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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. |
| Oklahoma Out there in the west of Oklahoma on the road to Amarillo, the wind blows heavy on the dry, dusty land, abandoned houses lean in weariness, the towns are small and dreaming of a time when the signs were unbleached, and the vast white sky swallowed the voices of children Dwindled are they, the children, grown and gone to the city where life is easy and the pace hot with the urgency of tomorrow, and the fear that the shine wears from the comforts of yesterday. They wonder now at the emptiness they feel. And back home in Oklahoma, the old folks sit on the porch in the sun and the dry, missing the kids but knowing why, their place is here in the past, for who else will tend the memories? Word count: 132, lines 25 Free verse The North Remembers, Travel Marvel Prompt 29 Prompt: A godforsaken town in Oklahoma and you're stuck there! |
| Trencherman Trolls You may think that they’re just bone grinders but in feasting there is nothing finer for trolls are really kings of the board their cuisine is most truly fit for a lord From fried worms and fricasseed bugs they progress to a dish made with slugs all squishy and black, the gourmet’s delight that’ll set indigestion to rights And then the pièce de resistance way beyond the call of subsistence is roadkill of rat all roasted in goo and served with a hot skewer askew In case you’re concerned about salads there’s plenty of green with the mallards and veggies galore from here to the door there’s no way you can hanker for more Potatoes with eyes that blink in the light cabbages striped with purple and white chef’s favourite, a cave fungus has a stench that is truly humungous Then when you are full, wash it all down with water suspicious and brown and sit back and enjoy the rest of the show The Trollettes and their sister the O gre. Word count: 172, lines 25 Rhymed aabb For Westeros, Delicious Delights Prompt: Must be food related! |
| Car “No, don’t come out, you d…” The world is reduced to a sound, a loud, horrendous, gut-tearing bang, a frozen moment like the neck of an hourglass when the infinite passes through as a grain of sand and nothing exists beyond this assault on the eardrums and awareness. Then the world through the windscreen turns slowly upside down as movement flashes back into existence. He is reminded of One Acre Fair when the field was filled with amusement rides and their tinny music and the screams of fear and delight from the revellers and his boyhood self wandering though the crowds, hand in pocket and playing with the few coins he’d saved for this time when the carnival came to town and set up their crazy rides once more. There was never enough money for all the things he wanted, but he ruled out the really insane ones without a thought. He saw little joy in scaring himself to death by being hurled through space and turned upside down and twisted into sick-making convolutions of supersonic movement. No, he preferred to have at least some control, a wheel to turn or a direction to lean into a predictable alteration of course. The dodgem cars were always top of the list and then the Whip, that was a must do. Don’t forget about the sideshows too, the rifle gallery and the coconut shy and other things where you stood a chance of winning something. So many things to do and try and just these few coins to buy his way to adventure. He becomes aware of a sound increasing in magnitude, a tearing, shrieking sound that penetrates the ear with its high-pitched scream like a million fingernails scraping across a chalkboard, setting his mind on edge with the desperate wish for it to stop. The world is still upside down and he wonders why he is not falling, then remembers the belt holding him fast to the seat. His hands are still holding the wheel and now the roof is beginning to press down on his head, not fiercely but firmly, just requiring that he bend forward a little. Sparks are flying by the side window, a river of bright light. And now he is trapped in one of those X-ray machines at the dentist where the head is held in a vice-like grip while the machine travels round his face, humming to itself. It’s too tight, it’s going to crush him like a stinkbug, he feels the panic rising as he tries to escape the pressure but he cannot move. The machine does not care as it traverses its unhurried path before his eyes, ignoring his fluttering eyes and need to twist against the immovable hold that forces him to be still. Outside, the shrieking noise ceases suddenly, and he can see that they, the car with himself inside, have left the road and burst through a hedge. As if in a dream, the ground trundles by, inches from what is now the top of the windscreen and he wonders where the front of the car has gone, unless it is ploughing its furrow through the earth as they travel, so slowly above it. And yet it is not slow, for he can see that twigs and flowers and seedheads are being stripped off the vegetation as they pass, like some monstrous lawnmower blade slicing its way though their ranks, and the clippings all leaping and somersaulting lazily through the air past his face. The screen must have gone, he realises, and now notices that thousands of little