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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. |
| A Quiet Planet Pfleg glared at the phone. He knew it was silly to blame an inanimate object for his woes but, when nothing else will do, shoot the messenger. And it was the phone that had delivered the message that the fence was down. That meant a steadily worsening succession of events had to happen, and Pfleg really did not need another day ruined after the last catastrophe. That may have been six months ago but the memory of it still pained him. It just wasn’t fair. The only reason he had moved to Amphibolus was that nothing ever happened there. Not only was the planet famed for its complete absence of drama or disturbance in the daily stream of sameness, it was billed as the only planet completely uninhabited from choice. Although the atmosphere was quite breathable and the climate so settled that the first explorers had gone mad from boredom, land was unbelievably cheap there. That’s what happens when a planet can only offer a life so empty of challenge that no one takes up the realtor on the offer. Until Pfleg came along, that is. Pfleg was being driven slowly insane by the tiniest of upsets in his life and was desperate to escape. Amphibolus fitted his bill exactly. He sold his nuclear unicycle for a song and bought half the planet. It was only when he had landed and was setting up his Build-It-Yourself house from New Ikea, that he discovered that he should have bought the whole planet. Someone else had bought the other half. The guy was already setting up a fence between their properties and had come over to Pfleg’s place to talk about responsibilities. Although he was happy to build the fence, he wanted Pfleg to have the task of mending any breaks that might occur. And Pfleg was quick to agree, since he wanted only for his neighbour to disappear back the five hundred miles to his own place. And now it seemed that there was a break in the fence. Pfleg’s neighbour, who went by the ridiculous name of Krum, had phoned him to let him know. A herd of whiffle cattle had broken it down by leaning against it in their boredom, Krum reckoned. That had been Krum’s explanation six months ago, recalled Pfleg. Strange that an animal as devoid of imagination as the whiffles should take it into their heads to start knocking the fence down. But he had agreed to take care of any repairs needed, so Pfleg made the necessary preparations for the trip, got the fourtrack started in the shed, and loaded up all the equipment necessary. Then he was off on the two hundred and fifty mile journey to the fence. Which gave him plenty of time to ponder on the reason for the fence breakdown. He could not help noticing that, of the many whiffles he saw on the way, not one of them was leaning on anything. Odd that a fence should inspire them with the idea of leaning on it, he thought. When he came to the break, Pfleg dismounted from the fourtrack and had a good look round. There was not a single whiffle track anywhere. But there were plenty of fourtrack gouges in the dust. Parallel ones on each side of the fenceline. Almost as if someone had driven a fourtrack down the fence, knocking it over. Pfleg stared off in the direction of Krum’s place, two-fifty miles distant. This was a plan, he decided. A plan to bring Pfleg so much trouble that he left the planet completely. Well, two could play at that game, thought Pfleg. He got back on the fourtrack, kicked it into life and proceeded to drive along the fenceline, knocking it flat for the entire two hundred miles to the Goffin Gulf, where it ended. Then he turned around, drove back over the destroyed fence and proceeded to knock down the rest of it, all the way to the Sea of Marmite. Satisfied with his day’s work, he drove straight back home. When he got there, his phone was ringing. He let it ring for a while, then picked it up. “Pfleg residence,” he drawled with disdain. “You bastard, Phleg! You knocked down my fence!” Krum was screaming down the phone. “Only finished what you started,” replied Pfleg coolly. “It’s not good to leave a job before it’s done, you know.” “Well you can just put it back up again,” yelled Krum. “We have an agreement.” “Had an agreement, you mean. You broke it when you started to knock your own fence down.” “That was whiffles.” Krum was spluttering now, obviously so furious that he could hardly string words together. “Oh, I don’t think so. Funny sort of whiffles that leave fourtrack marks everywhere. You shoulda swept the area afterward.” “You’ll pay for this, Phlegm.” “Not as much as you, Krumbum.” And so began the Amphibolus War of the Flattened Fence that still goes on today. Not only is it in the running for longest war of all time, it is also the only one that has no more than two combatants. The really sad thing is that Amphibolus is no longer the quietest of all planets. House Martell Word count: 872 For "Game of Thrones"  The North Remembers, His Story Task 13Prompt: Write about two neighbors who cannot stand each other. |
