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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. |
| Escape I was fairly late getting out of the office that evening and the traffic had mostly disappeared from the streets. The short walk to the parking garage met only lightly populated sidewalks and the building itself seemed deserted as I took the stairs to the relevant level. It was only as I was unlocking the front door of the car that I felt a light touch on my arm from behind. I turned to behold a young woman, blonde, statuesque and wearing a tight, form-fitting suit that seemed out of place in those bare, concrete surroundings. Her eyes flickered left and right as she spoke, as though she expected to be attacked at any moment. “Please,” she said in a whisper, “can you help me?” “In what way?” I asked. “I need to get away from here. There are people chasing me.” Normally I would have suspected that she was paranoid and imagining things, but her demeanour was so clearly desperate and frightened that it didn’t matter at the time. The important thing was to allow her some space in which to calm down. Everything else could be sorted out later. “Hop in the other door,” I told her as I began to enter the car. Once inside, we belted up and I reversed out of the place. With squealing tyres, the car then shot forward and we began the run down to ground level As we descended the first ramp, a man dressed in a mask and black superhero suit leaned over a parapet and pointed a finger at us. A bolt of lightning shot from the accusing finger and we ducked involuntarily as it passed within inches of the roof of the car. I hit the gas and started to throw the car through the turns, two other black-cloaked figures leaping out of the way as I charged at them. I thought about crashing through the gate, but stopped and dealt quickly with credit card and slot to leave legitimately. We were far enough ahead of them, I reckoned. And then we had joined the few cars leaving town and could relax a little. “Who were those guys?” I asked. “The ones trying to catch me,” she answered. “I have something they want.” “And what would that be?” “This,” she said, as she reached into her suit and extracted a large stone. She held it out for inspection, letting the street lights shine through it to display its full fascination. It was black but transparent, with facets that both reflected light and allowed it to pass through so that its interior glowed with fire. “What the hell is it?” I asked. “Moonstone.” “What’s it for?” “Powerful things,” she replied. “In the wrong hands, it can end the world or own it.” “You mean it’s sorta like magic?” After the black-costumed guys, I was prepared to believe anything. “No, not magic. I’m not a witch, if that’s what you mean. I am…” She hesitated, then continued, “You won’t believe me but I’m Celesta from the video game, Vortex.” “You’re right, I don’t believe you. But what are you doing in the real world anyway?” “I told you. Escaping. They were getting too close and my world depends on me now.” “So you just climbed out of a computer somewhere and started running?” “I know it sounds silly but it’s the truth.” We arrived at my house and I pulled into the driveway. Once inside, we carried on talking while I fixed something for us to eat. “So what do we do now?” I asked. “I was hoping you’d find me a place to hide.” “Well, I suppose you could stay here for a while. I don’t mind sleeping on the couch and you could have the bedroom.” She shook her head. “No, they will find me. There are machines that can do that. They’ll be looking right now. I need somewhere they wouldn’t think of where the machines don’t work.” “Bit of a tall order,” I said. She shrugged. “It’s what I need. We must think.” “Oh, I didn’t mean it can’t be done,” I responded. “In fact, I think I already have the answer.” “And what is that?” “I’m going to send you to my friend, Giles.” I smiled at the very thought. “Come, I’ll show you.” I showed her into the computer room, darkened except for the light that poured from the screensaver on my monitors. She stood behind me as I sat down and kicked the machine into life. Then I navigated to the entrance and invited her to sit down and have a look. Once behind the keyboard, her fingers flew over the keys and mouse as she inspected her proposed quarters. Her smile broadened as she went further in. “Oh yes, this will definitely do.” I was going to give her some last minute instructions but she didn’t need them. She entered a program with lightning speed, fingers a blur and without a single error. As I watched, she faded gradually and then, incredibly, she was gone. On the screen, I could see a female figure approaching my friend and waving. And I knew she was going to enjoy a quiet, unexciting life as a farmgirl. Living on the farm. With my friend, Farmer Giles. In FarmVille. House Martell Word count: 883 For "Game of Thrones"  The North Remembers, New Orleans Prompt 37Prompt: Your character's not a witch, not a vampire, not a demon, but something completely new. |
