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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. |
| Rago’s Diet This is what is called a dilemma, thought Ragobimini del Marnoc Carabindiay the Fourth. Since I don’t fancy writing all that again, I had better explain that dragons have exceedingly long names and that it is common practice for other dragons to shorten them into something more practical for everyday use. Ragobimini was known to his friends as Rago and that is how I shall refer to him from now on. As I was saying, Rago was musing on the matter of a dilemma. His dragon doctor had advised him that his pump was in such a bad condition that, if he did not do something about his weight soon, he would lose the ability to fly. You should know that dragons have both a heart and a pump. The heart functions pretty much in the same way as ours, pushing the rather turgid dragon blood around the body to visit all stations and deliver the mail. The pump, however, takes the methane produced by the dragon’s digestive processes and pumps it into enormous sacks within its torso to keep them inflated and, as a result, lighter than air. This is why dragons always look rather fat, as though they have just eaten a monstrous meal (they probably have but it’s not what causes the huge bellies). Without this balance against their weight, dragons would not be able to fly. They are really living blimps whose wings do provide some lift, but are much more important for steering, directing, and braking their forward momentum through the air. The methane does give the dragon a secondary bonus in that it is the fuel for the flames it is able to shoot out at will. And knights with other names as well. Anyway, it seems that Rago’s pump was being damaged by his diet of too much ogre and not enough troll. Damsel would have been a fine substitute for the ogre, but they were so hard to find in this day and age. And fairies were hardly a decent source of the fibre needed to stimulate methane production. No, the dilemma for Rago was that his only option, apart from swearing off ogres, was a rigorous exercise regime to reduce his weight. And ogres were his favourite food. Cheap, plentiful and endlessly amenable to a variety of cooking methods, Rago could not see his managing without them. So exercise it must be. And with that came another problem. To exercise, he needed to leave his cave under the mountain to spend several hours flying around and generally burning off the excess fat. Which would leave his hoard unguarded. The very thought was anathema to Rago. You don’t live next door to a colony of thieving dwarves and not know that they are just waiting their chance to nip in and steal as much treasure as their little bodies could carry. If anything likes a bit of shiny metal more than does a dragon, it’s a dwarf. The dilemma gnawed away at Rago, keeping him awake at nights and ruining his enjoyment of his meals. But, no dragon can stand the notion of being flightless. They are ridiculously vulnerable on the ground, being clumsy, slow to move, and an easy target for a knight with a sharp point to deflate one’s methane bags. The decision would have to be made and Rago was the dragon to make it. The hoard must go, he decided. He set a date for his departure into the big, wide world. When it came to it, he could not bear to leave everything. First he slipped a few crowns around his neck, then followed that with a golden torque or two. Then some necklaces set with the largest jewels in his collection. When the stash reached from his shoulders to his muzzle, he stopped. It would have to do, he thought. He staggered with rolling gait and swinging neck toward the entrance to his cave. Once outside, he flapped his wings a little to test the muscles. Then he held his breath, filled his sacks, and tried to take off. His rear quarters left the ground and began to rise into the air. But his front quarters remained solidly on the earth, refusing to move. No matter how he struggled, his front feet (well, they’re hardly paws, are they?) stayed resolutely on the earth, as though glued in place. When he became aware of how undignified a sight he must be, flapping his wings and sticking his rear end way up in the air, he stopped trying and considered his position. He knew that the jewellery was the problem. But, if he were to fly, it had to go. Sadly, he lowered his head and allowed each item to slide down his neck and fall to the ground. Too ashamed at his sudden reduction to penury, he turned his head away and leapt into the air. This time he succeeded and, almost before he knew it, he was gaining speed and starting a series of zigzag curves in space out of sheer delight. He had forgotten how much fun it was to fly. In a field near the village, he spied a flock of sheep with attendant shepherd boy leaning against a rock as he played the panpipes. Rago swooped down to scare the living daylights out of him and the sheep. As the boy dived for cover, Rago grabbed a sheep for lunch later. And, as he flew off looking for more fun and mischief, Rago felt not a pang for his lost hoard and all its treasures. He had discovered that a life of freedom is worth more than all the treasure in the world. House Martell Word count: 950 For "Game of Thrones"  The North Remembers, Fantasy & Fairy Tale Prompt 23Prompt: Write about a dragon who doesn’t know what to do with their hoard anymore. |
