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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. |
 Zorba The old man harumphed in disbelief. “Zorba?” he said. “You play the theme from Zorba and then ask me about inspiration from it? And you ask such a thing when my whole life has been an inspiration from Zorba? If I spoke to you for the rest of your life, I wouldn’t be able to tell you the half of it.” He broke off to produce a handkerchief from somewhere and wiped away the spittle that was beginning to dribble from his mouth. “Age is a terrible thing,” he said as he bent to one side to replace the rag in his pocket. “Your body betrays you and your mind emigrates to go live in the past.” He was silent for a while and I wondered whether he had forgotten about Zorba. Then he looked up and began again. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. There’s a story in Zorba, a small story, just a chocolate chip inserted into the chocolate cake you bought, a tiny story within a story that has lots of little stories to tell. And each of them has something to say, but I’ll tell you just this one. Then you might begin to understand. “Because it’s Greek, you know? Zorba is Greek and his story is about Greece and the Greeks and Zorba too. And the Greeks have millions of stories. They’re worth listening to because they’re an old people and have learned much. “Zorba and a young Englishman arrive in this village on a little Greek island where the Englishman has inherited a mine. There is a young widow living in this village and one day the Englishman meets her in the street. Nothing is said but the young man develops an immediate crush on her. She is no great beauty but has an austere mystery about her and an intense pride in her devotion to her dead husband. “Intensity, that is the widow in essence. She is Greek and, as a result, loves to the full and hates with as much passion. And she is hated by the men of the village because they all desire her but she will have none of them. Of course, the women hate her too, because they know their men want her. “In the village is a young man, the son of a rich trader, who loves the widow and who, like the rest, has been rejected by her. This man gazes after her and longs for her, but she does not care or bend to him. “Instead, the widow has fallen for the Englishman and, after fighting it for a long time, she gives in and they spend a night together. The rich man’s son sees what is happening for he watches always from the shadows. In the morning, he is found dead among the rocks by a cliff face. He has killed himself rather than continue in his life of pain and denial. “The widow is filled with remorse when she learns of his death. She blames herself and goes to his funeral in sorrow. The villagers are angry at her presence and drive her away from the ceremony. They follow and corner her in a field where Zorba attempts to defend her. While his back is turned, they begin to throw stones and Zorba is pushed aside in the press. “The villagers, all of them, both men and women, stone the widow to death. It is a savage and shocking scene but, like all the other stories in Zorba, it has lessons to teach. “For every person in Zorba has a story, the Englishman who comes to know how to live a life full and without fear, the widow, the rich man’s son, the once glorious but now faded French lady that Zorba raises to a last joyful shout, and Zorba himself who lives a life of impossible intensity and carries the stories of a million others in himself. “It’s an education, young man. You should go see the movie and read the book. Mr. Kazantzakis knew very well what he was writing and it’s all in there.” He stopped then, and wiped his face with the handkerchief again. I waited but it seemed that nothing more was forthcoming. I ventured a question. “You said that the story inspired your life. Can you tell me in what ways it has done that?” The old man gave me a tired look. “Tax me to my grave, would you? Well, I’ll tell you how the widow inspired me, but you must remember that I found inspiration in all the other stories too. “She inspired me because I found my own Greek widow. Except she isn’t Greek. Danish American as it turns out. Sounds like a sandwich, doesn’t it? But she’s the real thing and I had to wait until we were both old before I found her. And, so far, no one has wanted to stone us. No doubt they’ll get to it in time. “But I’ll live every moment until then.” Word count: 838 For: "Game of Thrones"  The North Remembers, Musically Challenged, Prompt 3Prompt: Zorba the Greek, songs for inspiration. |