pieces of glass are jumping and playing with the clippings in their flight. And then he is marching out to the front lawn, carrying the old mower in one hand, determined to get that lawn mowed, as though this time it would stay mowed forever. As usual, he has left it too long and the grass fights the mower, choking it at times, so that the chore becomes hard labour, which is why he always puts it off so long. But now, when the worst of it has been done, he is beginning to find enjoyment in the patterns he is making. Should he mow in a spiral, gradually drawing in from the edges to the centre? Or should he do it in lines laid side by side like soldiers on parade, or even try to make more complex designs on the little square of lawn? Through the screen an upside down tree is approaching, the car drawn to it with unerring aim. It is a big tree and it will stop this wild career, he knows that. There is a massive quality to its trunk that denies the possibility of it ever being defeated. He wishes that he could identify its type but he knows so few varieties, only the usual and easy ones like oak and copper beech and rowan and silver birch. Colour does help, obviously, but tree people seem to think it’s the shape that matters and show you pictures that are supposed to make it clear which is what but only look identical to him. And now the tree is getting close and still they are travelling way too fast as the vegetation sails gently by his face to show that this leisurely pace is an illusion, a function merely of the mind speeding up with the adrenaline it is soaked in. He can see every detail of the bark as they draw ever nearer, the rough and deeply pitted crannies, the lichen and moss scattered in grey and green competition of life. He realises they are too close and at this speed they are g… Word count: 952 For The North Remembers, Travel Marvel Prompt 13 Prompt: Set your entire story in a car. |
| Lighthouse This was the third night of the storm. From the window near the top of the winding staircase, Arnold watched the dark ocean heaving and raging at the lighthouse’s foundation rock. Lightning gave sudden, startling visions of the rain and wind wrestling with the waves and the intermittent beam from the lantern above swept through the night, veiled in squalls of spray and driven rain. Arnold hadn’t seen a storm this bad for more than five years. And that was the one that had taken the Henrietta Marques. He’d been assistant keeper at the time and he and old Harry Norne had had gone out into the storm to rescue those they could. There hadn’t been many. Most of the crew were gone, either ripped apart when the old ship broke her back on the rocks, or drowned and smashed between the lashing waves and hard bones of the tiny island. It was a sad, half frozen little group that huddled in the shelter of the lighthouse when all hope had gone. The constant vibration under his feet, caused by the ocean’s hammering away at the lighthouse rock, brought Arnold back to the present. He was the keeper now, promoted after Harry’s death last spring. And no assistant had been appointed as yet. Not that Arnold minded. He preferred his own company and the daily routine of maintenance demanded by the job. A new workmate would only force him to adjust his ways to fit with another. Arnold was not good with societal niceties and he knew it. That was why he’d applied for the job in the first place. And then, in the darkness interrupted at intervals by the lightning and the lantern beam, he saw another light, just a flash, far off and close to the horizon. His eyes narrowed in the effort to pierce the darkness and see the light again. It came, another brief stab of light, and was gone. It had to be a ship, way out in the ocean and deep in the troughs between the waves, its masthead light showing only when the vessel was carried high enough on the swell. Arnold watched intently as the light came again and again. He expected it to travel in a westerly direction, the usual route past his little outpost. But the light stayed resolutely in one place, only growing slightly brighter as time passed. Arnold realised that the ship must be heading directly toward him, as though attracted like a moth to the lighthouse lantern. But surely the crew must know that his light meant something to be avoided, that he warned only of danger that could kill them all? Still the light grew brighter, and now it held steady for longer, only swinging in great arcs through the blackness as the ship rode the waves. It looked as though… Arnold turned away, hurried down the stairs, taking huge steps in his haste. Once down on the ground floor, he threw open the closet and yanked his oilskins from the peg. It was a matter of moments before he had shrugged his way into them, then he was kicking off his shoes, to be replaced with his high, waterproof boots. The sou’wester was last and then he was rattling at the door handle, desperate to drag it open. The wind sucked at it from outside, as though bent on preventing him, and then suddenly relented and bent its full force on it. The door slammed open and Arnold fought his way through the gale to exit the house. The shock of the cold and wind battered at him so that he stumbled but he held his own against it, determined