Challenge 86

The Iron Writer Challenge 86

The Mathew W. Weaver Challenge

500 Words, 5 Days, 4 Elements

The Authors:

Dani J Caile, Mary Fletcher, Tamra Crabbe, Alis Van Doorn, Richard Russell

The Judges:

 Mathew W. WeaverA. Francis Raymond, Cassie Ray Clark, Mamie Pound

The Elements:

batman-forever-replica-1-1-batarang

A Batarang

A goat’s hoof

Home brewed maple syrup

A pickled frog

A Childhood of Lessons

Tamra Crabbe

I can’t think of many things from my childhood, that have stayed over the years, I can remember the first time my father ever let my trim a goats hoof. We had owned old dolly for long than I could remember, my brothers all say when we got her mother was scared she would eat me by accident, but no she never tried to eat my clothes just my fathers jeans, dad knew a lot about goats. Now dad had been work away for months and mum had no clue how to trim goats hoofs it was ten at this time, so when father came home six months that we sat outside just trying to trim a hoof of dolly’s.

I can remember the walk to grandmas, to help with collecting the maple sap to make her famous home brewed maple syrup. Every Sunday we would have freshly made pancakes at grandmas place. Once a month we would make a giant batched of maple syrup, and bottle it up, we take some to the neighbours, and to family friends who lived close by us.

My grandpa loved metal work he could make all kinds of things. He used to try and teach us. My brothers loved it, I hated it I wanted just to go sit down and read a good book. I remember stealing tommy’s batman comics to read as a young child. I remember the day I asked grandpa to help me make a batarang, for months we worked on it, it was the one project I ever helped him with.

I can remember my mother pickling eggs at the start of the year, we could go though two jars a month, I was seven and had just caught a frog my mother hated it, she told me It wasn’t lady like to keep a frog. I remember how she told me to keep it way from the kitchen when she was pickling egg, well I never listen so off I went carry my new pet frog into the kitchen to get a pickled egg from the jar we had opened the night before, well my frog escaped, straight off into a jar of eggs just as the lid went it was safe to say I lost my frog that day and we were down a jar of pickled eggs.

As I watch my kids, playing with the batarang my grandpa had made for me when I was eight, I can’t help but think how much of I what I show them will they take in. Will they learn things I am teaching or will they like not want to learn them. Oh how I wish I payed more attention to, my father when he tried to teach me how to trim a goats hoof, or to my grandmother on how to make home brewed maple syrup, or listened to my mum when she told me not to bring my pet frog into the kitchen when she was pickling eggs. Or my grandpa on how to make a batarang, from scratch.

Sweet SeasonMary Fletcher

Mary Fletcher

“Damn it,” she shouted as she stubbed her toes on the leg of the table.

Of course it had to be that foot. The other one, the hoof of a goat, could whack things all day long with no ill effect. And the thought of ill effects reminded her once again that she must eat soon. Ah, well, it would be soon enough.

She limped over to her pantry. The large wood plank door was hard to open. The bottom of the door caught on a nail in the floor and she had to shake it loose. Cobwebs fell as the door opened enough to allow her large frame to enter the pantry. They covered her black raiment with a ghostly shawl before she shrugged them loose.

Squinting, she eyed the labels on her many jars. She chose four and exited the small room.

She set her jars down on the dusty table next to the big copper kettle. The wood fire beneath had the watery contents at a nice rolling boil.

Carefully she added her ingredients. The pickled frog was a pain to get out. She had to give the jar an earnest shaking.

She gave her concoction a good stirring with the large wooden paddle that she had found next to the kettle. This abandoned maple syrup camp was proving to be an excellent hideout. It was perfect for her needs.

With her warty, crooked tongue she licked the paddle. Her violet eyes rolled in ecstasy. This had been a tough meal to come by but it was all going to be worth it.

With a ladle she spooned herself a large portion into a bowl and made her way to the table by a long wall of windows. They provided her with a panoramic view of the snow covered hills and bare trees. She found it to be quite beautiful.

She uncorked a small jug and covered her meal with some of the home brewed maple syrup she had found in the closed shop next door. And for the next three hours she ate and ate and ate.

Once done, she felt her strength returning. Her renewed vigor gave her the conviction that she would be okay through the coming months.

She pushed herself away from the table. It was time for her favorite part.

