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 |  GoT plus the PromptMaster! and Cards Against Authors stuff (poetry and short stories) |
 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.. |
| Winter Sprinter Come with me now to the depths of winter when breath is so cold it seems to splinter, rasps in your throat like pepper and minter, scrapes in the lungs until your eyes squinter, rattles its way a dot matrix printer, just enough to make anyone whimper. Speak to me now of how pretty the snow, and set that beside the cold that I know. Line count: 8 Rhymed aabb For PromptMaster! Week 2 Task Prompt Prompt: Write a poem that’s almost too much. |
| Modern Art A fine mistake it would surely be if readers should be made to see that my intent right from the start is to create what might be art, and since I do it in the present its modernness is surely meant. And if I say things in strange ways, it’s just because my personal days occurred when all the poetic greats have had their say and become late. The matters that concerned them then need no restatement once again. So if I speak of things today, appropriate it is to say in language quite contemporary and methods revolutionary, the better to speak unto my peers and weave my spell about their ears. Line count: 18 Rhymed aabb For PromptMaster! Prize Prompt Week 2 Prompt: The thing that is most likely to cause your poem to be mistaken for modern art. |
| Procrastinator’s Dread I do not care for future me who lives somewhere I do not see; it’s my comfort I nurture now when irksome tasks do crease my brow. I put them off and send them on for future self to slave upon, and turn my back upon the thought how hard his days with chores I bought. But now I fear that some dark day my future me will go away, for his resentment grown so vast had worn his patience down at last; departed for some Shangri-La, he sings of freedom on guitar and I be left with endless tasks, while he in tropic sunshine basks. Line count: 16 Rhymed couplets, 8 syllables per line For Cards Against Authors, Week 1 Prompt Card: You’re afraid of your future self. Wild Card: Metaphor: Emotional growth as a fragile seed. Note: Patience grows to resentment. |
| Maybe Maybe the gift has departed Maybe imagined it was Maybe I shouldn’t have started Maybe there is no “because” Maybe it’s old age has robbed me Maybe the whole thing is dross Maybe good sense should have stopped me Maybe it’s all about loss. Maybe there aren’t any answers Maybe I should leave by the door Maybe we’re nothing but chancers Maybe - but this is one more. Line count: 12 Rhymed abab For PromptMaster! Week 1 Task Prompt Prompt: Write a poem where each line starts the same way. |
| Abandoned House I hear they do restorations these days and it’s true I could use a facelift. My foundation is sound - no worries there - and bone structure still fine and quite classic. You’ll have noticed my looks seem neglected, the weather is cruel in these parts - no surprise that my skin needs attention but nothing some care cannot fix. Darkness now fills my eyes on the world, my glasses are cracked and obscured - yet the cost of a little new glazing is hardly enough to turn suitors away. Remember that real beauty is within, there are wonders beneath all the dust of neglected memories and time - the broom of new owners clears that. So come, say you’ll risk a purchase, move in and bring life and new light - this tired old pile of dirt bricks and bone will repay you in shelter for years. Line count: 20 Free verse For PromptMaster! Week 1 Prize Prompt Prompt: The thing an abandoned house would most like to talk about. |
| 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. |
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