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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. |
| Antibe Antibe fumbled in the darkness, looking for the light switch. It had to be here, it was always here. But the wall receded from his touch, leaving him with a void that might be ended just a few inches away or, equally, it could go on and on in the inky blackness, leading him ever onward until he fell into some pit or trap unseen. This is ridiculous, he told himself. You can’t get lost in your own basement. And walls don’t suddenly change position so that you can go wandering round forever. That blasted light switch is here somewhere, and I’ve just got turned around and looking in the wrong direction somehow. And then his fingers touched the wall. He walked them around, looking for the switch. Then felt them stepping on to living skin and flesh. Someone else had a hand on the wall. “What the hell?” Antibe blurted. “Who the heck are you?” “Victor,” returned a male voice. “And you?” “Never mind that. What the hell are you doing in my basement?” “Looking for the light switch,” said the voice. “I tried asking the computer, but either you haven’t got one, or I’m using the wrong name for it.” “I don’t use a computer to turn on the lights,” said Antibe. “There’s a switch on that wall somewhere. Find it and turn them on.” There was a click and the basement was suddenly flooded with light. Victor was standing by the switch, eyes squinting in the sudden brightness. He was about the same height and build as Antibe, perhaps a little slimmer, but his hair was cropped close to his head, unlike Antibe’s wild and curly variant. It was his clothes that held Antibe’s attention, however. The stranger was dressed in what could have been a uniform, a one-piece covering that jacketed his entire body apart from his hands and shoes on his feet. The material was slightly shiny and seemed to conform to the body underneath very tightly, for at no point did it wrinkle or fold. It was like a blue-grey second skin, stretching and shrinking to follow the body underneath whenever it moved. A belt with little compartments and buttons surrounded the man’s waist and guards like an archer’s wrapped his wrists. The man was talking while Antibe took in the sight of the weird suit. “Sorry. They told me you guys already have computer-driven households. It didn’t even occur to me to look for a switch.” “No, some people have that sort of thing but I think it’s creepy. Much prefer doing things for myself.” Antibe dragged his eyes from the suit up to the man’s face. His skin seemed perfect, without a wrinkle or blemish anywhere, so monotone, in fact, that the face looked as if it belonged on a plastic dummy. A thought crossed Antibe’s mind. “Who are ‘they’?” “Ah,” said Victor. “I thought we’d get to that. Just not so quickly, is all.” Antibe was not to be deflected. “So what’s the answer?” “They’re the ones that sent me on this little expedition. It’s all a bit experimental at the moment so arrival point is a bit variable. I wasn’t expecting this, for instance.” Victor looked around at the bare and dusty basement. “Oh well, that’s very encouraging, to know that they are not really interested in my basement. What sort of experiment and where are you based?” Victor sighed. “I’ll answer your questions but you’ll have to be quick and accept them without argument. I haven’t got much time…” He paused there, stuck a finger to his temple, concentrated for a second, then continued. “Just nine minutes, in fact, and then I’ll be called back. And I have to take you with me.” Antibe stared at him. “What? Take me where? And how’re you gonna make me?” “The future,” answered Victor. “Where else did you think I came from? You should have guessed by now.” “No way. Even if I believed you, I wouldn’t go. I have a life here, you know. And there’s nothing to say you’ve not broken in from next door and are planning to kidnap me. You’re just a scam artist.” Victor put a finger to his temple again. “Seven minutes,” he said. Antibes looked suddenly concerned. “You’re joking, aren’t you?” And, when Victor shook his head in denial, Antibe continued, “Why would you want a useless bloke like me, anyway? I mean, I’m nothing special and…” “Wasting time,” said Victor. “Just your bad luck, that’s all. Can’t let you stay behind to spread tales about time travellers and so on. It’s all in the regulations.” “I’ll fight you for it,” said Antibe, a bit too hesitatingly to be believed. “Three minutes,” said Victor. “You can try but you aren’t going to win. I could hypnotise you like that…” His fingers snapped and Antibe’s eyes went glassy. His arms fell nervelessly to his sides. Victor snapped his fingers again and continued, “Or you can come quietly and enjoy the experience.” Antibe did not know what had just happened but he felt the weirdness of coming to the surface after long immersion. Or what seemed like it. His anger subsided to be replaced by fear. “How long now?” he asked. Victor felt his temple. “A minute,” he answered. “We’d better get ready. Which way is it going to be, quietly or in a coma?” “You’re the boss,” said Antibe. “Good.” Victor took his arm and they stood there in the basement as though waiting for a bus. Then they seemed to stretch upward until they began to disappear through the ceiling. They were gone and the light clicked off. It was several days before Antibe’s neighbours began to wonder if he had been abducted by aliens, as he had always maintained was possible. House Martel Raven Task # 3 (x5) Word count: 967 For "Game of Thrones"  The North Remembers, What’s His Story Prompt 12Prompt: He fumbled in the darkness looking for the light switch, but when he finally found it there was someone already there. |