| Caliban’s Decision It was time to tell the boy. No, it was way past the time to tell him. It was now twelve years since his twelfth birthday and it should have been done then. So it was, shall we say, rather pressing that he should be told now, on his twenty-fourth birthday. A lousy birthday present, it’s true, but it was Caliban’s reluctance that had made it so. He must bite the bullet now and tell the lad. Well, the man. Good grief, the fellow was thinking of proposing to his girlfriend, after all. He was grown up and Caliban should face the fact. What space is left in a man’s life for an imaginary friend once there’s a wife to consider? He shuddered to think of the odd triangle that would result from such an arrangement. The irony of Jeremy sharing with his imaginary friend the most intimate details of his affair with Lydia, struck Caliban with redoubled force now. Jem would be furious when he revealed the truth to him. Still, it must be done. Of course Jem would never speak to him again. That was the whole idea, wasn’t it? And yeah, it meant that Caliban must fade away into nothingness over the next few weeks, but Jem would recover quickly. In a few months he would have entirely forgotten the friend of his childhood. And teenage years. And early twenties. Damn, this was ridiculous, thought Caliban. But it must be done. And at the earliest opportunity. Caliban steeled himself for the moment when he must reveal his imaginary status. The time did not present itself all the day of the birthday. Jeremy was busy with other friends, allowing himself to be drawn away from the house so that others could prepare the place for his surprise party. Caliban hung around the house with depressed face, dreading the moment when he must confess. There was even less opportunity in the evening, when the party was in full swing and Jeremy becoming too drunk to understand a word Caliban said anyway. Caliban watched with growing frustration and a feeling of doom hovering above him. It was not until late in the morning the next day that Caliban had his chance. Jeremy came staggering from his bedroom to set up the coffee pot with ham-fisted awkwardness. He collapsed on to a stool while waiting for the pot to do its thing. Jeremy touched him on the shoulder. “Happy birthday, Jem.” “Shh,” said Jeremy, waving a hand in front of Caliban’s face. “No need to shout.” Caliban waited a moment, then continued with lowered voice. “Got something to tell you.” “And you couldn’t pick a better time?” “Well, no actually.” The coffee pot ceased its groaning and bubbling to send the last few droplets into the cup. Jeremy reached across for it. Caliban tried again. “There’s something you need to know,” he said. Jermy was inhaling the steam from his coffee as he waited for it to be cool enough to drink. He looked up at Caliban with sudden awareness of his surroundings. “And what if I don’t need to know it?” Caliban was taken aback at this response. For a moment there was silence between the two as they regarded each other. Then Caliban decided he must press on. “Oh, it’s something you need to know alright. You can judge when I’ve told you.” Jeremy shook his head. “Nope. Don’t wanna hear. And you should have a better opinion of my intelligence before you go around thinking that I don’t know a thing or two.” “Well, you don’t know this.” “That’s what you think. I’m not stupid, you know.” He lifted the cup and slurped some hot coffee between his teeth. Caliban’s shoulders tightened as he prepared himself for battle. “Look, Jem, the plain fact is that I’m -” Jem slammed a hand in front of Caliban’s face. “Nope, don’t say it. If you say it, I lose a friend.” Caliban stared at him in surprise. “You know?” Jeremy returned to contemplation of his coffee. “Of course I know. I’m twenty-four, you know, and not as stupid as you seem to think. No one can last as long as I have without being fully aware of what’s going on.” He looked up at Caliban. “And I’d rather retain a good friend who’s given me sound advice over the years, than dump him just because he can’t keep his mouth shut.” “But there’s the marriage, Jem.” “Yes, there’s the marriage. Does that mean I have to dump all my other friends too?” “Well, no. But there’s some marriages where…” “Jeez, Cal, give me just a little credit, please. You’ve known me all these years and still think I’m that stupid?” “No, Jem. But I thought…” There was a pause and then he added, “I thought it was time I left you to get on with your life. That’s what they tell me, anyway.” “Okay then, we’re decided. Not a word about this between