The Iron Writer Challenge #14


The Iron Writer Challenge #14

2013 Iron Writer Summer Solstice Challenge #14

500 Words, 5 Days, 4 Elements

The Iron Writer Challenge Big Bang!

Challenge 14 is a little different than previous challenges. Last February, Victoria Dougherty invited me, along with 5 other authors, to participate on her blog by writing a 500 word flash fiction piece, consisting of 4 elements. She gave us  6 weeks to write the story and the 500 word limitation was more or less a guideline.

From that invitation, The Iron Writer was born. As Victoria was posting her stories over a six week period (one per week), I asked her if I could post those stories here, as a challenge, when her blog tour was finished. After receiving permission from each of the other authors, she agreed. So here they are.

Six Authors!

Four Elements!

500 Words (give or take)!

The Authors:

A B BourneB Y RogersGerald EliasJeff Cohen

Sam ThomasSheila Webster Boneham

The Elements:

A 1959 ZiL III

A dead Gypsy

A Swordfish

A jug of moonshine

Dead to Me in Paris

A.B. Bourne

 c. 2013 all rights reserved

 In the large pool at the center of the Luxembourg Gardens, white triangles chased one another in the Parisian breeze, some with reckless disregard for maritime rules, and some bent on revenge.

Outside the Gardens, Pierre LaFontaine rushed across the street, carrying a brown paper bag.  The side of his knee grazed the bumper of an odd looking black limousine.    Annoyed, Pierre kept walking.  He did not want to keep his mother waiting.  The thin gold hands on his Patek Philippe showed ten minutes after 1:00pm.

Pierre was 32 years old, 5’ 10” and slightly built.  When he reached his bench he lifted the edges of his grey worsted wool trousers and sat down.  He placed the bag beside him and took out the coffee cup.  Steam fumed from the sharp plastic edges of the spout.

“Walking with a cup,” he thought.  “So American.”


Before Pierre had bumped into the limousine, its passenger was already watching him from the back seat of the 1959 Zil-III.  The Russians originally built a few of these for their leaders, first making the cabin bulletproof, bombproof, and flip proof and then fastening on the chassis, engine and wheels.  In the ‘90s they auctioned them off.

The passenger’s hair was grey, his skin sallow.  He bore the marks of more years than he had actually lived.  When he saw Pierre go through the gates, the man raised the revolver like an index finger.  He drew a small circle in the air.   Around again.


Pierre watched the children sail their boats.  He thought of Frederick, nine months old, threatening to crawl.

“We will sail boats here, Freddie,” he murmured.  “We will.”

Pierre heard the leaves rustle in the dense shrubs behind him.  The smell of sour skin, pine needles, garlic, bourbon and beer, reached him before he saw her.

“Madame, bonjour,”  Pierre called.   Over his shoulder, a short mound moved in the bushes.  She wore layers of brown fabric, and on her head grew a long and tangled nest.  The whites of her eyes were startling clean patches at the center of her muddy, creased face.   She looked unsteadily at Pierre, then lifted a jug to her lips.  Pierre stared off through a wrought iron gate in the garden wall.   As he watched, a rectangular black limousine rolled by.

The gypsy retreated, but left her strong scent.

Pierre slid his hand into his coat pocket and cupped the folded envelope into his palm.  Concealing it against the cup, he put both in the paper bag, and left that on the bench.  Then he walked back to the bank where younger men would bring him real espresso in white porcelain.

From behind the leaves, the dirty woman watched him go.

Days later, Pierre strolled to the same bench at ten minutes after one.  An ambulance was parked on the maintenance path near the shrubs.

“Dead gypsy,” said the man with thin blue latex gloves over his wrists.   “Usually it’s the drink.  Pardonnez-moi, sir.”

Pierre watched him lay the body on the stretcher.  He saw at her elbows, now drawn out flat, the fabric’s original bright streaks of blue, red and yellow paisley prints.  Then the sheet covered her.

Pierre turned away, his Italian leather shoes crunching shards of the ceramic jug.  “Au revoir, maman,” he whispered.

That was when he noticed the brown paper bag under the bench.  It was the same one he had left for her, but now it bulged.

Pierre unrolled the top and reached in.  He felt something soft.


That night when the elevator opened into the foyer of Pierre’s apartment, he heard laughter in the nursery.

“Watch this,” Maria said when she saw her husband at the door.

Once Pierre had won, as a joke award from the bank, “Sidney the largemouth swordfish.” It was a fake fish mounted on a piece of wood which would open its mouth and slap its tail when someone clapped.

Maria did so, and the fish obliged.  Freddie tipped his head back with peals of laughter and tried to bring his little chubby palms together too.

Pierre bent down to get close to Freddie’s beautiful face.  He touched his boy’s little earlobe, where a fluke of birth had put a cleft in it.