In what had been the office of the camp she had made a trophy wall. This one, of all the ones she had ever made in her hundreds of years, showed her greatest accomplishments.

She leveled the batarang on two pegs and smiled. It hung nicely, front and center. Surrounding it were a tattered shirt with an S on it, a golden lariat, a visor of ruby-quartz meant to be worn over the eyes, and a severed hand with long, wickedly sharp claws protruding from it.

Yes, she was having a super, sweet season.

I’m Lost Without YouRichard Russell

Richard Russell 

Note: this story is based on the song “Have You Seen Her” by the Chi-Lites)

“Stella!   Stella!”

“Jack, would you shut up!? What’s wrong with you, hollerin’ like that?! Who’s Stella?”

“The love of my life, Bob; the only person in the world who ever cared for me. Everything was just the same as every other day; we were together, happy, laughing, holding hands, kissing, and hugging each other, and then I turned around and she was gone. She left me …. alone.”

“Oh, you’re referring to Nancy. Jack, dude, that’s crazy talk. She didn’t LEAVE you; that’s just not possible. You are her raison d’etre.”

“I know, Ted, it doesn’t make any sense at all, but where IS she? It’s been a month now, and there’s been no sign whatsoever.”

“Jack, are you crying?

“She’s gone, Mike.   I feel so lonely; so … lost. It’s a horrible feeling, like my guts have been ripped out. I’m completely hollow inside.”

“Hey, man. Look, here, you can have my lucky goat’s foot. Here, take it.”

“I can’t … “

“No, really, TAKE it and stop crying. You’re making me scared.”

“Jack, man, here, you can have my Batarang too.”

“Pete, your Batarang? Wow, but …”

“It’s OK, Jack …. it doesn’t actually work, ya know, but if someone kidnapped her, you can hit them with it.”

“Jack, dude, here … you can have my pickled frog; it’s really cool.”

“Bob… You actually carry this around with you?”

“Ya, sure. Like I said, ‘It’s REALLY cool. It’s in a jar of formaldehyde. That’s a poison.”

“Ya, that is cool. Thanks.”

“OK, Jack, focus now. What was the last thing you remember?”

“OK, let me think… We were in the kitchen making maple syrup, and she says, ‘Let’s go to for a walk in the park.’ We were walking along the street, holding hands. She was smiling and happy. She told me she loved me more than anyone, and then she kissed me. We entered the park. You guys came up, and we talked for a few minutes. I turned around, and … she was gone.”

“That was today, Jack; that wasn’t a month ago.”

“Well, it FEELS like a month ago!.”

“Did she say anything after you got to the park?”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“No, wait a sec, Jack. I seem to remember her saying something.”

“What? Come on, Pete, what do you remember?”

“She … turned her head … and said, ‘Marge!’ And then I think she waved at someone.”

“Marge? Oh yes, she brings her family to the park all the time.”

“Ya, I know Marge Johnson. She’s cute. They’re always hanging around the restrooms. They’ve got that new baby and all.”

“Come on, Jack. Let’s go check over by the restrooms.”

Working our way through the crowds, we turned the corner around the huge yellow bushes, and there she was, standing by the water fountain. I ran with my arms wide open, tears flowing down my cheeks. “Mommy!”

Motion in the PotionDani-J-Caile

Dani J. Caile

“Holy jumping bullfrogs, Batman! We’ve got ourselves in a pickle this time!” screamed the brightly-coloured-slightly-camp-costumed Robin.

The Dynamic Duo were in trouble yet again, dangling on ropes above an enormous cauldron filled to the brim with vinegar, onions, spices…and frogs.

“I think those amphibians’ jumping days are over, my illustrious caped friend,” replied Batman.

Their vile enemy, the Wicked Witch of West Side Gotham appeared.

“Ha-ha! You will soon be pickled alive, Batty, along with your queer sidekick!”

“Who’s she calling a sidekick?”

The Wicked Witch moved over to her precious goat, which was connected to their ropes and grazing on a luscious lawn of grass.

“As my beauty eats to its heart’s content, you will slowly descend into my magic potion, second only to my home brewed maple syrup in occultist circles. With wing of bat and eye of bird, and pickled frogs aplenty, my potion will be ready. Ha-ha! And then I will make those revolting bloated cattle turn into…gorgeous goats! No more enforced drinking of cow milk for children in schools!”

“Ah-ha, that would account for the missing cows of Gotham.”