that, if the ship were going to wreck upon his rock, he be there to help the men to safety. He staggered to the seaward side of the lighthouse. The ship’s light was closer now, visible most of the time, and the great, dark bulk of the vessel sensed rather than seen, below it. It was very close. Arnold braced himself against the wall of the lighthouse and waited for the ship to hurl itself on the rocks. There was no way to warn it of the danger and too late for it to turn aside. It came on, growing taller and darker as its vague outline began to hide the lightning flashes from far out at sea. On came the enormous darkness until it towered over Arnold and he realised the danger that he himself was in. At this rate and course, the ship must crash directly on to the rocks, riding them until it reached the lighthouse and crushed him like a bug beneath its vast weight. Pinned against the wall by the ferocity of the gale, Arnold watched in horror as the bows towered above him, seemingly pausing for a brief moment as the hull groaned and shrieked across the rocks. And then the lightning flashed immediately overhead, illuminating the scene in a white light of intense and searing brightness. Arnold could read the name of the ship in that instant, in clear white lettering emblazoned either side of the bow. Henrietta Marques it read. And then the ship disappeared and Arnold was left alone, untouched, in the howling rain and wind. Word count: 880 For: "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Travel Marvel, Prompt 9 Prompt: Set your story in a lighthouse surrounded by powerful gale-force winds. |
 Zorba The old man harumphed in disbelief. “Zorba?” he said. “You play the theme from Zorba and then ask me about inspiration from it? And you ask such a thing when my whole life has been an inspiration from Zorba? If I spoke to you for the rest of your life, I wouldn’t be able to tell you the half of it.” He broke off to produce a handkerchief from somewhere and wiped away the spittle that was beginning to dribble from his mouth. “Age is a terrible thing,” he said as he bent to one side to replace the rag in his pocket. “Your body betrays you and your mind emigrates to go live in the past.” He was silent for a while and I wondered whether he had forgotten about Zorba. Then he looked up and began again. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. There’s a story in Zorba, a small story, just a chocolate chip inserted into the chocolate cake you bought, a tiny story within a story that has lots of little stories to tell. And each of them has something to say, but I’ll tell you just this one. Then you might begin to understand. “Because it’s Greek, you know? Zorba is Greek and his story is about Greece and the Greeks and Zorba too. And the Greeks have millions of stories. They’re worth listening to because they’re an old people and have learned much. “Zorba and a young Englishman arrive in this village on a little Greek island where the Englishman has inherited a mine. There is a young widow living in this village and one day the Englishman meets her in the street. Nothing is said but the young man develops an immediate crush on her. She is no great beauty but has an austere mystery about her and an intense pride in her devotion to her dead husband. “Intensity, that is the widow in essence. She is Greek and, as a result, loves to the full and hates with as much passion. And she is hated by the men of the village because they all desire her but she will have none of them. Of course, the women hate her too, because they know their men want her. “In the village is a young man, the son of a rich trader, who loves the widow and who, like the rest, has been rejected by her. This man gazes after her and longs for her, but she does not care or bend to him. “Instead, the widow has fallen for the Englishman and, after fighting it for a long time, she gives in and they spend a night together. The rich man’s son sees what is happening for he watches always from the shadows. In the morning, he is found dead among the rocks by a cliff face. He has killed himself rather than continue in his life of pain and denial. “The widow is filled with remorse when she learns of his death. She blames herself and goes to his funeral in sorrow. The villagers are angry at her presence and drive her away from the ceremony. They follow and corner her in a field where Zorba attempts to defend her. While his back is turned, they begin to throw stones and Zorba is pushed aside in the press. “The villagers, all of them, both men and women, stone the widow to death. It is a savage and shocking scene but, like all the other stories in Zorba, it has lessons to teach. “For every person in Zorba has a story, the Englishman who comes to know how to live a life full and without fear, the widow, the rich man’s son, the once glorious but now faded French lady that Zorba raises to a last joyful shout, and Zorba himself who lives a life of impossible intensity and carries the stories of a million others in himself. “It’s an education, young man. You should go see the movie and read the book. Mr. Kazantzakis knew very well what he was writing and it’s all in there.” He stopped then, and wiped his face with the handkerchief again. I waited but it seemed