“I have something for you,” he said, holding out a small stuffed bear.  It was thirty years old and its nose was gone.

Freddie clapped for it, which made Sidney slap and gawp, which sent the boy into fits.  Laughing, Pierre stood up and kissed his wife.

Freddie started to cry.

“He wants the bear,” said Maria.

Pierre nodded, but kept the bear in his hands.  Turning his back to the boy, he grasped the bear’s head and ripped it clean off.  Slowly, he stuck his fingers deep into the stuffing.  When he pulled out his fist, Maria saw three large diamonds, and a ruby.  Pierre blew the stuffing off them, and walked over to Sidney.

“Clap Freddie!” he said.  When his son made the fish open its mouth, Pierre dropped the jewels inside.  They rattled when they landed on the pile.


The passenger put his revolver flat on the back seat of the ZiL.  His hands trembled as he opened the folded envelope, stained by coffee and filthy fingerprints, and extracted a photograph.  It was of a nine month old boy.

As the ZIL drove on, tears leaked from the passenger’s eyes.  One found the edge of his nose and dripped over his lip.  The other slipped from the outer edge of his eye.  It slid along his cheekbone and down to his earlobe, where a fluke of birth had put a cleft in it.

A Cold Forest NightB Y Rogers photo

B Y Rogers

c. 2013 all rights reserved

Vysotsk, Russia

Winter, 1960


Demyan waited in the back seat of his chauffeured 1959 ZiL-III, strumming his fingers on the arm rest. It was cold, the wind was howling outside the armored vehicle and he was tired. But his time in the field was measured, or so he believed. Soon, he hoped he would spend his days at the Politburo and his nights wherever he chose.

He couldn’t see the hamlet hidden in the trees. But the agent knew the safe house was secure, having spent many a night like a great many agents before him, seducing an endless stream of Bond girl wannabes. He smiled at the memory of the stuffed swordfish mounted on the wall above the bed. It has always been a source of inspiration.

But those days were long past for him. This assignment was different.  This mission involved an unarmed American with a proclivity for large breasted women; hence the use of the sanctuary that was scheduled to be consumed in an accidental forest fire in the spring.

It was time. If the gypsy woman had done her job by now, the American would be turned. He would have no other choice. He stepped out of the car, closing the door quietly. His driver knew his job. The car eased itself silently down the dirt road to wait. Demyan turned his collar up and followed the short path into the forest.

A hundred yards away, he opened the door and peeked in. The lamp on the night stand was on, but what he saw was alarming. A jug of moonshine lay broken on the floor, its contents, tainted with hallucinogens intended for the American, was still draining between the floor boards. His agent, a gypsy from Belarus, was naked on the bed with the upper jaw of the swordfish completely buried between her ample breasts. The swordfish’s fin nearly touched the ceiling. He went to the girl but there was nothing he could do for her. Sensing danger, he backed out of the room and walked down the path, triggering the transistor radio in his pocket.

Half a mile away, his driver was on the ground, the last of his blood soaking the grass beneath his face. A light blinked on the dashboard inside the car. A gloved hand put the transmission into drive.

Demyan watched his ZiL approach. He lit a cigarette, as much for warmth as to signal the driver it was safe. When he noticed the car window was down, his head screamed for him to run to safety. He pulled his weapon, emptying the magazine toward the car as he ran as he ran up the trail.

Out of breath, he plunged into the cabin, slamming the door behind him. He spun around, knowing he had to turn the lamp off before his assailant arrived. Then he saw the American laying on the bed, the swordfish pinning him to the mattress. The gypsy was gone.


Gerald Elias

c. 2013 All Rights Reserved

Shielding rheumy eyes from sea-reflected morning sun, Old Pavel strained to see what had snagged his line. For as long as he had fished off the long-abandoned pier he couldn’t recall the water so low. Impatient, Pavel yanked too hard and his ancient pole snapped in two.

Cursing, he traced his ruined gear to a thin cylinder gleaming just above the surface. An antenna, of all things! Dropping the butt end of his useless rod, Old Pavel hopped over rotting planks to the tobacconist’s where there existed a functioning telephone. Now that no one was a communist anymore he wasn’t so afraid to call the police.

Victor Maravich, Krinitsa’s police chief and a week from retirement, thought he had seen everything, but his shoulders sagged upon recognizing the muck-covered Soviet-era ZIL armored limousine that the crane sucked from the seabed. He had no need or desire to look inside the rusted wreckage, but to make it official he did. After, he trudged through the drowsy resort town and up the hill toward Sergei’s tree-shrouded dacha with its commanding view of the beach, hoping he would die first.