“And signs of an oppressed childhood, it seems, Batman.”

“Or some ‘udder’ bovine related problem, Robin. Not so fast, Wicked Witch of West Side Gotham! We’re here to pasturise your evil plot!”

“Ha-ha! So long, Batty! I’m off to reap what I have sown! Now where’s my broomstick…?” The Wicked Witch left them to pickle.

“Quick, Robin, before she cackles herself into the history books, reach into my utility belt and take out my batarang.”

“Holy beachballs, Batman!”

“No need to play pocket billiards, Robin.”

“Sorry, force of habit. Got it!” Robin pulled out the tool.

“Now, throw it up and cut our ropes…” Batman heard an ominous clang of metal on the floor. “What happened?”

“Err, I dropped it.”

Batman shook his head in dismay and noticed Robin moving his mouth in a distinct manner.

“Robin, is that gum you’re chewing?”

“Sorry, Batman, it is. I know it’s not right on a mission such as this but the herring we had for lunch was a little overpowering…”

“Stop chewing the cud and pass it over!”

“What?”

“Pass it over. I’m going to spit it onto the grass so that the goat’s hoof will stick, giving me time to untie myself!”

“Great idea, Batman!”

“No tongues.”

“Okay.” The ‘daring’ duo exchanged the gooey mass and Batman aimed and spat, with the gum landing an inch in front of the goat. It stepped on it and was unable to continue, halting their fall from grace.

“Holy cohesive sticky substances, Batman! You did it!”

The winged avenger struggled with his ropes and after a backuprise, two muscleups and a shoot to handstand, he was free, releasing with a double backward somersault and landing on both feet.

“And now to stop the Wicked Witch of West Side Gotham’s dastardly deed! I’ll be back in a hop, skip and jump of a lesser-spotted New Guinea poisonous bush frog, Robin!”

“Wha…?”

Life of Violet’sAlis Van Doorn

Alis Van Doorn

Violet looked up at the dusking sky, her instinctive smile faltering a bit, worry lines forming deep creases in her otherwise still lovely face. It was almost time; could she really do it by herself this year? At seventy nine, it seemed doubtful, yet the prospect was oddly exciting and of course terrifying. And really, she had no choice. It was her livelihood and her independence. If she couldn’t make this happen, she would have to leave her fifty three acres of woodland in north Georgia. Violet had arrived in this secluded forest as a bride of twenty, dropping out of a junior college she wasn’t remotely interested in, to elope with the boy she was madly in love with. Four children, a husband, all dead now. The stakes were high. There were already those well-meaning folks from the church and the town down below that felt she shouldn’t be up here alone, her husband’s nephew who couldn’t wait to get his greedy paws on this beloved land, increasingly pushing her to deed it to him now. He stood to make a fortune selling it. The developers were sucking up forest land and stripping it bare to develop it into second homes for the super-rich Atlanta folk. Violet wasn’t an idiot; she knew her way of life wouldn’t last forever, but she didn’t need it to… just to last for her forever. So, she straightened her shoulders; tomorrow she would start.

Early morning saw Violet in action mode; marking trees she would tap. Violet figured she only needed to tap forty trees this year to make her needed profit. Demand was high for “Violet’s Home Brewed Maple Syrup”. Still forty trees was a lot to tap. Violet worked steadily. After six hours, she stretched, straightened and felt a whap, then a sharp burning in her lower hip. Bewildered, she scanned the tree line, and then saw him. Violet looked down and saw the batarang that hit her. She called out and slowly a boy, a teenager really, emerged. “What on earth do you think you’re doing on my land and injuring me to boot?” Violet asked. The boy shrugged, hung his head. “What’s your name?” asked Violet.   “Homer. “ Violet looked thoughtfully at Homer. “Why aren’t you in school?” she asked. “Got kicked out of boarding school and sent to my parent’s home up here with a tutor.” Violet gave him an assessing look. “Why’d you get kicked out?” “Too much excess energy improperly harnessed.” Homer replied with a smirk. Violet’s lips twitched. “Well, how would you like to earn some money while harnessing some of that energy helping me tap these trees for my incredible maple syrup?” Homer looked at Violet somewhat doubtfully… “What goes into this stuff? Like pickled frogs and eye of newt?” Violet gave Homer a look and said “No, only the little finger of an impudent boy, a goat’s hoof, and a butt load of maple sap.” They looked at each other and grinned, and suddenly Violet knew that the past was colliding with the future to make her present a possibility.