| Fairy Nuff There was an arrow pointing up a side road and “Snot Fair” was written upon it in hastily-painted black lettering. It did not seem particularly official and the narrow road indicated was not very promising either. I can’t imagine anything more tempting to my curiosity. I swung the wheel over and took the side road. This led me over a nearby ridge, through a stand of trees, to emerge into an open area where tents of various sizes had been set up. A field to my left was identified by another sign announcing, “Parkya Karkas”. Obediently, I turned in and parked near the entrance. A brief walk brought me to a large box at the side of the road. A man sat inside. “Is this the Snot Fair?” I asked. “That’s right,” he answered. “Snot County Fayre is the Renaissance version, every Thursday between 9:00am and 4:30pm.” It was Tuesday. “Is the Fair open?” I asked. “Certainly is,” he replied. “Can I go in?” “Ticket, please.” He held out a hand expectantly. “I don’t have one.” “In that case, I’ll have to sell you one.” He turned and consulted a notice board attached to the wall of the box. “Unaccompanied adult?” he asked. I looked around but could see no one else. “Unaccompanied,” I admitted. “That’ll be five dollars then.” He reached under the counter and produced a blue ticket. We swapped money and ticket. I waited until he had put the money into a metal box and then asked, “How much would it be if I was accompanied?” “One dollar less for each accompanying child,” he rattled off, without consulting the notice board. “So how much would it be if I had five children with me?” The man gave me a look as though dealing with an idiot. “Nothing, of course. You’re hardly likely to get into trouble with that many kids watching you.” “What if I turned up with six?” He sighed. “I’d give you a ticket and a dollar. Are you going to let me get on with my work or do you want to ask questions all day?” I apologised and walked on past the box. The first tent I came to was small, striped in faded colours with yet another sign outside. “Fairy Nuff,” it announced. “Ask a Question, Get an Answer.” Never having met a fairy before, I lifted the flap and entered the dark interior. She was sitting behind a small table in front of me. My eyes were still adjusting to the lack of light but I could see that she was well past middle-age with overdone make-up failing to hide the years. Her dark hair was clearly a wig and her attire was more in the line of fortune teller than fairy. She gestured at the chair on my side of the table. I sat down. “How much is it?” I asked. “Probably free,” she answered. “The more questions you ask, the less you pay. If I were you, I’d ask as many as you can think of.” “Doesn’t seem a good business model.” “There are reasons. So what’s your first question?” At that moment I noticed the pair of transparent wings hanging on a strut of the tent behind her. They were hardly gossamer and had been mended in places with duck tape but they were fairy wings of a sort. I looked in her dark-ringed eyes. “Are you really a fairy?” “Yes,” she replied. “Do you have a problem with that?” I smiled. “I thought I was supposed to ask the questions.” She smiled back and, for a moment, I thought her dark eyes flashed bright green. “I’m allowed. Fairies are allowed anything.” “Okay,” I responded, “since you asked, I do have a minor problem. You seem a bit older than I thought a fairy would be. How old are you?” “Nineteen,” she replied. I smiled again. “Now that’s hard to believe. I’d have guessed - don’t want to insult you - but somewhere between forty-five and sixty. I know I’m probably way off.” She laughed. “I didn’t say years.” “What? You mean nineteen… What?” “Hours, my dear, not years.” There was a brief silence as I tried to understand. “You mean… You’re saying you’re nineteen hours old?” “Exactly.” She took pity on me then and explained. “Fairies are like mayflies - we only live for twenty-four hours.” My jaw had fallen open and she reached across the table and closed it for me with a long-taloned finger. “You look silly like that.” “But that means you’ve only got a few hours to live.” “Five actually. But time flows differently for us. It seems a full life to us, just as I’m sure you’re reasonably happy with yours.” I was still finding it difficult to understand a lifespan as brief as hers. “What’s going to happen when you… Pass on?” I asked. “Who will run this tent?” “Oh, Monsieur Garibaldi will just have to catch another one tonight,” she answered. “I’m told he’s becoming quite good at it with all the practice he gets.” “But that’s terrible. A fairy captured every night and made to work in this tent.” “Oh, we don’t mind. You can’t keep a fairy where she doesn’t want to be.” I shook my head at the weird revelations I was having to cope with. Strangest of all was that I believed what she said. Was I under some sort of spell? Normally my scepticism runs pretty high. She interrupted my thoughts. “And that’s all the questions you’re allowed. Time to move on. Don’t worry about payment; this one’s free.” I staggered to my feet. “I don’t know what to say.” She waved me away with a gesture of her hand. “All part of the service. Enjoy the fair.” I turned to go, still somewhat shocked, but not wanting to leave things like that. “Thank you anyway,” I said lamely. “Bye” “Fair enough,” I mumbled as I moved toward the tent flap. “That’s my name.” House Martel Word count: 1,000 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, New Orleans Prompt 5, Westeros, Tedious Tasks 59Prompt: New Orleans 5 - Set your story in an oracle or a fortune teller’s parlor. Tedious Tasks 59 - Write a mixed-genre story with a min. 1000 words. Points: 4,000 |