General Sergei Borshevsky awaited him at the door. Still tall and powerful, tufts of gray curls escaped his armpits and the collar of his white T-shirt. Red suspenders held up baggy, wool pants.

“Come and sit, Victor,” he said.

The table was bare but for the dusty jug of Kentucky moonshine that Castro had laughingly bestowed upon Borshevsky as a parting gift. As an emissary sent personally by Chairman Khrushchev, the general had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Castro to stare down the trigger-happy Kennedy who threatened to blow up the world. By the time of his recent retirement, the medals pinned to Borshevsky’s chest would buckle a weaker man’s knees.

He poured two glasses.

“We started this jug in ’62 and now we empty it, together,” Borshevsky said. His mouth smiled but his eyes remained sad.

Maravich, studying the incomplete eight-foot-long fish, iridescent blue and silver, mounted over the fireplace, ignored the glass and the comment.

“I always wondered why that swordfish had no sword,” he said.

After some time a buzzing fly punctuated the silence.

Borshevsky drained his glass.

“I risked my life, my country, the whole world. And what do I find the night I return from Havana? My wife in my bed with a gypsy.”

Maravich gestured sympathetically.

“Neither of them saw me—they were copulating like dogs. I broke off the fish’s bill and skewered the pair of them, together, piled them in the limousine and drove to the pier. Lights off, in neutral. I pushed them over the edge. The sea was much deeper then. The next day I declared the pier off limits.”

“We heard rumors that Tanya absconded with someone and your limo, but we never found a trace.”

“Never listen to rumors, Victor.”

“You started them, Sergei. But…wouldn’t it have been easier to just shoot them?”

“And dishonor my pistol?”

The afternoon sun grew uncomfortably hot.

“So, what are you going to do, Victor?”

“It’s not my decision. It’s yours. As is your pistol. Good-bye, Sergei.”

Grandpa Got Run Over by a Swordfish

Jeff Cohen
c. 2013 All Rights Reserved

The gypsy was dead. Luckily, it was a gypsy moth, and nobody cares about those.

The rest of the scene wasn’t quite as easy to take, though: lying on the floor was a swordfish mounted on a supposedly wooden board. If you touched the bottom of the plaque, the fish would appear to sing “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer,” which made no sense at all. Why would a fish sing that?

Next to the mounted fish, which had one corner that was now covered in blood, was a jug of Moonshine, the latest in a weird line of cleaning products meant to look “down home,” manufactured by Smyth and Weston, a huge conglomerate which would be starting a search for a new CEO. Ronald Smyth (pronounced “Smythe”) was lying on the rug with a very large hole in the back of his head where someone had hit him with the singing fish.

“You just found him like this?” asked Detective Regina Levitton, a tall, imposing woman carrying a notebook and a gun (notebook in her hand, gun, thankfully, in her shoulder holster).

“Yeah,” I told her. “I came by to see Hannah, his granddaughter, to return her screwdriver. I live next door.”

“Was there anyone else here?” Levitton asked, not an expression on her face.

“Not that I saw, although there was a 1959 ZIL-III Soviet-made armoured limousine parked in the driveway when I walked over.” Levitton stared at me a moment. “What? I’m a buff, okay?” Some people don’t understand hobbies.

“A buff.” Levitton’s interrogation style seemed to consist of looking skeptical. It wasn’t doing much for me, but I’m an amateur. “The uniformed officers on the scene didn’t report a 1959 armoured limousine in the driveway.”

I shrugged. “I guess whoever drove it here left before the cops arrived.”

“Do you know anyone who owns a vehicle like that?” the detective asked.

I shook my head. “Never seen one like it before. I figured it was here because he—”—I pointed at Smyth on the floor—“was a big wheel in business.”

These days, anyone can be a detective as long as they have an iPhone. Levitton was furiously punching away at hers. “There is one in this state, registered to a Harcourt T. Weston.”

“The dead man’s partner,” I noted.

Beat, two, three… “The man most likely to benefit from Smyth’s death,” the policewoman said. Geez, Sherlock! Ya think?

“Maybe,” I said. “I was just returning a screwdriver.”

But Levitton was already thinking three steps ahead; her eyes were practically spinning in their sockets. “You can go,” she said. “Thanks for your help.” It’s always that way.

I stole another glance at Smyth, dead on the floor, his head pooled in blood. I shook my head. The waste.

That’ll teach you and your partner to put cleaning products in moonshine jugs! My father would still be alive today if not for you and your partner—I hope he rots in jail.


Sam Thomas

c. 2013 All Rights Reserved

Day 952: Captured.

Day 945: The torture begins.

Day 942: They tell me that they have caught my brother Raul as well. I don’t believe them.

Day 941: They bring me the ring my brother always wore. His finger is still in it.

Day 930: Maybe they’ve forgotten about me. I sit in my cell with other men and wait.