that nothing more was forthcoming. I ventured a question. “You said that the story inspired your life. Can you tell me in what ways it has done that?” The old man gave me a tired look. “Tax me to my grave, would you? Well, I’ll tell you how the widow inspired me, but you must remember that I found inspiration in all the other stories too. “She inspired me because I found my own Greek widow. Except she isn’t Greek. Danish American as it turns out. Sounds like a sandwich, doesn’t it? But she’s the real thing and I had to wait until we were both old before I found her. And, so far, no one has wanted to stone us. No doubt they’ll get to it in time. “But I’ll live every moment until then.” Word count: 838 For: "Game of Thrones"  The North Remembers, Musically Challenged, Prompt 3Prompt: Zorba the Greek, songs for inspiration. |
| Seven Erik was about to hit the 11 button when the girl stumbled into the elevator, heels click-clacking on the hard floor. Her face was buried in the parcels she was hugging to her chest, but one eye peered around the edge of the pile to look at him. “Nine, please,” she said. Erik moved his finger down to the 9 button, clicked it, and returned to 11. It settled into its bed with a reassuring click when he pressed it. Both of them then lifted their eyes to watch the numbered lights come on in turn, the girl still peeking around her parcels. The numbers glowed in obedient progression as they counted out the floors. The elevator hummed with speed and a slight vibration, allowing some sense of its rapid ascension. Two pairs of eyes were held in rapt attention on their progress as the silent tension between two strangers in an enclosed space increased. And then the elevator stopped with a lurch. The light had frozen at floor 7 but the doors remained closed. The two passengers looked at each other. “I guess it’s stuck,” said Erik. “I didn’t touch anything.” “Press the emergency button,” she suggested. “Or maybe there’s a phone or something.” Erik studied the panel. There was one button separate from the serried ranks of the rest. It had a picture of a bell on it. He pressed it. Nothing happened. “Maybe it rings somewhere else,” he said. “The janitor’s office, perhaps.” “Is there no phone?” she asked. “It might be behind a panel. They do that sometimes.” There was no sign of a panel anywhere on the board. Erik turned to look around at the walls of the elevator. There was nothing that looked as though it might be a small cupboard with a phone inside. “No, nothing that I can see. Why don’t you put those parcels down? We might be in here for a while.” She turned and awkwardly piled the parcels in a corner. Her sombre business suit fitting perfectly and her dark hair, carefully controlled in a severe bun, told a story of a serious lady on the way up, a creature of the boardrooms and offices. She was pretty but with a no nonsense air about her expression when she straightened and faced Erik. “D’you have a cell phone?” “Ah, good point,” said Erik as his hand dived for an inside pocket. It retrieved the inevitable dark slab of technical genius and his thumb hammered at its screen. After a moment, he shook his head, and started to hold it up at different angles, obviously looking for reception. “Looks like we’re outa luck,” he muttered. “Can you try?” “Left mine in the car,” she said. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait for the janitor. My name’s Franki, by the way. Franki with an i.” “Erik,” he replied, then added, “Do you put a little heart over it?” She shot him a sour look. For a moment Erik cursed his mischievous humour, but then she smiled and said, “As a matter of fact, I do.” The smile completely transformed her face. From being a person in the crowd, one of thousands of career-bent women in the city, stalwartly keeping their noses to the grindstone, she became a vision of perfect beauty, a creature so stunning that Erik had to turn away and pretend to look at the ceiling in search of… What? There was a sort of trapdoor set into the roof of the elevator. Of course there was a trapdoor, he thought. There was always a trapdoor in elevators. At least, so the movies maintained. He pointed at it. “A trapdoor,” he said. “Maybe we could…” “You could try.” The voice made it very clear who was to do the trying. Erik reached up to the ceiling. The trapdoor was inches from his stretching fingers. He gathered himself and jumped. His fingers collided with the door, lifting it slightly, and it slid sideways a bit so that a sliver of darkness beyond was revealed in one corner of the square. A few more jumps and he had pushed the door aside and they were looking at an empty square of darkness in the ceiling. “Can you climb up there?” asked Franki. “Don’t know till I try.” Erik took a breath then wound himself up and leaped upward, arms at full stretch and fingers seeking a handhold. He caught the edge of the opening and held on. “Can you sorta give me a boost upward?” he asked breathlessly. She leapt forward, grabbed his legs and shoved upward. At the same time he levered himself up and managed to get an elbow on to the roof. After that, it was a wriggle and a heave and he clambered on to the top of the elevator. It was not as dark as it had seemed. He could see the walls quite clearly