us and we carry on as normal. Although, you’re not allowed in the bedroom after I marry Lydia.” “Wouldn’t want to be,” said Caliban. “And no interrupting me when I’m talking to someone else. Don’t want to look an idiot.” “Perish the thought,” agreed Caliban. House Martell Word count: 876 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Fantasy Task 41Prompt: Your main character has been wrestling for years over how to tell their lifelong best friend that they are actually imaginary. Usually, they reveal the truth when the person is 12 years old. They disappear and the child has no memory of them. It’s now 12 years past the “due date” and each day the prospect of telling them and disappearing is getting harder and harder. |
| Jimmy and the Bean Jimmy Waites walking down the street, nothing in particular on his mind, hands in pockets, nowhere to go, nothing to do. A leaf floats by and lands just off the path. Jimmy walks by. ‘Must be autumn,’ he thinks. One leaf does not an autumn make. Jimmy stops to consider the thought. How many leaves does an autumn require? More than one, at the very least. And this was a green leaf. Had no business falling off a tree at all in spring. Is it spring? Jimmy looks around. Yes, it’s spring. So why was a green leaf falling off a tree in spring? Jimmy turns around and walks back to the leaf. He remembers where it fell and goes straight to it. It is still there, lying among the grass stems and trembling slightly when the breeze brushes against it. It is green, that light green with a hint of yellow that new leaves have when they sprout from a tree in spring. A green that is no excuse for losing your grip on the branch and falling to earth at this time of year. When Jimmy picks it up and examines it closely, he finds no reason for such a hasty departure of leaf from tree. No sign of cutting or biting, just a slight swelling where the stem joined the branch, as though it had somehow twisted itself from its socket. Do leaves have sockets into which they fit? Jimmy doesn’t think so. But it looks as if this one did. Jimmy is about to put the leaf back where he found it when he notices that there is something that was hidden beneath it. A bean lies in the shallow depression that held the leaf between the shoots of grass. Jimmy picks up the bean before replacing the leaf. He inspects the bean. It is a bean, there’s no doubt of that. It is kidney-shaped, a deep brown in colour, and shiny. There seems to be tiny writing upon it. Jimmy looks even closer. It is indeed writing. In very small but neat lettering, it spells out This is the property of Jack. Jimmy turns the bean over but that’s it. There is no writing on its other side, just that smooth shiny surface that makes the bean a bit slippery to hold. He wonders if that is how the bean escaped from Jack’s grasp, sliding unnoticed from between fingers that held many more similar beans. Whatever the truth, it seems that Jimmy is now the owner of the bean, partly because Jack left no forwarding address, but also because of the ancient law of finders keepers, losers weepers. Jimmy evinces no interest in continuing his walk in an unstated direction, for he rises, places the bean carefully in a pocket, turns and walks back the way he had come. There is now purpose in his stride and a goal in the direction taken. He is clearly a boy on a mission. Predictably, Jimmy soon arrives back home, proceeds immediately into the back yard and heads for the shed. He emerges very quickly with a trowel and a small flower pot in his hands. With a quick scoop of the trowel he borrows some earth from the neighbour’s flower bed and pours it into the pot. Then he goes into the house, only to emerge almost immediately with a soda bottle filled with water. He marches around the house until directly underneath his bedroom window, then pushes the pot into the earth to ensure that it remains upright, and digs a little hole in the soil with his finger. He retrieves the bean and drops it into the hole, covering it with soil that he pushes back over it. Jimmy dribbles a little water into the soil from the bottle. Then he sits back a little and just watches the pot. It seems Jimmy has deduced that there’s a chance that the Jack referred to on the bean is actually the one of giant killer fame. If that is so, then there’s no reason why the bean should not sprout and become a giant beanstalk, just as Jack’s other beans did. Jimmy watches for a long time but eventually gets up and wanders off, having obviously concluded that the bean will grow overnight, just as Jack’s did. It’s the morning that will bring news regarding the magic or otherwise of the bean. And now it’s up to you. I can confirm that, the next morning, when Jimmy went to check on the bean, he was confronted with a beanstalk that reached up to the sky. And I can tell you that he climbed up that beanstalk until he disappeared with it into the blue of its immense height. And I also have to report that he was never seen again. But this is all hearsay. It’s up to you whether you believe it or not. And that, of course, is entirely a matter of choice. House Martell Word count: 829 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Stolen Artifacts Task # 31Prompt: Your character picks up a fallen leaf and can’t believe what they discover underneath it. |