Day 900: The others are being taken away. The guards say they are being sent to the United States. I don’t believe it. I stay in the cell.

Day 505: They take me to a small room and handcuff me to a metal table. A captain from intelligence comes in carrying a thick file. He shows me the name on it. It is my real name, not the one I gave to my interrogators. I’m fucked. He tells me that they have a plan for me. If I cooperate, they will set me and my brother free. I tell him to fuck off. He does.

Day 500: The captain comes back. He explains the plan. I tell him I’m in. To save my brother. To avenge the fuck up at Playa Girón.

Day 307: The doctors work on me for months, and soon I’m healthy enough to leave the hospital. They take me to a camp in the mountains where I begin training. They know I can shoot, but after a year in prison I need to knock the rust off. The instructors are Russian, of course. The others in my squad are from the invasion. I wonder what they were promised, but never ask.

Day 275: We practice different shots with different rifles. Long shots at a stationary target, shorter ones at a walking target.

Day 252: Today they began to train us in explosives, but we know that’s a waste of time. No way we get close enough for that. At night they bring us a jug of moonshine. We sit around a fire, drink and talk.

Day 173: Today we practiced shots at a moving car, a Russian limousine with the top cut off. They put a dummy in the back seat, but I take a shot at the driver. I felt good when I saw the splatter of blood on the windshield. The trainers were pissed, but what could they do? The driver was some gypsy they’d pulled out of prison. Who the hell else was going to drive the car?

Day 15: My turn. We hide the rifle inside a mounted swordfish – what else? – and I fly to Mexico City. The captain who recruited me meets me there. They’ve got someone set up to take the fall.

Day 11: I spend an eternity in the hotel, waiting, waiting, waiting. I take out the gun and clean it. The swordfish looks at me as if it’s my fault he’s been nailed to a board and had a rifle stuck up his ass.

Day 4: I cross the border. No problem.

Day 2: Dallas.

Day 0: Bingo.

Missing Gypsy

Sheila Webster Boneham

c. 2013 all rights reserved

Someone is out to get Alberta Shofelter. They’ve egged her new SUV and sprayed “crazy cat lady” across her garage door. The diminutive calico she took in three weeks ago has been missing since last night, and Alberta is sure “they” have escalated to catnapping. I shove my cell into my pocket and watch Jay try to comfort Alberta. She isn’t quite weeping, but the little noises she makes are heart-rending.

“If anyone can find her, Jay can,” says Alberta, leaning over to press her forehead into the top of the dog’s muzzle. “You have to find Gy….” Alberta chokes on her cat’s name, turns wide, wet eyes my way. “She’s pregnant, you know.” I did not. Jay and I follow Alberta to her car without speaking.

Half an hour later we’re at Alberta’s house. Jay gets a good noseful of Gypsy’s favorite spot on the couch while I try not to stare at the ginormous swordfish hanging askew over the mantle.

Alberta leans her hip into an antique sideboard and asks if I’d like a drink. It’s not yet noon and I think she means water. I remind her that I swigged half a bottle on the drive over. She shrugs, says “Suit yourself,” and wraps her hands around a half-gallon mason jar that I assume is decor until she lifts it to her lips. She swallows twice, squeezes her eyes closed, smacks her lips. “Tennessee hooch,” she says. “Gift from a friend.” We head out.

Jay hits the ground pulling and we angle across the front lawn, the one next door, the next. Alberta struggles to keep up with me, and I struggle to keep up with Jay as he shoulders into his harness, nose to the ground. I have to trust that he’s on the right trail.

“Gypsy never goes out anymore! Someone must have come in and kidnapped her,” says Alberta between gasps. “They hate, me, you know, because I feed the poor strays that live behind the club house.”

I shorten the line linking me to Jay as we approach the street. Alberta bumps into me at the curb, clutches my arm.

“Who hates you?” I ask.

“But how can they hurt an animal?”

“Who?” I ask.

“Golfers. They claim the cats leave dead things on the greens.” She snorts. “It’s their damn kids out there with BB guns do the killing, and they know I know it, too!” She coughs. “They shoot the cats, too.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say. “Gypsy may have just slipped out. You said you had a plumber there this morning, right?”

Alberta looks past me and the distress painted across her face changes to anger. As I turn to watch a big black car roll by, Jay starts to bark.

“That’s them,” Alberta says.

“That’s the ugliest car I’ve ever seen.” Anxiety is tight in my gut and I almost laugh for relief. “Looks like one of those clunky things Khrushchev used to ride around in.”

“What have you done with my cat?” Alberta screams at the car. It picks up speed.

