- Joined
- Mar 16, 2020
In this thread, we write in the style of George R. R. Martin.
- Thread starter gamerweeb1
- Start date
gamerweeb1
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 26, 2023
Yeah... the point of this topic was that everyone would post nothing. Didn't work out that way.
- Joined
- Jan 12, 2017
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2022
Nutmegh struck across the mire, on this day same as so many other days in his dreary and overcast life as the youngest of a farmer's brood. He was determined, though, and so he struck out in his eldest brother's high wader boots and took along his large and sturdy stick, one he had carried with him as a child when he went to check the fields with his grandmother, which he used to help pull himself out of mudholes.
The boy set off to inspect the potential hay harvest. He was so self-assured that he didn't notice a fine mist of drizzle, as if the fog had just begun to dew, had settled while he was trekking into the outer barren fields. Finding his confidence wanting, he began to think it better to head back home. The sucking sound of his boots pulling from the mud as he plodded along, schluck schluck schluck, became deeper in tone and more pronounced. Schluuuuuck... schluuuuuuuuck... schluuuuuuck... His stick was of no use. The mud was not merely thick, but felt as if it was trying to actively pull him down and trap him forever. Before too long, he had abandoned his lucky stick, it being unrelentingly stuck in the sulfurous muck of the mire. He panted as he began to assist his feet out of the mud by pulling at his boot straps with his hands. Looking around, panting, he found that he had lost all relevance to his location. Was he to the left or right of the windmill? Was it the north or western windmill? It was a warm, Spring day yesterday, right? Or was that a few months ago? No, the moon has been coming out earlier. It was a cool, late Summer's day, he recalled, as the sun waned over the horizon.
The boy set off to inspect the potential hay harvest. He was so self-assured that he didn't notice a fine mist of drizzle, as if the fog had just begun to dew, had settled while he was trekking into the outer barren fields. Finding his confidence wanting, he began to think it better to head back home. The sucking sound of his boots pulling from the mud as he plodded along, schluck schluck schluck, became deeper in tone and more pronounced. Schluuuuuck... schluuuuuuuuck... schluuuuuuck... His stick was of no use. The mud was not merely thick, but felt as if it was trying to actively pull him down and trap him forever. Before too long, he had abandoned his lucky stick, it being unrelentingly stuck in the sulfurous muck of the mire. He panted as he began to assist his feet out of the mud by pulling at his boot straps with his hands. Looking around, panting, he found that he had lost all relevance to his location. Was he to the left or right of the windmill? Was it the north or western windmill? It was a warm, Spring day yesterday, right? Or was that a few months ago? No, the moon has been coming out earlier. It was a cool, late Summer's day, he recalled, as the sun waned over the horizon.