| An Unexpected Find Lawford decided that it was time to redecorate the back room. It had been shabby when he bought the house and remained so as he put off attending to it week after week. He did not use it for much beyond storage and so it had slipped to the bottom of his list of things to do. What finally gave him the impetus to get started was the old painting he had hung to hide the lighter patch in the wallpaper caused by a picture removed when the previous occupant had departed. Lawford had hidden the patch with one he had found in the cupboard under the stairs. It was dusty and unimpressive in subject but it was at least a temporary fix for the light patch in the spare room wall. He took it down and left it on the pasting table while he scraped the old paper off the walls. The paper obliged by falling off in great strips, putting up very little resistance. Clearly, it was as tired as it looked. Then Lawford prepared the paste and the rolls of new paper. He picked up the painting with the intent of returning it to the cupboard but had one last look at it. In a simple, undecorated frame, it depicted a field of yellow wheat, rather dirty with age, and splashed on to the canvas with such apparent abandon that it seemed to wave slowly as the wind stroked it in the sun. The sky too, washed out blue with darker streaks, was active in the energy with which it had been daubed on to the surface. And here and there in the field were blobs of colour, red, blue and a lighter yellow. Lawford presumed they were flowers. In the sky, jagged marks in black gave the impression of birds flying from the painter. It was this last that set Lawford’s mind to thinking. It looked uncannily like a van Gogh he vaguely remembered seeing once. Not that he knew a great deal about painting but he had heard stories of work by van Gogh being found in England. For a brief time, the famous painter had lived in London. It was not a very big painting but then, who knew how large van Goghs were? He looked for a signature. There was nothing that resembled one. He turned the painting over to look at the back. There were some marks scratched into the wood of the frame, top right corner. Closer inspection revealed them to be letters, crudely drawn as if in haste but legible. They read V.V.G. Lawford leapt to the inevitable conclusion. After all, it was a fairly unusual combination of initials. And quite a coincidence to be connected with a painting that might be by van Gogh. “Vincent van Gogh,” he said, only he pronounced it as Gog. Maybe it was his way of denoting his ownership of the painting and frame together. Unusual, yes, but perhaps he had good reason for departing from convention this one time. Lawford turned the painting over to look at the picture again. This time it seemed very much like a van Gogh. How had he not noticed it before? More to the point, how could he find out the truth about it? If he was holding a fortune in his hands, he needed to know. And that meant he needed an expert opinion. And he knew precious few art history experts who could advise him on the matter. None, in fact. He might have to settle for someone a bit lower down the ladder. There was a little art dealer in town, for instance, which held the occasional exhibition for local artists. Maybe they had someone who could shed some light on the matter. Lawford resolved to take the painting down there right now and find out what it was worth. True to his decision, and wallpapering forgotten, Lawford was standing outside the art shop half an hour later. Orton Galleries announced the sign above its display window. A few unexceptional paintings lounged in the window, trying to attract the attention of passersby. Lawford ignored them and walked in with his precious cargo wrapped in a cloth. There were more paintings and a sculpture or two dotted about the place and, in the corner, a desk behind which a bespectacled man was rising in delight at a new customer. “Can I be of assistance?” he said. “I hope so,” replied Lawford. He strode to the desk and placed his parcel in front of the man. “Tell me what you think of this.” The man looked at it suspiciously. “What is it?” “Just a painting I found in my house. I want to know what you think of it.” Taking a corner of the cloth in two careful fingers, the man