Jay dances around, whining. We cross the street. He pulls me up a driveway and across a cushy back lawn, head up. He’s no longer tracking, but he might have a scent on the air. We’re running now, and Alberta can’t keep up. Jay goes into a sniffing-whining frenzy at the door to a shed and pushes against it. I reach for the latch, expect it to be locked. It swings open.

The interior is dim and dusty. An old armchair leans into the back wall, a cat stretched across the upholstered seat, her back to us, tail hanging limp off the edge of the chair. I signal Jay to lie down, hold my breath, step to the chair.

“Oh no!” I turn just as Alberta slides down the doorframe. I can barely hear her whisper, “Is she dead?”

I lean over the chair. Breathe. Gypsy squints at me and opens her mouth in a silent meow.

“She’s fine.” I run the back of my finger along a tiny black back, then the tabby, then the calico. I touch Gypsy’s cheek. “But we’re going to need a carrier to get them all home, Grandma.”

The Iron Writer Challenge #13

bugleThe Iron Writer Challenge #13

2013 Iron Writer Summer Solstice Challenge #13

500 Words, 5 Days, 4 Elements

The Authors:

A Francis RaymondHarry CraftLiz Winn

The Elements:

A bugle

A Derby Hat

A live goat

A trampoline

Circus RejectsA Francis Raymond

A. Francis Raymond

“You’re lucky you weren’t turned into a rock,” said Lola.

I shifted my body so I could look up at her. The Vespa had run out of gas and we needed to walk, we hoped, only a couple of miles to where Bouncing Betty Babington supposedly lived.

Lola dismounted and walked around to the sidecar that I was awkwardly stuffed in. My front hooves rested on the handle bar, but my backside and rear hooves were fit into spots they weren’t meant to be.

“Just help me get out of here. And I need to eat,” I replied.

Lola did as I asked. Not as easy as it sounds. Goats don’t belong in sidecars, but it was the only option available.

Once out, I started munching on weeds on the side of the road. Rainwater from an early morning storm left puddles, too. Good, because I was thirsty. I saw my reflection in the still water before I put my face in to lap it up.

Oddly enough, my beard looked the same as when I was human. Besides that, I didn’t recognize myself. I looked like a typical goat, except for the Derby Hat strapped to my head so it wouldn’t fall off.

It was a cruel joke for Mr. Waters, the circus owner both Lola and I spent our entire lives with, to say we weren’t wanted anymore. It was even crueler to turn me into a goat, and remove Lola’s talents. But why give me the magic hat? I didn’t understand, but grateful that through the hat, I could talk.

But this morning’s rain also affected the hat. It wasn’t as powerful anymore. Should I tell Lola?

I looked over at her. She sat with her back to a large tree trunk. In her arms, she cradled the bugle she used to play while walking a tightrope. Now, she could do neither.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“Oh, Tony,” she responded, “What if this woman can’t help us?” Her knuckles were white as they clutched the brass bugle.

I didn’t have an answer. We stared at each other until she stood up, and started walking.

Bouncing Betty Babington was exactly where we were told she lived. Instantly, we understood the moniker. Outside a small shack was a rectangular trampoline. A woman, presumably Betty, bounced on it. Incredibly, her form changed at each bounce. On one bounce, her hair was blonde. On another, brown. Yet another, her hair stayed brown, but she grew a foot, or shrunk. Each was a transformation.

“Hello!” she called out. Her final move, one that our former circus colleagues would have envied, began as a double back somersault with half twists through each before dismounting and landing in her final transformed state.

Lola explained our predicament, since the magic of my hat was wearing out. The last thing I remember before returning to my human state was a teary Lola giving her bugle to Betty, then placing me on the trampoline.

The View from the TrampolineLiz Winn

Liz Winn

By jumping on the trampoline in her back yard, eight-year-old Lolly Smith, grape-flavored popsicle clutched in one grimy hand, pigtails flying in the air behind her, can see over the tall wooden fences surrounding the back yards adjacent to hers. A single bounce gives her a bird’s eye view into Mr. Gvidas Petras’s back yard with its shrine to the Lithuanian flag. Two bounces allows her to see over the fence into Mr. Jones’s back yard with its precisely arranged lawn furniture, and Mr. Jones himself reclining on a lawn chair. With three bounces, she can just see over the fence into the Bailey’s back yard, which contains their children’s playground equipment and their pet goat, Emerson.

Boing! Over the top of the fence to the west, there’s Mr. Petras coming out with his bugle to perform his daily salute to the Lithuanian flag.

Boing! Boing! To the north, there’s Mr. Jones, napping, his derby hat pulled down over his eyes. Next to him, on the grass, a paperback copy of 100 Ways to Roast A Goat and a technical manual for dismantling trampolines.

Boing! Boing! Boing! Now she can see into the Bailey’s yard where Emerson the goat is munching on grass.

