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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. |
| 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 was bound to 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... |
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