| Seven Erik was about to hit the 11 button when the girl stumbled into the elevator, heels click-clacking on the hard floor. Her face was buried in the parcels she was hugging to her chest, but one eye peered around the edge of the pile to look at him. “Nine, please,” she said. Erik moved his finger down to the 9 button, clicked it, and returned to 11. It settled into its bed with a reassuring click when he pressed it. Both of them then lifted their eyes to watch the numbered lights come on in turn, the girl still peeking around her parcels. The numbers glowed in obedient progression as they counted out the floors. The elevator hummed with speed and a slight vibration, allowing some sense of its rapid ascension. Two pairs of eyes were held in rapt attention on their progress as the silent tension between two strangers in an enclosed space increased. And then the elevator stopped with a lurch. The light had frozen at floor 7 but the doors remained closed. The two passengers looked at each other. “I guess it’s stuck,” said Erik. “I didn’t touch anything.” “Press the emergency button,” she suggested. “Or maybe there’s a phone or something.” Erik studied the panel. There was one button separate from the serried ranks of the rest. It had a picture of a bell on it. He pressed it. Nothing happened. “Maybe it rings somewhere else,” he said. “The janitor’s office, perhaps.” “Is there no phone?” she asked. “It might be behind a panel. They do that sometimes.” There was no sign of a panel anywhere on the board. Erik turned to look around at the walls of the elevator. There was nothing that looked as though it might be a small cupboard with a phone inside. “No, nothing that I can see. Why don’t you put those parcels down? We might be in here for a while.” She turned and awkwardly piled the parcels in a corner. Her sombre business suit fitting perfectly and her dark hair, carefully controlled in a severe bun, told a story of a serious lady on the way up, a creature of the boardrooms and offices. She was pretty but with a no nonsense air about her expression when she straightened and faced Erik. “D’you have a cell phone?” “Ah, good point,” said Erik as his hand dived for an inside pocket. It retrieved the inevitable dark slab of technical genius and his thumb hammered at its screen. After a moment, he shook his head, and started to hold it up at different angles, obviously looking for reception. “Looks like we’re outa luck,” he muttered. “Can you try?” “Left mine in the car,” she said. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait for the janitor. My name’s Franki, by the way. Franki with an i.” “Erik,” he replied, then added, “Do you put a little heart over it?” She shot him a sour look. For a moment Erik cursed his mischievous humour, but then she smiled and said, “As a matter of fact, I do.” The smile completely transformed her face. From being a person in the crowd, one of thousands of career-bent women in the city, stalwartly keeping their noses to the grindstone, she became a vision of perfect beauty, a creature so stunning that Erik had to turn away and pretend to look at the ceiling in search of… What? There was a sort of trapdoor set into the roof of the elevator. Of course there was a trapdoor, he thought. There was always a trapdoor in elevators. At least, so the movies maintained. He pointed at it. “A trapdoor,” he said. “Maybe we could…” “You could try.” The voice made it very clear who was to do the trying. Erik reached up to the ceiling. The trapdoor was inches from his stretching fingers. He gathered himself and jumped. His fingers collided with the door, lifting it slightly, and it slid sideways a bit so that a sliver of darkness beyond was revealed in one corner of the square. A few more jumps and he had pushed the door aside and they were looking at an empty square of darkness in the ceiling. “Can you climb up there?” asked Franki. “Don’t know till I try.” Erik took a breath then wound himself up and leaped upward, arms at full stretch and fingers seeking a handhold. He caught the edge of the opening and held on. “Can you sorta give me a boost upward?” he asked breathlessly. She leapt forward, grabbed his legs and shoved upward. At the same time he levered himself up and managed to get an elbow on to the roof. After that, it was a wriggle and a heave and he clambered on to the top of the elevator. It was not as dark as it had seemed. He could see the walls quite clearly and, to his astonishment, a door was set at exactly the height needed for them to step from the elevator and through the door. If it would open. A round, perfectly ordinary handle beckoned. Erik crouched down and spoke through the trapdoor. “There’s a door up here,” he said. “If I can pull you up, we should be able to open the door and escape.” She looked unconvinced but seemed prepared to try, so Erik reached an arm down to her. In the event, she was much lighter than Erik had expected, and a brief struggle brought her up to the elevator roof with him. They looked at the door. Erik reached out, gripped the handle and turned. The door opened and brilliant light flooded in. With the door wide open and their eyes becoming accustomed to the light, they could see beyond into a place of green fields, flowers, and the sun beaming down from a blue sky. She breathed a word. “Magic.” He held out a hand, she took it and they stepped out into a fantasy. Word count: 999 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, What’s His Story? Prompt 7Prompt: Write about two people striking up an unlikely friendship. |
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