lifted the cloth and folded it back. Then, just as gingerly, as though the cloth might be contaminated, he removed the rest of it until the painting lay there to view. “Hmm,” he said. “What d’you think?” asked Lawford. “Ah,’ said the man. “Is it any good?” “Good question.” “Who d’ya think painted it?” “Don’t rush me,” answered the man. “Could you turn it over for me?” Lawford turned it over. The man bent forward to examine it. “Ahah,” he said. Lawford was getting excited. “What, what?” he said “What do you see?” “It’s as I thought,” replied the man. “See here, these marks in the frame. They spell V.V.G.” “Yes, I know.” Lawford was in a frenzy of contained excitement. “That settles it. Definitely no question about it.” “About what, man? Just tell me who painted it.” “Fellow named Vernon Valentine Ganley. Local man, I buy some off him occasionally, feel sorry for him, you know, absolutely hopeless however, but easy to recognise. He always signs his stuff on the frame like that.” House Martell Word count: 983 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Stolen Artifacts Prompt 15Prompt: Your character is redecorating and takes down a painting. They notice something strange engraved on the back of the frame. |
| West Oklahoma When I first came to the states, I lived for a while in Oklahoma. It was no more than a few months but, in that short time, I developed a deep love for the landscape of the west of the state. Out there, around Lawton, the great plains hold sway but there is a ridge that heads west from the town, proceeding all the way in ever lowering steps to the border with the Texas panhandle. Apart from the hills gradually disappearing into the flatness as one travels west, the plains stretch in a huge vastness and expanse of bleached blue sky to the horizon. The towns are few along that road, little places that time forgot and left in the fifties. Houses lean away from the winds and storefronts are decorated with rusting and peeled advertisements for Coke and Burma-Shave, the dry dust is ever present and wooden boards skeletal in the heat. Out on the open road, the harvested cotton fields spread their white and floating remnants over the fence to line the edges with litter like plastic bags. In places the tumbleweed collects against those same fences, trapped by the wind until it changes. Over the border, the road becomes black and well tended, farms are neat and prosperous, and Oklahoma becomes a distant memory. Yet still it calls, with dreams of a simpler life and beliefs that never change. The plains always remind me of the endless distances of Africa and its good red earth spread like a tablecloth on its vast plateau. There was something about Oklahoma that unites with my memories of Africa and turns and twists with it in a dance of nostalgia. The cultures were so similar in the fifties and sixties, as well as the land being alike. I remember so well the drive-in restaurants and theatres, things that made sense in lands with so much space and little rain. Gone now from both of them, but there is much else that remains. Once again, I turn out to be a creature of too many homes and none that will really own me. House Martell Word count: 357 For The North Remembers, Western World Task 48 Prompt: Write about a State or Country you like. Highlights, culture, etc. |
Battle Diamante Kursk vast empty strive fight war steel steppe tank dance wheel turn fire burnt ash death House Martell Line count: 7, word count: 16 Form: Diamante For "Game of Thrones" Westeros, Citadel Task 109Prompt: Write a Diamonte poem about a battle, any kind. Note: Kursk was the largest tank battle ever. It took place in World War II after the defeat of German forces in the Battle of Stalingrad in 1943. |
| Holdfast’s Big Case Holdfast leaned back and crossed his ankles on the desk in front of him. It had taken a while, but he felt at last that his private eye business was well established, his reputation growing and the future reasonably secure. He existed largely by tailing various unsavoury or sleazy individuals through a succession of bars and hangouts in the toughest parts of town, but sooner or later, the first case that called upon his hidden talents of perception and deduction would come along. And after that, who knew? The glamorous world of jewel thieves and cat burglars spread its riches before him and he dreamed of the time when he made the breakthrough to stardom. He was awoken by a pounding at the door to his shabby office. Before he could remove his feet from the desk, the door burst open to reveal a large, red-faced man in a sharp suit. The fellow strode to the desk and and boomed at the detective, now with his feet on the floor and trying to wriggle his way into a more upright posture. “Are you the guy running this outfit?” Holdfast straightened his tie. “Er yes, I’m Holdfast of the Holdfast Detective Agency.” “Good,” said the man. “Saw your advert in the paper this morning and I have a job for you. I want you to follow my wife.” “Ah, I see. Not a problem but I’m going to need some details.” “Of course you are,” said the man. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a leather billfold, slapping it down on the desk with aplomb. “Everything you need to know is in there. And the name’s Grimsby, by the way, Arnold Grimsby.” Holdfast immediately paid a lot more attention. Arnold Grimsby was the town’s millionaire, owner of several businesses and a man of ostentatious wealth. Although it sounded like the normal domestic troubles type of case, it was bound to pay well. “Shall we discuss payment, Mr.Grimsby?” “What’s your usual rate for this kind of job?” Holdfast answered with a slightly inflated version of the truth. “Fair enough,” said Grimsby. “I’ll double that if you can guarantee you’ll drop all other jobs for mine.” “Done,” replied Holdfast, with the knowledge that it shouldn’t be too hard a stipulation, as he had no other jobs. When Grimsby had departed, Holdfast studied the file. It contained a photo of the lady concerned, a stunner by anyone’s definition, names and addresses of connections and places normally visited, and a description of her usual daily routine, as far as it was known. Holdfast’s task was merely to follow and record her movements, then report back to Grimsby. He locked the office and set out for the diner where the lady was known to take most of her lunches. Once there, he settled himself into a corner where he could see the entire room and waited. In time, she appeared, all five foot five of her, blonde, statuesque and dressed in practical jeans and sweater that still managed to look expensive. He watched her eat and then followed her out to her car. Several days later, he had trailed the lady through all her known haunts, seen nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary, and was becoming thoroughly bored with the whole thing. He was on the verge of giving up and making a final report to Grimsby, when she at last changed her routine. She drove down to the marina, Holdfast trickling along in her wake. Out into the maze of piers and yachts she went, while Holdfast sneaked from one hiding place to the next behind her. And she stopped at a particularly large and pristine boat, gleaming in polished finery. Leaning out to reach the hull, she knocked. A man poked his head out of the hatch and saw her, then gestured for her to come aboard. He emerged and assisted her across the gangplank and they disappeared below. Holdfast had been kept busy, photographing the procedure, but now he settled back to wait. It was a long wait. When they finally emerged and Mrs. Grimsby departed for her car, Holdfast followed and then returned to his office. He spent the remainder of the afternoon typing out his report. That evening, he phoned the number Grimsby had left as his contact. A voice he did not recognise answered. “Grimsby residence.” There was a drawl in the delivery that spoke unmistakably of a butler. “Arnold Grimsby, please,” said Holdfast. “Mr Grimsby is not currently available. If you could leave a message, I shall relay it to him at his convenience.” “Just tell him Holdfast called.” Holdfast put the phone down and reread his report. He made a few detail changes, then stood and gazed out the window at the nighttime street below. The same, dreary view, lit into an orange glow in the streetlights, stared back at him. He waited a while longer, gave up and went home. The next day, he was sitting at his desk when Grimsby burst in, his usual bluster and energy nearly making Holdfast fall from his chair. The report was produced and Grimsby settled long enough to read it quickly. He gave no sign of satisfaction or otherwise, merely grunting occasionally as he read. When he finished, he reached into his coat and produced a chequebook, scribbled quickly into it, then tore off a cheque and handed it to Holdfast. “Very good, he said. “Didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know, but that’s what I wanted to hear.” Holdfast was astonished. “You’re not angry?” Grimsby barked a quick laugh. “Hah, not at all. You just confirmed that my wife bought the yacht for my birthday from a man named Bertie Leeman. I just wanted to be sure she wasn’t being taken for a ride by some wheeler dealer. And Bertie’s a good man.” “I see,” said Holdfast. Grimsby laughed again. “Dirty mind, Holdfast. Shouldn’t let your work get to you.” House Martell Word count: 994 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Western World Prompt: 3Prompt: You are a private eye in the heart of the city who is often tasked with scoping out adulterers, people who skip out on their girlfriends, or shady business deals. When a young woman comes to you, teary eyed, and tells you her story, you... |