Challenge 85 – Autumn Equinox Final Round

The Iron Writer Challenge 85

The 2014 Autumn Equinox Final Round

500 Words, 5 Days, 4 Elements

The Authors:

Dani J Caile, A Francis Raymond, Mathew W. Weaver, Danielle Lee Zwissler

The Elements:

imagesdf

 

Learn to train your wife in 5 easy lessons

If you are male, you must write your story from the wife’s negative point of view.

    If you are female, you must write the story from the husband’s positive point of view.

Main Character suffers from Pseudobulbar Affect

Breast Cancer

Please vote!

The poll is below.

To Kill A Marketing BidMathew W Weaver

Mathew W. Weaver

“Call 555-T-R-A-I-N-H-E-R right now!”

The advertiser’s voice was getting on my nerves. I walked into the living room, broom in hand, and just as I expected, there sat Jim, glued to the screen like the cap on your day old tube of glue.

“Mind turning that down?” I yelled, “I can’t hear myself think in here!”

“Go away, honey,” Jim said sweetly.

I breathed in and held it. With one good whack of that old broom, I could have sent him flying out the door right then, like I should have done all those years ago. He used to be a David Hasselhoff lookalike, but ever since his breast cancer, he resembled a rag doll that had been run over by a garbage truck.

And smelled like it, too.

And for crying out loud, how many men got breast cancer, anyway?

“Just 5 easy lessons, and you’re done! Train your wife today!” the male voice bragged.

“Turn tha… wait, what was that?”

“Nothing dear, nothing!” Jim said weakly, scrabbling at the remote before switching to the game. I marched over to him, and he cowered as I yanked it out of his feeble grasp and switched it back.

Jim sank into the cushions as I watched the obscene commercial. There, in all comfort, a typical man stretched out while a harlot dressed in nothing but cellophane fetched him everything from slippers to pie and jumped up with every snap of his fingers. And all the while, the voice promised that “your wife could be the same… in five easy lessons!”

“What,” I turned around, “is this?”

“Infomercial?” he offered.

I balled my fists and he shrank even further into the upholstery.

“You want me to jump at your snapping fingers?!” I exploded, “Of all the lazy…”

“Don’t yell!” Jim whimpered, his voice ending in a shuddering gasp.

“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” I threw the down the broom in disgust.

The Pseudobulbar Affect kicked in, and I threw up my hands and walked away. Ten minutes into the sobbing was, surprisingly, enough time for me to calm down. I bit my lip, sighed, and turned around.

“Alright, dear,” I said, “I’ll take your training. I’ll be the wife you always wanted me to be.”

Now, the thing about Pseudobulbar’s is that you can’t ever control the crying. So, even as the once masculine, now very effeminate Jim beamed at me in startled, elated confusion, tears continued to roll down his cheeks and his chest still heaved with emotion.

“You’d do that for me?” he stammered, the disbelief so palpable, you could have spread it on bread.

It wasn’t easy, but I had to give in. I sighed, set my jaw, and then nodded.

“I would,” I said, “Call them.”

As he reached for the phone and stared after me with adoring eyes, I turned around and walked back to the kitchen. Reaching into my pocket, I brought out my well-thumbed, dog-eared copy of “Essential Steps To Have Your Man At Your Mercy,” (pocket edition), and flipped over to chapter seventeen.

“To Deal With The ‘Train Your Wife’ Routine,” I read, “Step one…”

Gone to a Better PlaceDani-J-Caile

Dani J. Caile

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

There were only two of them left in the room, with a woman taking a position by the sofa and a man by the window, speaking into his walkie talkie.

“Where did the others go?”

“They have something to do, Mrs. Worthing,” said the woman.

“Oh, I see. I’ll put these cups back, then.”

“No, no, that’s okay. Please, sit down, rest yourself.”

“Yes, right, that’s best. One lump or two?”

“One, thank you.” The woman sat down and took the cup. The man standing ignored her and looked out of the window, now holding his walkie talkie to his ear and listening to crackles and voices.

“Would you like a Bourbon Cream?”

“No, thank you. Mrs. Worthing. Could you please tell us a little about yourself?” asked the woman.

She laughed uncontrollably, embarrassing herself.

“Me? Little old me? I’m Jon’s wife. Are you friends of Jon?”

