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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. |
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