| The Painting Jim’s main problem was daydreaming. It was not that it prevented him from writing but, now that his books were beginning to sell, he had realised that his cover photograph was unsuitable. The choice had been very limited as most of his photos had been lost, and the one used did not really reflect him as he preferred to see himself. Jim wanted something that showed him at his present age, with life and wisdom reflected in the wrinkles that held his craggy features together. He should, perhaps, be resting his chin upon a closed fist, to demonstrate his serious, thoughtful approach. His silver hair could be a little windswept, just enough to show an adventurous spirit. For a while, he considered holding a pipe but discarded the idea as too old fashioned. The blame for his original choice of photo he laid squarely at the feet of John Grisham. The early legal thrillers had shown Grisham as a dashing young fellow with a knowing and worldly wise smile on a tanned and chiselled face. Though Jim loved the books, he hated that self satisfied gigolo that gazed out of their back covers. To compete, he chose a picture of himself in his youth, long before he began to write in earnest, in his hippy stage, all long, romantic hair and smouldering grin. How he hated that photo now. After a few years, Grisham had changed his cover photo for a much later one that showed him as he really was. His older, more weathered, and slightly pudgy visage now gave a much more respectable impression of the writer. Jim realised how silly he looked in his old photo and longed for a better one. He dug out his old camera and took shots of himself from all angles. None were suitable. Having to prepare the camera with delayed shutter and then hurry to assume the required pose, left him with pictures that never said exactly what he wanted. He bought himself a new phone with advanced camera facility and twisted himself into knots, trying to get that perfect pic. Nothing worked. He always ended up looking nothing like his imagination had decided upon, and too much like himself. There were days when he did nothing but stare into the mirror, changing expressions and poses, in search of that moment that said all the best things about his writing ability, while retaining a passing resemblance to himself. He came very close at times,even hitting upon reflections that were so near to the desired result that, had there been some way of freezing the moment, he would have been satisfied with that. It was one of these occasions that produced a possible answer. A painting. There had been a time when Jim had harboured ambitions of being a great artist. At the time, he had acquired sufficient skill in oils to be able to produce a pretty good picture. Though his dreams in that field had withered as writing began to get a grip on him, he reckoned he could still produce a worthy portrait of himself. He and the mirror could work together to create the perfect cover photo. He rushed out to buy a canvas, a few brushes and paints, a new easel and anything else that looked as if it might help. The bathroom was chosen as his studio. The mirror was at exactly the right height and he only needed to see his face and shoulders. Plus, all those polished, hard surfaces of porcelain, tiling, and plastic would be easy to clean afterwards. Jim began the painting gingerly, uncertain of how much of his former ability he had retained. He dabbed at the canvas with little strokes, patting away at it like a pointillist. That did not last long, however. This was not him at all, he realised, and launched into the great, sweeping strokes he remembered from his youth. Very quickly, he had a basic shape representing the head and shoulders. So fast was he working that drops of sweat ran into his eyes and blurred his vision a little. He found that he did not need to see with great precision; his mind held fast to a vision of the pose and expression he desired, and now the mirror was only required for confirmation of detail and nuance of light. He worked far into the night, at last turning from the portrait in exhaustion, and staggering through to fall asleep, fully clothed, upon the bed. In the morning he awoke with a mouth as dry as the Atacama. He felt his way to the kitchen and made some coffee, before wandering through to the bathroom, mug in hand. He wanted to see the portrait in the cold light of day. It waited for him, propped up on its easel, like the head of a very thin and spindly man with legs spread. Jim looked at it in disbelief. The painting was very, very good. He could see at once that it was him. Oh, he had never been a strict realist, attempting to duplicate exactly what the eye saw. And this painting was typical of his old style, with emotion visible in the colours and attack of the brushstrokes. It was the face of Jim laid bare for all the world to see the complex creature that looked back at the world through his eyes. It was really quite exceptional, easily the best thing he’d ever done. Jim went closer to examine the details. In doing so, he became aware of his reflection in the mirror. He turned to look at it. The face in the mirror was the image of the painting. It was not that the portrait looked like him - he looked like the portrait. He was now a colourful, ragged construction of strokes dabbed in feelings intense and absolute. So true to life was the painting that its subject had abandoned reality for the greater expression of creation. House Martell Word count: 997 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Stolen Artifacts Prompt 26Prompt: Write a story about someone trying to paint (or otherwise create) a self-portrait. |
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