“Well, we’re looking after his…welfare,” smiled the woman.

“Oh, good, I’m happy about that. He’s such a good man.”

“Really? Please, tell me more. Perhaps you can tell me something about your life together?”

“Of course, yes, I’d be happy to. He was always good to me, I…I have trouble, you see, I’m…I’m not very good in company.”

Another sudden unexpected laugh. Her face blushed.

“Don’t worry yourself. Please, continue.”

“Well…we’re a model couple, Jon and I. Every day when he opens the door I greet him the way he likes…”

“Yes?”

“Erm…”

“Go on.”

“…well…in my best lingerie, in a simple black silk loose fitting sheath dress with thin spaghetti straps.”

“Uh-huh…”

“And I have his pipe and slippers all ready, too…”

The man from the window whispered something to the woman and she nodded.

“It sounds like you’re an excellent wife, Mrs. Worthing,” said the woman, smiling.

“Thank you. Yes, I make sure his TV remote control is sitting on the side of his favourite armchair so he can watch his football matches, along with a beer the way he likes it, chilled.”

“Wonderful, Mrs. Worthing.”

“When he snaps his fingers, that tells me he’s ready for dinner, and I serve him immediately. After all, he is the breadwinner of the household. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be on the street. He tells me that every day. Every day…”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Worthing,” said the woman, “…but we need to take you down to the station now.”

She laughed again, uncontrollably, and tried to keep a smile on her face. The man at the window took out some handcuffs.

“Of course, of course.” He put them on her and led her past the bloody corpse and into the hallway. She overheard the man whispering again to the woman.

“Her doctor said she’s riddled with cancer, recently diagnosed with a brain tumor and has suspected breast cancer. She also suffers from PBA. The doctor pushed her to tell her husband the good news tonight.”

“Would’ve loved to have been a fly on that wall…”

“Trained”Danielle Lee Zwissler

Danielle Lee Zwissler

Clyde stood at the podium wearing a grin. “Before I begin, I would like to let you know that I have a condition that causes uncontrollable bouts of laughter or crying at times.”

Uneasy murmurs traveled through the crowd before Clyde continued. “I want to thank all of you for coming to my lecture tonight on How to Train Your Wife in Five Easy Lessons. I would like to show you the subject of my book, my wife, Elaine Evershaw.”

“Stand up, Elaine.”

“Yes, Dear,” Elaine said, then stood. She was the only woman in the hall. Her shoulders were up, back and down, breasts out, back straight—posture perfect. She wore a sexy, pinup-type dress with polka dots. She was beautiful.

The men in the audience smiled, and Clyde knew that they appreciated her appearance.

“As you can see, she is trained to please, as all women should be. She is perfectly coifed, and ready to serve her man. Elaine, sit.” Clyde started to laugh.

“Yes, Dear.”

The audience watched, pleased at how “the wife” was following commands.

“I will outline a few of the steps for you, that way you can understand the process. I won’t give everything away tonight, because you need to read the book and apply the steps to your own relationships.”

“Teach your wife how to fetch.” Clyde laughed. The audience looked at him curiously, as he continued. “Folks, don’t be put out by lazy wives. You can train them to do the things that you want them to do. It isn’t hard; if you would like warm feet at night, tell your wife to fetch your slippers, but don’t forget, just like a dog you have to reward your bitch with a treat, perhaps a trinket. Sooner than later you will have her at your feet with your slippers, and she will wear a smile on her face as she awaits her prize. Don’t forget to praise her. Positive reinforcement is the key. Say things like, atta girl, or great job! This will only get things going faster.”

The men in the audience were eating up Clyde’s instruction, even though it was a little unorthodox.

“I know what many of you may be thinking, that this will not work for you, that your wife may not be susceptible to the steps. Fear not, brave men, these steps work!”

Clyde held up a copy of his book. “Today you can get this for only $19.99! This also includes a chapter on how to get your wife to follow non-verbal commands, and how to serve you ice cold beer and snacks! And because you are here today, I will throw in a free Breast Cancer Apron! There is nothing sexier than an obedient wife at the stove wearing an apron. So step right up and get your copy!”

***

The night had been a success, and Clyde felt satisfied as he walked with his wife to the train station. As the train approached, Elaine pushed her husband onto the tracks, killing him instantly.

Elaine smiled and said, “And that’s how you train a husband!”