Boing! Mr. Petras is fitting the bugle to his lips and playing warm-up scales.

Boing! Boing! Mr. Jones’s lips are twisting into a frown beneath the brim of his hat.

Boing! Boing! Boing! Emerson the goat is looking around for something else to munch on.

Boing! Mr. Petras is erupting into a veracious fit of bugling.

Boing! Boing! Mr. Jones, pushing the derby hat off his face, is scowling at the racket from next door.

Boing! Boing! Boing! Emerson the goat is standing on his hind legs, nibbling at the leaves from a low-hanging branch.

Boing! Mr. Petras is starting his one-man concert by playing the beginning notes of a funeral march.

Boing! Boing! Mr. Jones, disappearing into his house.

Boing! Boing! Boing! Emerson the goat, leaping high into the air, aiming for another leafy branch.

Boing! Mr. Petras, cutting loose with a powerful, jazzed-up version of his country’s national anthem.

Boing! Boing! Mr. Jones reappearing from his house with a shotgun, heard muttering “a man’s castle” and “the virtues of silence” and “multiple things that shouldn’t be seen OR heard.”

Boing! Boing! Boing! Emerson the goat, up in the tree, ripping leaves and twigs from the branch with his teeth.

Boing! Mr. Petras, wailing away like Louis Armstrong on steroids.

Boing! Boing! Mr. Jones taking aim—

A shot rings out. In surprise, Lolly cries out and falls off the trampoline, her popsicle flying. Multiple screams, followed by a savage “Naa-aa-aa!” Lolly sits on the ground for a moment. Then she climbs back onto the trampoline.

Boing! Mr. Petras, not in his yard, the bugle lying discarded on the grass.

Boing! Boing! Mr. Jones, not in his yard, the shotgun tossed aside.

Boing! Boing! Boing! Emerson the goat, standing beneath a tree next to the fence in the Bailey’s yard, munching on a well-worn derby hat.

A Bugle in TimeHarry Craft

Harry Craft

“So you’re going to time-travel by music?”

“Very roughly speaking.  My resonance theory—“

“I’m quite familiar with it!” He glanced at the tattered trampoline in the corner of the room.

Despite his colleague’s response, the inventor continued.  “An accident; and we did escape, after all.  In any case, I’ve figured out the problem.  The fabric of the trampoline set up an inter-dimensional resonance, but too irregularly.  Thus the—”


“Ah, yes.  Anyway, this bugle is made of a unique alloy and configured so that when it is ‘played’ it will set up a controlled set of hyper-spatial and trans-temporal resonances down to the quantum level.  Your analogy to music is a good one; after all, music has complex timbres, resonances, and harmonies, and those quantum effects—”

“As we found out last week,” the colleague said a bit sourly, “quantum effects can cause unpredictable results.  How do you know you won’t open another wormhole?  Even worse—the slightest error in your ‘timbres’, and the very molecular structure of anything in this room—such as us—could be completely disrupted!”

“Each effect is produced by a specific resonance pattern—a different ‘tune’, if you will.  True, my musical skills are not optimal; but my device will self-correct, and play the right ‘tune’ to open a portal to the Paleozoic Era!”  As his colleague continued to glare at him skeptically, the inventor handed him a hat.

“A derby hat?!”

“’Bowler’ is the preferred term, actually.  It is made of a fabric similar to that of the trampoline, but with a reversed resonance pattern.  By molding the fabric to the exactly proper topology—which, oddly, produced the shape of a bowler, or if you insist, ‘derby’ hat—I have produced a shield for you.  Put it on, and you will be unaffected by any effects produced by my temporal bugle.  Not that you have anything to fear—“

“I’ll take the precaution!”  The colleague put the hat on and found it to fit perfectly.  He couldn’t put a finger on it, but somehow a feeling of calm descended on him, and there seemed to be stillness in the air around him.

“That’s the protective field you’re experiencing,” said the inventor.  “Well, no more delay—I am off to the Paleozoic!”  He placed the mouthpiece to his lips and blew a strange melody.  The colleague watched in fascination.  No portal to the Paleozoic opened; but the inventor had turned immediately into a large goat with an irritated expression on its face.

“You know,” said the colleague, “I think I can analyze your bugle, recalibrate it, and restore you in a few days.  The goat brightened.  “However—“continued the colleague with a devious grin.  The goat’s face fell.

“You owe me for last time.  Now my lawn needs to be mowed, and my mower’s in the shop, so I have a job for you while I’m working on your horn.  They say a goat is better than a mower….”