| Snapper and the Ghost "I'm a photographer. I take pictures of dead people." I rubbed my eyes to hasten their clearing from the flash of the camera. When I opened them again, I could see the photographer preparing for another shot. A slight figure with tousled, ginger hair sprouting haphazardly from his scalp, his clothing shabby and worn, he appeared quite harmless. I held up my hand to prevent another photo. “That’ll be enough, I think. Are you saying you’re the official crime scene photographer?” He nodded several times. “Yes, that’s me.” “And how long have you been doing the job?” “Umm, two weeks.” His foot traced vague circles in the dust as though he wanted to avoid my questions. I asked the inevitable. “Is this your first body?” He nodded reluctantly. “Your name?” I asked. “Arnold Snapper.” I grinned. “Your real name.” “It’s true,” he protested. “I know it’s funny but Snapper really is my name.” For a few moments I stared at him. He shifted again under my gaze, obviously uncomfortable. Then I let him have it. “Snapper, you’re supposed to take photos of the body, not the chief detective.” It was now his turn to rub his eyes. He did so, had another look at me, and stepped backward. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and cracked before he got control of it. “Well, sir… Have you looked at yourself in a mirror recently?” “What the hell are you talking about?” This was becoming annoying. I glared at him in the way that usually reduced underlings to tears. He took another step back and began to fiddle with his camera. “Hang on - I can show you.” He found what he was looking for, advanced towards me and turned the camera so that I could see the view screen. Staring back at me was a face mutilated beyond recognition. One side of the face was a sticky mess of blood, flesh and bone, the result of a shotgun blast at close range, I’d guess. The other was so obscured by gore that it was completely unidentifiable, but the remaining eye was open and fixed on me. Snapper’s voice intruded as I took in the horrific details. “That’s the photo I just took, sir.” I looked up at his scared face. “You saying that’s me?” He nodded. “And I’m still alive?” The injuries made this seem impossible. “Look again, sir. The blood has congealed. You’re not bleeding.” Another glance was enough to tell me he was correct. The blood was not even oozing from the hideous wound. In desperation, I turned away and searched the ground for a real body. There was none within the yellow police tape surrounding us. I was alone with Snapper. “This is ridiculous,” I said. “It’s a crime scene, I can see that. But where is everyone? The place should be crawling with uniforms and the M.E.” “They ran when you got up, sir.” “And you stayed?” It seemed unlikely that the only one with any guts would be this half-baked young photographer. “I couldn’t ignore the chance. I was the only one with a camera and how could I miss an opportunity like this? Any photographer would do the same.” He had a point. I grunted as indication of agreement with his choice. No doubt the first photograph of… What was I? A zombie? A ghost? Most like Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense, really. Not that it mattered. My photo should make Snapper a millionaire. No doubt my young friend would happily share his good fortune with me too. I wondered if I would have any use for such wealth. Snapper’s voice brought me back to reality. “What happened? How did you get killed?” Good question, I thought. Very quickly, I realised that I had no memory of how I’d reached my present circumstances. Memory was still there with all the usual faces and events but those few hours leading up to my death were gone. I remembered going to bed the night before and then, zap, I’m struggling to my feet and Snapper was firing his flash in my face. “I don’t remember,” I confessed. “Is it important?” As soon as I asked the question, I realised that it was a strange thing for a detective to ask. It seemed I’d lost my interest in solving crimes. Death does unexpected things to the mind, apparently. “Well, I was kinda hoping we could work together to catch the murderer,” said Snapper. “Oh, good idea. That would get you almost as much fame as selling my photo to the media.” It was a brutal way to pop Snapper’s bubble but I had to figure out quickly what I did from that point. Snapper came back without hesitation. “Thought of that. But I can do it anytime. Solving the crime has to be done now or not at all. When the others come creeping back, our chance to work it out goes up in smoke. You sure you remember nothing?” There was some sense in what he was saying. It gave me something to do while I found out what was next on my agenda. “A total blank, Arnold. Sorry. But I can give you some advice. Have a good look round the crime scene. Anything within the tape could have a bearing on the matter. Forensics…” That was the moment I had my first stirring of ambition in death. I could see it all - the famous crime fighters extraordinaire, Snapper and the Ghost. There might be a good side to this mess after all. House Martell Line count: 929 For {item::got} The North Remembers, New Orleans Prompt 1 Prompt: You and your ghost best friend are an infamous crime-solving team. |
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