and, to his astonishment, a door was set at exactly the height needed for them to step from the elevator and through the door. If it would open. A round, perfectly ordinary handle beckoned. Erik crouched down and spoke through the trapdoor. “There’s a door up here,” he said. “If I can pull you up, we should be able to open the door and escape.” She looked unconvinced but seemed prepared to try, so Erik reached an arm down to her. In the event, she was much lighter than Erik had expected, and a brief struggle brought her up to the elevator roof with him. They looked at the door. Erik reached out, gripped the handle and turned. The door opened and brilliant light flooded in. With the door wide open and their eyes becoming accustomed to the light, they could see beyond into a place of green fields, flowers, and the sun beaming down from a blue sky. She breathed a word. “Magic.” He held out a hand, she took it and they stepped out into a fantasy. Word count: 999 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, What’s His Story? Prompt 7Prompt: Write about two people striking up an unlikely friendship. |
 Daisy His face wrinkled with glee and his long, bony fingers tangled themselves in a knot of apparent ecstasy as he described his plan. “Yes, yes, an exploding daisy! They’ll not be expecting that. And curiosity kills the cat, they’ll not resist. So many cats at so many daisies and then, poof! Not that I’m after cats of course. It’s a metaphor, a metaphor for all those who want to smell the pretty flower. And it won’t be a big bang, just a poof, and the air will be filled with my evil, tantalising, red and blue poison, catching in the throat, coating the membranes, eating away at the nerves, drinking the juices of life. “Oh my darling daisies, so pretty and so lethal, appearing overnight in every garden, every cracked pavement, every forest glade. Just think of how they will fill the air, the drifting mists of purple veils, oh, the beauty of it, the sheer, wonderful conception of it!” He turned suddenly from his insane rant to peer directly into my eyes. “And you, you will be able to sit with me and view it all through a million tiny cameras, strategically placed to record the carnage. Oh, Mr Bond, what a happy time lies before us, how glorious a show is prepared in our honour. Just a few more hours and everything will be ready.” He was off again, staring into space as he envisaged the calamity his damn daisies were going to release on the world. I struggled with the ropes tying my hands together but his knots were as fiendish as his plans. “Popcorn! I have popcorn ready so we can sit at our ease as we watch, popping popcorn into our mouths as others choke on daisies. Oh, what fun it will be, just like the movies in the old days, sitting in the dark with our faces reflecting the light from the screen, totally absorbed as we watch the drama unfolding before us and munch on our eternal popcorn. I can feel it now, the butter dribbling down my cheek, popcorn spilling from the boxes and crunching underfoot. Oh, the happy days, the happy days. He was almost dancing now, waving his arms about as he imagined the gruesome delights he had planned for his vile entertainment. And the worst of it was that it was all so completely pointless, that all this invention and planning, these months of preparing the flowers, perfecting the gases, and placing them where they could do the most harm, all was directed to no other purpose than to satisfy some insane urge in the man’s feverish brain. What drove these crazy desires, this hunger to feed on the suffering of others? It made no sense, and, as I watched the madman capering and cooing about what was to come, I knew that humanity’s only hope lay in me, that everything depended on my releasing these bonds that held me helpless in the chair. My fingers worked away frantically at the knots. “I know you’ll come to see I was right, Mr Bond,” he was saying. “Once the world has been cleared of these unsightly creatures, we can build anew a monument to the power of the mind, a towering edifice that declares to the universe our ultimate power and our endless reach. Nothing shall escape our influence and intent. We shall be masters of the universe.” He stopped then and turned to look at the closed door to the room. There was a red light flashing above it. “Hmm, trouble,” he said, flicking a quick glance at me, still held fast in the chair. “A moment, Mr Bond. It seems I am needed elsewhere for a time.” He walked to the door and opened it, strangely backlit by the light outside, his wild hair glowing like a halo around the shadowed darkness of his face. “I’ll be back,” he said, in the worst imitation of Schwarzenegger I’ve ever heard. Then he was gone and I went back to my struggle with the ropes. I thought this would be my chance to get free but, for once, the madman was true to his word. A few minutes passed, then the door opened and he returned. This time he was accompanied by two henchmen, big fellows with bulging arms and tight T-shirts. Their boss was looking rather different, however. He had run a comb through his hair and it now sat flat to his head, making him appear almost human. His lab coat had been buttoned too, so that it no longer flapped out like wings as he walked. He