| The Nurse She’s here again middle of the night and I groggy trying to be cheerful in answer to requests turn over, take these her good humour impenetrable though I’m only one of a hundred old men with tubes attached grumpy at not being at home and disturbed at night to swallow this and drink that hands flashing in practised skill with tiny cup and little pill and then she’s off, trolley ahead and eyes on the next on the list. I’ve done night shifts, I know the tiredness determined will to stay the endless hours my patients machines, but the same attendance, the same relief at end of shift. House Martell Line count: 19, Word count: 108 Free verse For "Game of Thrones" House of Black & White Door 122. The Nurse Write a poem (any style) about a nurse However you want to approach the subject 150 words max. 20 lines max. |
| Kiya’s Lunch “What, she doesn’t remember what she had for lunch? But that was only a couple of hours ago. How can she have forgotten so soon?” My memory is bad enough but, with a little effort, I’m sure I could have remembered the events of the day so far. Gaby ~ Just tired  shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe she has more important things to think about. But it doesn’t matter - it’s still your job to bring the chef something so that he can prepare a very special dish for her to eat now. You’d better get busy.”Always the bridegroom, never the bride, I thought. No wait, that can’t be right. But it sounded right for the situation, somehow. I’ve been sent on some pretty strange quests in my time but never before to find the magic ingredient for a special meal. Not knowing what the chef had in mind was not going to help either. It would be pointless to rush around in square circles, looking for the ideal thing, I reasoned. I needed to have a definite goal in mind, some specific thing that could form the basis of a rather special treat for the young lady. This required careful thought and consideration. I sat down to ponder the matter. And promptly fell asleep. When I awoke, a few minutes later, a word had entered my mind. “Avocado,” it said. “Don’t mind if I do,” I replied. “If you do what?” “Have a cardo, of course.” “No, you idiot. Av-OH-cado.” Now, that wasn’t a bad idea. My mind wandered back to my father’s property in Zimbabwe and the avocado tree that grew at the bottom of the garden. Those avos were the best I’ve ever tasted and the largest as well. Oh, those were the days. They had spoiled me for the pathetic versions on sale in the northern hemisphere, however. Nothing could approach the wonders of the avos from that tree. Unless it were… An idea marched through my brain and I realised that this might be possible after all. I found a convenient cell phone and dialled the Sleepy Lizard Avocado Farm Shop in Florida. Yes, there really is a place called that and its owner has videos on YouTube telling you all you ever wished to know about avos, including the best varieties to buy. This has been an unsponsored recommendation to point you to a source that will advise you on how best to experience the wonders of the avocado. But I digress. They confirmed that they could indeed deliver a selection of avos to the chef and even, by dint of a little magic, ensure that these reached the chef in time for him to prepare a suitable surprise for her ladyship. And I’ll bet you didn’t know she was a nautical lass (think about it). I paid for the order from my little stock of gift points and went back to sleep. House Martell Word count: 489 For "Game of Thrones" House of Black & White, Door # 12Prompt: 1. Kiya's Lunch Before the game, Kiya said she doesn't remember what she had for lunch Check out "Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Want to participate?" Write a (500 words or less) story as to what you brought her to eat If you are iKïyå§ama-House Targaryen , you have to give your lunch to someone else! |
| A Green Balloon A few days ago, a green balloon floated by my window. I rushed to the window to see what was happening. Far below, a small child was crying in the street as his mother attempted to comfort him. I ran downstairs, out the front door and around the corner to Fred’s Toy Shop. “Quick, have you got any green balloons?” I asked. Fred sold me one and I dashed out of the shop to find the child and his mother. I gave him the balloon. He burst into tears again. “He didn’t like that colour the first time,” she said. House Martell Word count: 100 For "Game of Thrones" Westeros, Citadel Task 95Prompt: Write two Micro-Fiction stories in exactly 100 words. Use the following prompts: Story #1: A black cat; Story #2: A green balloon floats by your window. |
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