arrived before them and I decided to remove them from the sharif’s lands. But what are you doing here, Auberon? It’s a long way from Samarkand.” Auberon shrugged. “Oh, I move around a lot these days. And no more than you, it seems.” He gestured with his head at the group of warriors standing nearby. “But I think I came across the handiwork of those robbers on the road a few days ago. You were right to get rid of them; they are black-hearted murderers.” “Well, I am sure the sharif will pay them handsomely for their deeds when he sees them. He does not take kindly to those who prey on the caravans in his land. But you must come with me to meet him, Auberon. He is not a rich man but rules wisely and justly in his limited domain.” “That would be well,” said Auberon. “I need to see him anyway to talk of passage though this land.” Husan grabbed Aberon’s shoulder. “And you shall have it as a gift when I have told him of your deeds this day. The sharif is generous to those who serve the righteous.” “You flatter me, Husan. I have done no more than any man would do in the circumstances.” Suddenly Husan bowed deeply before him. “And the king of kings has become the prince of bandits. I was ever your servant.” Auberon shook his head and lifted the man to his feet. Word count: 957 For: "Game of Thrones" , The North Remembers, What’s His Story Prompt 32Prompt: He realized there had been several deaths on this road, but his concern rose when he saw the exact number. |
| Antibe Antibe fumbled in the darkness, looking for the light switch. It had to be here, it was always here. But the wall receded from his touch, leaving him with a void that might be ended just a few inches away or, equally, it could go on and on in the inky blackness, leading him ever onward until he fell into some pit or trap unseen. This is ridiculous, he told himself. You can’t get lost in your own basement. And walls don’t suddenly change position so that you can go wandering round forever. That blasted light switch is here somewhere, and I’ve just got turned around and looking in the wrong direction somehow. And then his fingers touched the wall. He walked them around, looking for the switch. Then felt them stepping on to living skin and flesh. Someone else had a hand on the wall. “What the hell?” Antibe blurted. “Who the heck are you?” “Victor,” returned a male voice. “And you?” “Never mind that. What the hell are you doing in my basement?” “Looking for the light switch,” said the voice. “I tried asking the computer, but either you haven’t got one, or I’m using the wrong name for it.” “I don’t use a computer to turn on the lights,” said Antibe. “There’s a switch on that wall somewhere. Find it and turn them on.” There was a click and the basement was suddenly flooded with light. Victor was standing by the switch, eyes squinting in the sudden brightness. He was about the same height and build as Antibe, perhaps a little slimmer, but his hair was cropped close to his head, unlike Antibe’s wild and curly variant. It was his clothes that held Antibe’s attention, however. The stranger was dressed in what could have been a uniform, a one-piece covering that jacketed his entire body apart from his hands and shoes on his feet. The material was slightly shiny and seemed to conform to the body underneath very tightly, for at no point did it wrinkle or fold. It was like a blue-grey second skin, stretching and shrinking to follow the body underneath whenever it moved. A belt with little compartments and buttons surrounded the man’s waist and guards like an archer’s wrapped his wrists. The man was talking while Antibe took in the sight of the weird suit. “Sorry. They told me you guys already have computer-driven households. It didn’t even occur to me to look for a switch.” “No, some people have that sort of thing but I think it’s creepy. Much prefer doing things for myself.” Antibe dragged his eyes from the suit up to the man’s face. His skin seemed perfect, without a wrinkle or blemish anywhere, so monotone, in fact, that the face looked as if it belonged on a plastic dummy. A thought crossed Antibe’s mind. “Who are ‘they’?” “Ah,” said Victor. “I thought we’d get to that. Just not so quickly, is all.” Antibe was not to be deflected. “So what’s the answer?” “They’re the ones that sent me on this little expedition. It’s all a bit experimental at the moment so arrival point is a bit variable. I wasn’t expecting this, for instance.” Victor looked around at the bare and dusty basement. “Oh well, that’s very encouraging, to know that they are not really interested in my basement. What sort of experiment and where are you based?” Victor sighed. “I’ll answer your questions but you’ll have to be quick and accept them without argument. I haven’t got much time…” He paused there, stuck a finger to his temple, concentrated for a second, then continued. “Just nine minutes, in fact, and then I’ll be called back. And I have to take you with me.” Antibe stared at him. “What? Take me where? And how’re you gonna make me?” “The future,” answered Victor. “Where else did you think I came from? You should have guessed by now.” “No way. Even if I believed you, I wouldn’t go. I have a life here, you know. And there’s nothing to say you’ve not broken in from next door and are planning to kidnap me. You’re just a scam artist.” Victor put a finger to his temple again. “Seven minutes,” he said. Antibes looked suddenly concerned. “You’re joking, aren’t you?” And, when Victor shook his head in denial, Antibe continued, “Why would you want a useless bloke like me, anyway? I mean, I’m nothing special and…” “Wasting time,” said Victor. “Just your bad luck, that’s all. Can’t let you stay behind to spread tales about time travellers and so on. It’s all in the regulations.” “I’ll fight you for it,” said Antibe, a bit too hesitatingly to be believed. “Three minutes,” said Victor. “You can try but you aren’t going to win. I could hypnotise you like that…” His fingers snapped and Antibe’s eyes went glassy. His arms fell nervelessly to his sides. Victor snapped his fingers again and continued, “Or you can come quietly and enjoy