raised an arm to point at me. “Might as well untie him, fellers,” he said. “He’s going back to his cell.” As they went round behind me and started fiddling with the knots that seemed difficult even for them, he stood before me, arms crossed, and a grim expression on his face. “You still don’t believe me, do you?” I snorted my derision. “Not a chance, Professor. You’ll not fool me because I know who you are. I know exactly what you’re doing.” His arms moved to place his hands on his hips. “I’m a doctor, not a professor. As you know because I’ve told you a thousand times before. And your delusion of my being some sort of insane, power-crazed genius may have survived my little performance for today, but it won’t last forever. I’ll cure you, Manstein, sooner or later. I’ll get to you and you’ll know the truth.” “I already know the truth, you mad freak, and I’ll foil your plans yet.” His minions had untied me at last and I wondered for a moment whether I ought to make a break for it. But then they had picked me up like a rag doll and dragged me towards the door. I yelled at the madman over my shoulder. “I’ll win in the end, you bastard. James Bond always does.” Word count: 993 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Fantasy & Fairy Tale Prompts 15Prompt: Nobody has encountered an explosive daisy and lived to tell the tale. |
| Sir Bedivere “What am I doing wrong, Lance?” asked Sir Bedivere. Lancelot rubbed his chin in thought. “Well, it’s not your looks,” he answered. “You may be the ugliest face at the round table but they don’t really care about that. Oh, it doesn’t hurt to look good, I’ll not deny that…” He flashed a perfect set of white teeth in his famously disarming grin. “But they’re really after something quite different. Tell me again how you go about this.” Bedivere looked puzzled. “Straightforward enough,” he answered. “First I kill the dragon, of course. No problems with that. Then I go up to her and sorta give this little bow, say something like, ‘Your servant, ma’am,’ and offer a hand to help her get down from whatever pedestal the dragon’s put her on. Dunno why they always have to put her on a pedestal but they do. Expect you’ve noticed that.” Lancelot nodded. “Yeah. It’s to make her more noticeable. She’s the bait, you see. But what happens then?” “Well, I take her down to the horse, she gets on and off we go.” “You walking, leading the horse?” Bedivere seemed surprised that there was any other option. “Of course.” “That’s your answer then.” Lancelot sat back and crossed his arms. “You’re too polite, too correct, too gentlemanly and all that. It’s not what they really wants, you know. Nah, they likes a bad boy that’ll get straight to the point. None of this ‘ecka-scooze me, your ladyship,’ and ‘if you please, ma’am.’ Grab ‘em round the waist to help ‘em down, then take ‘em by the hand to lead ‘em to the horse. Shove ‘em on the horse, then climb up behind, one hand on the reins, the other round the waist and off you go. Gives the two of you a chance to get acquainted, you see.” “Oh, I don’t know if I could do that,” said Bedivere. “Seems a bit forward, if you ask me. And anyway, isn’t just rescuing them enough?” Lancelot gave a cynical glance at the ceiling. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But they loves a bad boy, Bedi, and the rescue is the least they expect. Even a blooming stable lad would do that. If you want their respect, you’ve gotta earn it.” Bedivere looked quite horrified. “Blimey,” he said. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to, in that case.” “It’s just damsels, innit?” explained Lancelot. “They don’t think like we do and they know how to get what they wants. And what they wants is bad boys cos they need someone who’ll scare off the other geezers and dragons. The milksops and dainty boys are just gonna get themselves killed.” “So you reckon, if I treat this next one like that, I’ll be in with a chance?” Lancelot replied with utter confidence. “Exactly. You go in like Flynn, my Bedivere boy, and Bob will definitely be your uncle. She’ll lap it up.” Bedivere went silent for a while, obviously mulling things over. Then, a decision having been made, he looked up and declared in determined tones, “I’ll do it. It’ll be hard for me and I’ll feel like a cad, but I’m sick of being single.” Lancelot smiled. “That’s the spirit. Now saddle up and let’s get going. You have a damsel to save and I’ve a grail to look for. You don’t happen to know what a grail is, do you, Bedi?” “It’s a cup, Lance, a cup.” And so the pair went their separate ways on disparate quests. They were not to see each other for many years thereafter. Lancelot did hear that Bedivere had married the damsel he’d rescued, a certain Lady Belamour of Mordant Vale, and he was quite proud of his own part in the matter. Without his sage advice, he told himself, poor Bedi would never have got himself hitched. It was on an expedition to expel raiders on the northern frontier that the two friends bumped into each other again. Lancelot was quite surprised at the weight Bedivere had put on in the interval and he mentioned it after their happy greetings. “She’s treating you well, I see,” he said, as he patted Bedivere’s enlarged belly. Bedivere smiled broadly. “It’s wonderful, Lance. I’m