The Iron Writer Challenge #12

Roman GaleaThe Iron Writer Challenge #12

2013 Iron Writer Summer Solstice Challenge #12

500 Words, 5 Days, 4 Elements

The Authors:

Diana SpringerJ Conrad GuestJeremy PumaM. D. Pitman

The Elements:

A Roman Galea

A Rotary Dial Phone

A Pole Vaulting Pole

Black Lipstick

Carnival FeverDiana Springer

Diana Springer

There is a ruckus on the highway.  Curious onlookers line the streets, releasing oohs and whistles as I shimmy by wearing nothing but a gold leotard with an extravagant plumage of blood-red feathers across my back. The afternoon sunrays ricochet off my gold Roman galea as I swing my hips seductively to the hypnotic calypso beat.

“Aren’t you glad you did it after all?” asks Charlene.  I was supposed to be celebrating my big track and field win. Things hadn’t gone according to schedule. The crowd on the sidewalk is swelling and Charlene is on what appears to be her fourth mix of Red Bull and rum, clearly enjoying the buzz of energy. I have to admit that my team mate was right. This is exactly what I needed.

“It’s great out here,” I shout over the music. God knows I needed cheering up, after my pole vaulting pole snapped in half as I ascended on my second attempt.  Now here I am two weeks later, trying to make myself feel better in this ridiculous get-up.

Charlene raises her plastic cup in a toast, and I do the same with my bottled water, its rim coated with traces of my black lipstick.  Ordinarily I wouldn’t be caught in such a gothic lip color without a shroud, but today was anything but ordinary. A quick survey of the party animals reveals that we are all in various stages of nudity; bare chests, severe cut-outs, thong-bottoms and Charlene swears that she saw a man wearing a loin cloth.

A photographer leaps out of nowhere, blinding me with a series of rapid flashes. Wait until Aunt Flora catches sight of me and Charlene in the newspapers.  It will be one more thing for her to gossip about on her vintage rotary dial phone.

“Looking good Nelly,” says a familiar voice.  My ex-boyfriend Gavin does a choreographed shuffle.  Ahead the giant music truck inches along the stretch of the highway, flanked on both sides by enthusiastic revelers.

“Thanks,” I say to his mud-painted face.  His paper thin lips are coated with black lipstick as well. My gaze drifts downwards to his bare torso and to my amusement, I see that Gavin’s ever-growing beer belly has been air-brushed with an immaculate set of abs.

“Finally got that six pack,” I say coyly, gesturing at the neon green and brown abdominals.  He laughs while rubbing his Buddha belly suggestively.  The music truck cranks out one of the season’s biggest hits, inducing a roar from the suddenly reenergized crowd.

“This is our song!” screams Charlene.  She jumps around, her arms encircling the waist of the stranger in the loin cloth whose lack of coordination sends all four of us into a riptide of laughter.  Carnival is the theatre of life. I am in the Spartacus section of the band so I adjust my galea, raise my fiber glass, glitter-coated sword and release a warrior cry, before surging forward towards the carnival judges.

The Crabs IncidentJ. Conrad Guest

J. Conrad Guest

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I drove a stretch of tarmac dark and weary, I chanced upon a damsel in distress. I braked hard and pulled over onto the shoulder. A moment later, I heard the crunch of boots on gravel as she approached the passenger door I’d opened.

“Thanks,” she said, sliding in beside me. She was what her generation called Goth: hair dyed shoe polish black, pale makeup, black lipstick, and facial hardware—silver rings through left eyebrow, nose and lip, an array around the inner lip of her right ear, while a skull dangled from her left lobe. When she spoke, a tongue stud glittered in the headlights of an oncoming pickup truck. I wondered what other hardware she might have, in other, more secluded places.

“What are you doing out alone so late on a Saturday?” I asked.

“My dawg and me had a fight. He dumped me at North Territorial. Fucker. Where you headed?”

It took me a moment to figure she was referencing the boyfriend as “fucker” and not addressing me, as in, “Fucker, where you headed?” I grinned. “South Lyon.”

“Me, too. I’m Melody.”

“Then I guess I’m heading your way, Melody. I’m Malcolm.” I glanced in the rearview mirror and pulled back onto Pontiac Trail, running up through the six-speed transmission of my Mazda3. Once I got it into high gear, I ventured, “Don’t you have a cell phone you could’ve used to call a friend?”

“I don’t own one. I hate the things.”

“Truly? That’s surprising, for someone of your generation. When I was your age, making a phone call meant dialing a rotary dial phone and talking to someone while attached to a wall by an eight-foot curly cord.”

“Oh, for the good old days,” Melody said. “For all the connectivity cells boast, I think we’re more disconnected than ever.”

“You know, in Denmark there’s a marked incidence of brain tumors they link to cell phone technology.”

“I’m not surprised. Which reminds me, my ex-boyfriend—he who abandoned me tonight—gave me a case of the crabs last week.”

I chuckled.