 Careful What You Wish ForA Francis Raymond

A. Francis Raymond

“You followed the steps in the booklet?” asked Mr. Stumpbottom.

John looked at the image on the cover. It was part of his welcome kit when he joined the very secretive Men’s Associative Committee for a Better America (MACABA). The club, and the booklet, ‘Train Your Wife in 5 Easy Steps’ promised solutions to his problems.

“Yes. The only thing I managed out of her was a ‘Yes, dear” to my requests – none were actually followed through.”

“If you read the details on our warranty,” said Mr. Stumpbottom, “You’ll remember we don’t offer a traditional refund.”

John skimmed the details when he joined. At the time, he never believed he’d need to file a claim. Things usually went his way, and when they didn’t, he didn’t worry much. It took a lot to bring this naturally upbeat man into Mr. Stumpbottom’s office this morning.

“Mr. Stumpbottom,” said John, “I simply want my wife to be happy, like me. Her smile is beautiful; I want to see it more. Her laugh is infectious; I want to hear it more. Is that too much to ask?”

“Not at all.” Mr. Stumpbottom took out a large book and plopped it down on his desk in front of John. He started flipping through it.

He clearly had a specific page in mind. While Mr. Stumpbottom was looking for it, John continued: “I really never needed her to obey my every command or anything like that.”

“I understand. Ah! Here we are!” He tapped his finger on the page and made sure John could see. “Our warranty specifies that if you’re not satisfied, we’ll try something else. We of course wouldn’t want to lose you as a member, you see.”

John followed Mr. Stumpsbottom’s finger to the text on the middle of the page in front of him. “Turn tears into laughter, laughter into tears.” That sounded about right to him.

“You can do that? That would be a miracle! How do you do it?”

“Oh, we have our ways. You needn’t worry about it. But there could be side effects, some pretty severe…”

John cut him off, smiling. “Let’s do it. Where do I sign?”

Mr. Stumpbottom replied “My secretary will draw up papers and you’ll be on your way. You’ll start seeing the change in a few days.”

* * *

As promised, John’s wife, Nancy, became the laughing queen as her naturally negative reactions to everything turned positive. For three months, she laughed at everything. Anything that would have put a normal person in tears, Nancy was laughing. Hysterically and often. She laughed right through her sudden and unexpected breast cancer diagnosis, much to the surprise of the oncologist.

John suspected the cancer was the side effect Mr. Stumpbottom mentioned, but never said anything about it.

He was at a MACABA meeting and ran into Mr. Stumpbottom.

“How’s your wife?”

“In remission,” John said. “I presume the original ‘treatment’ has worn off.”

“Oh, no no,” Mr. Stumpbottom chuckled. “That was a permanent alternation.”

“But she’s getting better! Why is she still laughing?” John said to no one since Mr. Stumpbottom had disappeared into the crowd.

Challenge 87 – The Pitman/Caile Challenge

The Iron Writer Challenge 87

The Pitman/Caile Challenge

500 Words, 5 Days, 4 Elements

The Authors:

Glen Bahde, Bill Prins, April Morehouse, Lindsey Elaine Cooperider

The Judges:

M. D. Pitman, Dani J Caile, DL Zwissler, Emily Gatrell

The Elements:

cheese_2238954b

Gloustershire annual cheese rolling competition

Ping Pong

A group of Old West cowboys sitting around a campfire

An inept hitman

Stories will be posted

October 30, 2014

Grudge Match #12

Dystopian Library

Grudge Match #12 

Monday, October 20, 2014

K. A. DaVur & Steven L. Bergeron

vs 

Dani J Caile & Mathew W. Weaver

Judges:

 Christopher A Liccardi, B Y Rogers, Tiffany Brown, DL Zwissler, Alis Van Doorn, Richard Russell, Mamie Pound, DL Mackenzie, Suzann Smith, E. Chris Garrison, Thomas Lamkin Jr.

Rules: 1 element from each writer, 1 story from each team, 250 words from each writer with discussion and collaboration within the teams. No popular vote. If there is a tiebreaker, ‘Duel': Dani vs Steven  – 3 elements, 300 words.

The Elements:

Lionel-2245-AB-M-K-T-Texas-Special-3

 

A red Lionel electric train.

All characters are inside a cardboard box.

Story must be dystopian

One of the characters is learning to speak ‘duck’

Stories will be posted

Saturday, October 25, 2014