eating like a king and she keeps the servants working away like ants. I’m out every day on quests and then, when I get home, I get treated to the most amazing feasts. She’s found some foreign cook from somewhere and he makes the most tasty stuff I’ve ever eaten. Even the king commented on it when he came to dinner the other day.” “So I was right about what damsels really want, then?” “Damn right you were, Lance. I couldn’t believe how easy it was when I tried it.” Lancelot laughed. “I knew it,” he said, “I freaking knew it.” Bedivere’s face went suddenly serious. “But now there’s another thing, Lance.” “What, more damsel trouble?” “No, Bela’s a real treat, no trouble at all.” Bedivere’s voice went quiet as he added, “It’s the kids, Lance.” “What, you’ve got kids as well? Congratulations, Bedi!” “Thanks,” said Bedivere, although he didn’t seem too happy about it. “How many?” asked Lancelot. “Five, I think. Little blighters move so fast, it’s hard to count them.” “And that’s a problem?” Bedivere nodded. “That and the fact they’re savages. They're everywhere in the castle, getting into everything, breaking things, trying to break themselves, making a terrible racket, constantly asking questions, and moving so fast I can’t keep up. They’re worse than a herd of dragons. Absolute barbarians, I tell you. They’re driving me nuts, Lance, and I don’t know what to do about it. What can I do?” Lancelot looked at his friend and shook his head. “Now you know why I never married,” he said. Word count: 968 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, What’s His Story, Prompt 4Prompt: 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. |
 Vermeer He sat back and looked at the near-completed portrait. This was as close as he’d come to representing her as his soul understood her. How he had tried over the years to grasp the innocence, yet the wisdom, of this creature of pure beauty. It was so hard, so subject to that single too hasty stroke of the brush that sent everything awry from the truth. She meant so much to him, inspired such obsession and determination to capture at least an iota of her perfection, that he was prepared to work at this for the rest of his life. And now he was so near to it, close enough to dab with careful brush just a few more strokes and be done for eternity, free at last from his compulsion to produce his undying masterwork, his offering to her simplicity and grandeur. Still he sat unmoving, conscious that he had done all that he could for the portrait, but aware, too, that something was not quite right. She was perfect, looking back at him over her shoulder, her eyes full of that innocence and trust that drew him on to heights beyond his imagining. Never could he do better than this. It was, in itself, a miracle, a happy and unexpected accident of his own talent that he had not expected. So what was wrong? His eyes went at last, reluctantly, to the background. It was his usual meticulous and peaceful interior scene, light streaming from a side window, deep shadow allowing highlights to spring forth from the canvas, bright details celebrating their life to the rich darkness in which they swam. He had tried so hard to make the room perfect. And now it was betraying him somehow, as it never had before in any of his paintings. Somewhere, somehow, something in it was wrong. And then he knew. Without another thought, he mixed the colour on his palette and set to work. In great, sweeping strokes, faster than he had ever worked before, he hammered at the canvas, certain in his decision and unrepentant of the work he threw away in those moments. To an onlooker, it must have seemed an act of pure vandalism, those great swathes of darkness hurled at the picture to hide months of arduous and particular work. But the man knew what he was doing. The problem identified, he was fixing it in the only way possible. The master of light was demonstrating his power over darkness too, throwing its warm folds over the scene and wrapping it around the offending objects. The man who took years of painstaking work to produce so few works, perfect as cut diamonds, finished this adjustment in less than half an hour. Then he stopped, put down his brush and stood before the canvas, head down, for a few minutes as he recovered from the burst of frenzied activity. And he did not look at the painting before turning around and walking the few steps to the opposite side of the room. When he turned and saw for the first time what he had done, he knew instantly that he had finished. The background of the painting, now blanketed in a deep and rich gloom, no longer competed for attention with the glorious object of the portrait. She gazed out from the darkness as the sole source of light, attracting the eye with a gentle insistence that brooked no denial, a face that looked out at the hundreds of years to come and knew nothing of its own unutterable beauty. The painter had said what he wanted to say. House Martell Word count: 603 For "Game of Thrones" , Westeros, The Citadel, Task 11Prompt: Take your favorite painting and write a poem or a story inspired from the painting. |
