%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |  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.. |
| Bus The ninety-nine does come this way, or so I’ve heard some people say, and here it stops, so claims the sign, the one with Bus Stop written fine. If you are going to Old Hampstead and looking forward to your bed, I’ll stand and wait along with you for, as it happens, I go there too. Here comes one now, it’s going fast - oh dear, oh my, it’s gone right past. I should have seen, it was so clear, a twenty-three it was and don’t stop here. Oh well, I’m sure it won’t be long, the waiting crowd’s now quite a throng and all these people can’t be wrong, soon ninety-nine will come along. I’m told there’s thirty minutes wait between each bus - they’re never late. But I’ve been standing here an hour which may be why I’m feeling sour. Oh, there’s a bus just down the street - I’ve never seen a sight more sweet… yet now it seems it’s not my day, it’s turned around and gone away. I don’t think I can wait much longer, I’m mad enough to dance the conga right here at this forsaken stop, now all together till we drop. But wait, look up, there’s three approach, one after t’other, here’s our coach all labelled ninety-nine indeed - the first is full and gathers speed. The second too has no more room, it rattles past, seems set on zoom, and when the last’s career is done, it seems it has just room for one. I’m sorry but I was the first, besides I’m nearly dead from thirst, and as I hop upon the bus, don’t swear at me and make a fuss. Line count: 40 Rhymed aabb For PromptMaster! Task Prompt, Week 3 Prompt: Write a poem that makes the reader wait. |
| Ode to a Bathtub Oh, perfect porcelain potentate of purity! How bright your name in the order of bidet, basin and bowl, preeminent and famed, alone you stand, in greatness venerated. Now your shining flanks so adamant support your crown on high, that silvered tower above the crowd blessing from the sky, source of showers of soothing balm. Down to the welcoming receptacle cascade the cleansing waters to fill your strong and polished sides, lave your sons and daughters, thus cleared contamination of the day. So to the sacred drain and depths the teeming waters flow, to disappear forever from our sight, our sins dissolve and go, renewed we stand, glowing children of the bath. Line count: 20 Rhymed abcbd, varied meter For PromptMaster! Prize Prompt, Week 3 Prompt: The most nonsensical thing to write an Ode to. |
| Butterfly A megalomaniac metamorphosis, the frog; the butterfly is merely a flying worm. Beholden 1970 The butterfly goes flutt’ring fair in colours bright and debonair, his warning sign extraordinaire to predators that ride the air, “I’m poisonous so you take care - suggest you hunt some other fare.” And though it be a lie so bold, the birds do know through time untold such painted tones will danger hold, and leave the conman lone and cold to flutter on his course paroled, escaping as his plan foretold. Just think that as his wings do stir the atmosphere in tiny blur, his microscopic storm may whirr to greater gales and so confer unto the world cyclone and whirl- wind enough to make us demur. Remember that this flying worm contains always this nascent germ, and though he seems so light and bright, his heart is steeped in darkest night. Line count: 22 Form: Trochaic tetrameter, rhymed aaaaaa bbbbbb cccccc ddee For Cards Against Authors, Week 2 Prompt Card: A butterfly as a villain. . Word Cards: Glimmering, Whirlwind (You only need to choose one word to use) Wild Card: Constraint: Two lines in your poem must either use only one-syllable words or no one-syllable words. |
| 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 aaaaaa bb 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. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