 Her Grace has an Idea The Duchess of Moretonshire, Her Grace Jane de Saville Burnley Compton-Arden, was worried. Not that a shadow of it marred her usual set expression of determined good humour, but John Baines, the groundsman, detected lately a certain edge to their discussions of the finances of the estate. There was a new desperation evident in her quest to increase the income from their agricultural efforts, as limited as they were by the absence of hands to assist. She pressed him often for his thoughts on profitable new crops that she could handle on her own. It was the common difficulty facing all the grand old estates, this shortage of money to hire workers to expand farming activities to greater output and prosperity. Her Grace’s singlehanded efforts, assisted by John where and when he could, to produce enough to support the family home and those few servants left to the household, were but a doomed rearguard action against the mounting debts and dues owed by the estate. Bankruptcy loomed. The irony lay in the fact that John was already aware of a crop that could save them all and could be handled easily by her Grace without outside assistance. The problem was that it was, at least for the moment, illegal. Yes, it seemed that the mood of the country was moving toward legalisation, but it was going to be too late to save them. John fretted away many sleepless nights as he sought another solution, one that did not threaten Her Grace with arrest and humiliation. Things came to a head on a bright morning in spring during their daily conference by the shed in the vegetable garden. The groundsman thought Her Grace particularly burdened that day and wavered in his resolve not to mention the forbidden possibility. “There has to be a solution, John,” Her Grace was saying. “It’s not just the estate but everyone on it, the villagers in Ambly, the creditors like Barnsley the butcher and Warburton’s Bakery, all of those hanging on with us in hope. We have to find the crop that we can grow in quantity and gain a decent income.” “I know, Your Grace. I’m thinking on it daily, all the time.” There was silence for a time and then Her Grace began, “I think I might have thought of it, John.” She looked at him earnestly, as though she was unsure of how he would respond to her suggestion. The groundsman regarded her with a look he thought encouraging but could easily have been disapproval. “I’m all ears, Your Grace.” She pouted like a little girl. “You won’t like it,” she said. It was time to get it out in the open. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Your Grace. It sounds to me as if I already know what you’re thinking of.” He turned away to look at the sunlight bright on the horizon of the gathering dawn. “Been wondering myself how to put it to you, it being, well, frowned upon and all.” “Oh, John, really? And I’ve been so worried that you’d refuse to be involved. I know I can’t do it on my own. Didn’t even dare to say its name.” “Ah well, no need to do that, Your Grace. I knew a young lady once and she knew all about it. Her name was Mary Jane, as I recall.” Her Grace laughed, relief quite evident in her relaxed pose and lack of self consciousness. “That’s wonderful, John. I think we have an understanding.” John allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “Indeed we do, Your Grace.” “We’ll have to clear out the greenhouses,” she said, suddenly all business and eagerness to set to. “I’d be grateful if you could clean the glass - the moss is beginning to cover some of the panes and I don’t think I can reach some of the higher ones, even on a ladder.” “Will do, Your Grace.” “And the marketing. I don’t know anyone in the business, I’m afraid.” John scratched his chin in thought. “There’s one or two I know that should be able to help in that way,” he said. Her Grace was thinking aloud now in her excitement. “The trestle tables will do and then there’s lots of old pots and containers we can use for starters. I’d like to get the sprinkler system going again if I can and I think there’s some bags of potting soil in the shed. We might need to buy a few things but I’m sure we’ve enough to get started. Plenty of tools and, oh…” She stopped in mid flow. “Seeds, John. Where are we going to get seeds?” “I’ll handle that, Your Grace.” “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.” She seemed about to go and then took a step closer to the groundsman. “Just one more thing, John. Don’t say a word about this to the Old Duke, please. You know the way he is, a bit set in his ways and stuffy with it. Something like this could give him a heart attack. “Oh, and no sense mentioning it to the staff either. You know how tongues can wag, especially down in the village and in the Red Lion.” John passed a finger across his lips in a zipping motion. “My lips are sealed.” He winked conspiratorially. House Martel Raven Task # 3 (x5) Word count: 883 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, What’s Her Story Prompt 31Prompt: Write a story that includes the line “my lips are sealed.” |
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