| Alicia Her thoughts were elsewhere as she walked briskly through Central Park. It was not a day for lingering, the skies being grey with unbroken cloud, the breeze chilly, and the leaves on the trees already dull with approaching autumn. There was no reason why she should notice the face that floated by, a vague awareness that someone had walked by. A few steps on and something moved her to turn and look back. The man who had walked past had stopped and turned around. His lips moved. “Alicia?” He took a step toward her. “Is it really you, Alicia?” She sensed that something had induced her to turn around. Could it be that she knew this man? His face stirred something in her, as though she might have known him at some time. But she wasn’t sure. “How do you know my name?” she asked. He took a few steps forward to stand a bit closer. “It is you, isn’t it? I thought as I passed…” The words died away into the breeze as he looked at her in apparent amazement. Almost as though he really was surprised to see her there, thought Alicia. But still she could not place him; no forgotten memory drifted up from the past to explode in sudden recognition. Just this lurking sense of familiarity with the face, a feeling that she really ought to know him. He was talking now, with an eagerness that spoke of memories of a past she did not share as yet. “Don’t you remember? We were just kids and there was no one else on the playground. You wanted to go on the swings but I was sitting on the only one that wasn’t broken.” Alicia tried hard to look as though light was dawning. He was very handsome, after all. And so tall. Nice suit and tie, obviously a businessman. A cute curl at his brow, dislodged and fidgeting in the wind. Careful, Alicia, she thought. This could be a scam. It wouldn’t be too difficult to find out her name by following her to her workplace, then doing some detective work on the net. You couldn’t be too careful these days. But he looks so interesting, she pleaded with herself. And I’m not getting any younger. “I let you have the swing,” he was saying. “And we tried all the other things then. I saw you lots of times after that. You remember, the old playground on Maple Street? We moved away from Hanbury in ‘95 and I never saw you again.” She remembered the playground and its scarred and beaten up old equipment. It was a telling point but why couldn’t she remember him? And how much of a coincidence was it that they should both be here in New York on a day like this? What’s the weather got to do with it, she asked herself. Alicia realised that she wanted it to be true, that he should turn out to be who he said he was. “Still the same, quiet little Alicia,” he said. “Never mind, I did all the talking back then, I can do it again now.” “I’m sorry,” she replied. “It’s just that…” “You don’t remember me.” He laughed, a sound that stirred something deep within her again. “Well, I’d better introduce myself in that case. The name’s Brian.” Alicia decided that she should run with it, at least for the moment. “Oh, that rings a bell,” she said. “I think I do remember something. And Brian is such a nice name.” You little liar, she thought. But she had to say something and maybe it would all come back to her in time. “So, Alicia, will you spend some time with me this afternoon? For old times sake, let’s say.” There was mischief in his eyes and her defences were in tatters. “But don’t you have work to go back to?” He shrugged. “I run the show now. I’ll go back when I’m ready.” “And what do you do?” It turned out that he was in shipping, whatever that meant, and she was in real estate. In mutual agreement that both were too boring to discuss, they strolled through the park, rapt in conversation that ranged from childhood days to the latest fads and interests. There were times when some little gesture or the way he walked would pull a string to a memory in her, but still nothing surfaced, nothing that could let her relax completely into trust and security. However carefully concealed, her guard remained up through the afternoon. As the shadows grew long and the sky began to darken, he looked at her and said, almost sadly, “It was all so long ago, wasn’t it?” She nodded and said nothing. Looking around at the evening drawing in, he remarked that it was really time for him to go. She agreed that it was time to part. He took her hand in a most formal way and shook it slowly, the sudden contrast to their lighthearted time together making it seem absurd. So outdated and stiff a goodbye after all that had passed in those few hours. “Thank you for today, Alicia,” he said, his eyes looking deep into her soul. Somehow she controlled her feelings, that suddenly seemed like grief for a childhood long passed. “It’s been wonderful.” Then he turned and walked away, with no mention of later meetings or phone numbers, nothing to suggest that they would ever see each other again. And, at the last moment, just as he was disappearing into the gathering dusk, something in the way he moved sparked her memory. She lifted an arm and her voice rang out. “Brian, wait. I remember…” But he was gone. Word count: 957 For: "Game of Thrones" , The North Remembers, What’s Her Story Prompt 4Prompt: Your protagonist walks past an intriguing stranger, then turns around to take another look at them. The stranger turns around, too. Write about what happens next. |
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