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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. |
| 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. |
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