the experience.” Antibe did not know what had just happened but he felt the weirdness of coming to the surface after long immersion. Or what seemed like it. His anger subsided to be replaced by fear. “How long now?” he asked. Victor felt his temple. “A minute,” he answered. “We’d better get ready. Which way is it going to be, quietly or or in a coma?” “You’re the boss,” said Antibe. “Good.” Victor took his arm and they stood there in the basement as though waiting for a bus. Then they seemed to stretch upward until they began to disappear through the ceiling. They were gone and the light clicked off. It was several days before Antibe’s neighbours began to wonder if he had been abducted by aliens, as he had always maintained was possible. House Martel Raven Task # 3 (x5) Word count: 967 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, What’s His Story Prompt 12Prompt: He fumbled in the darkness looking for the light switch, but when he finally found it there was someone already there. |
 Her Grace has an Idea The Duchess of Moretonshire, Her Grace Jane de Saville Burnley Compton-Arden, was worried. Not that a shadow of it marred her usual set expression of determined good humour, but John Baines, the groundsman, detected lately a certain edge to their discussions of the finances of the estate. There was a new desperation evident in her quest to increase the income from their agricultural efforts, as limited as they were by the absence of hands to assist. She pressed him often for his thoughts on profitable new crops that she could handle on her own. It was the common difficulty facing all the grand old estates, this shortage of money to hire workers to expand farming activities to greater output and prosperity. Her Grace’s singlehanded efforts, assisted by John where and when he could, to produce enough to support the family home and those few servants left to the household, were but a doomed rearguard action against the mounting debts and dues owed by the estate. Bankruptcy loomed. The irony lay in the fact that John was already aware of a crop that could save them all and could be handled easily by her Grace without outside assistance. The problem was that it was, at least for the moment, illegal. Yes, it seemed that the mood of the country was moving toward legalisation, but it was going to be too late to save them. John fretted away many sleepless nights as he sought another solution, one that did not threaten Her Grace with arrest and humiliation. Things came to a head on a bright morning in spring during their daily conference by the shed in the vegetable garden. The groundsman thought Her Grace particularly burdened that day and wavered in his resolve not to mention the forbidden possibility. “There has to be a solution, John,” Her Grace was saying. “It’s not just the estate but everyone on it, the villagers in Ambly, the creditors like Barnsley the butcher and Warburton’s Bakery, all of those hanging on with us in hope. We have to find the crop that we can grow in quantity and gain a decent income.” “I know, Your Grace. I’m thinking on it daily, all the time.” There was silence for a time and then Her Grace began, “I think I might have thought of it, John.” She looked at him earnestly, as though she was unsure of how he would respond to her suggestion. The groundsman regarded her with a look he thought encouraging but could easily have been disapproval. “I’m all ears, Your Grace.” She pouted like a little girl. “You won’t like it,” she said. It was time to get it out in the open. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Your Grace. It sounds to me as if I already know what you’re thinking of.” He turned away to look at the sunlight bright on the horizon of the gathering dawn. “Been wondering myself how to put it to you, it being, well, frowned upon and all.” “Oh, John, really? And I’ve been so worried that you’d refuse to be involved. I know I can’t do it on my own. Didn’t even dare to say its name.” “Ah well, no need to do that, Your Grace. I knew a young lady once and she knew all about it. Her name was Mary Jane, as I recall.” Her Grace laughed, relief quite evident in her relaxed pose and lack of self consciousness. “That’s wonderful, John. I think we have an understanding.” John allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “Indeed we do, Your Grace.” “We’ll have to clear out the greenhouses,” she said, suddenly all business and eagerness to set to. “I’d be grateful if you could clean the glass - the moss is beginning to cover some of the panes and I don’t think I can reach some of the higher ones, even on a ladder.” “Will do, Your Grace.” “And the marketing. I don’t know anyone in the business, I’m afraid.” John scratched his chin in thought. “There’s one or two I know that should be able to help in that way,” he said. Her Grace was thinking aloud now in her excitement. “The trestle tables will do and then there’s lots of old pots and containers we can use for starters. I’d like to get the sprinkler system going again if I can and I think there’s some bags of potting soil in the shed. We might need to buy a few things but I’m sure we’ve enough to get started. Plenty of tools and, oh…” She stopped in mid flow. “Seeds, John. Where are we going to get seeds?” “I’ll handle that, Your Grace.” “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.” She seemed about to go and then took a step closer to the groundsman. “Just one more thing, John. Don’t say a word about this to the Old Duke, please. You know the way he is, a bit set in his ways and stuffy with it. Something like this could give him a heart attack. “Oh, and no sense mentioning it to the staff either. You know how tongues can wag, especially down in the village and in the Red Lion.” John passed a finger across his lips in a zipping motion. “My lips are sealed.” He winked conspiratorially. House Martel Raven Task # 3 (x5) Word count: 883 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, What’s Her Story Prompt 31Prompt: Write a story that includes the line “my lips are sealed.” |
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