“Crabs is no laughing matter.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you, Melody. I was just reminded of a sign I once saw above the urinal in a public men’s room: “Don’t throw toothpicks into the urinal; crabs can pole vault.” I chuckled again, but Melody didn’t join me.

“You see,” I explained to fill the silence, “the crabs were using toothpicks as a pole vaulting pole.”

“I get it,” she said. “I just didn’t think it was funny. You obviously never had crabs.”

“No.” I dimmed my high beams in deference to an oncoming car, but not before he flashed his at me to remind me mine were on. “How come you didn’t give him the boot after the crabs?”

“I should’ve. But I’ve got a real hard head sometimes.”

I nodded. “Me, too. Been accused of having a real Roman galea for a skull.”

“What’s that, a Galea?”

“A sort of helmet thing, with a faceplate. The ancient Romans wore them when they fought. Russell Crowe wore one in the movie, Gladiator.”

We finished the rest of the drive in silence. Maybe it was a generational thing. But then again, as I drove home after dropping off Melody, I couldn’t help but think it had something to do with the crabs incident.

CombatJeremy Puma

Jeremy Puma

K’von the Barbarian stared into the seething, sweat-covered face of the gladiator across from him, panting under the open-faced galea he’d torn from his previous opponent’s body. The helmet, heavy and bronze, pressed painfully against his scalp, but offered him an advantage over his enemy. His own body dripped, his muscular figure decorated with the blood of two combatants who had already fallen. K’von ran his hand across his face, wiping a mixture of red and his ritual black paint out of his stinging eyes.

How’d he end up in this situation, locked in mortal combat with an unknown opponent in the Roman Coliseum? He remembered dialing the code for Time Sector 8-B into his ChronoMate; he’d expected to land somewhere in ancient Scotland, where he’d be able to study the Pictish people first-hand. In preparation, he’d painted his face in the traditional style of the warrior’s tattoos he’d seen in the books he’d read on the ancient barbarian tribes.

Unfortunately, after the fall through hyperspace, he found himself surrounded by a crowd of Roman soldiers and unceremoniously dumped into the dungeons under the Coliseum. The timeframe seemed right, but the location? Off by over a thousand miles. Had he entered incorrect coordinates? He hadn’t thought to bring his Latin electrotranslator, either. Before he could escape, they stripped him and took everything—even his ChronoMate.

Now, his only recourse was battle. Thankfully, he’d used a series of biostims prior to his ChronoJump in preparation for combat within the war-like Pictish society. Maybe, just maybe, if he survived until the end, he could figure out a way to retrieve his ChronoMate and get back to his own time. However, after two rounds of combat, he was beginning to tire. Looking around for some kind of advantage, he glimpsed an hasta—a long, battle-worn spear—just a few feet away. As his opponent charged, he lunged, grabbed the spear, rolled to the side and lifted the weapon just as the other man fell upon him, impaling his enemy through the stomach.

He pushed the man away and stood. As the crowd hurrahed, he looked to the door which led to the staging area, which had begun to swing open. Sighing, he lowered the spear, wondering who his next opponent would be, and if this interminable battle would ever end. A figure appeared, and he lifted the spear.

“Kevin, it’s time for lunch!”

Kevin’s mother opened the screen door to the backyard and emerged into the afternoon wiping her hands on her apron. “Kevin, I—what are you doing with your brother’s pole-vaulting pole? If you break that, he’ll kill you—he has a meet next week! Did you use my black lipstick to color your face? Get inside and wash that off of your face, mister.”

“Aw, Mom! I was playing Time Travel!” Kevin, age ten, looked back down at the dial on the old rotary phone he’d labeled “ChronoMate 3000,” turned around, and followed her inside for bologna sandwiches.

WillieMichael Pitman

M.D. Pitman

Joey and Willie were the best of best friends. Whatever Joey did, Willie did.

Usually they played hide-and-seek, but Joey wanted to use his new Wiffle ball and bat. Joey ran outside wearing his plastic Roman soldier’s helmet – he didn’t have a baseball helmet – and two thick lines of his mom’s black lipstick under his eyes.

“Willie, let’s play.” Joey raised his arms displaying his bat and ball.

Joey took off his helmet and tossed it and the bat by the bush – which was home – and walked to the “mound.”

“You may want to put that on in case I come high and hard.” Joey winked. He held the ball at his waist before a high kick wind-up like Steve Carlton, only right-handed. He hurled the ball over the plate.

Joey jerked his head up to the sky and turned looking over the neighbor’s house. He hung his head. “There’s no way you took Steve Carlton deep. Let’s see how you handle Mike Schmidt.”

Joey marched to home plate and picked up the bat and looked back at the mound as he swung it in a circle.

“Joey! Time to come in.”

Joey whipped his head around and dropped the bat. “DAD!”

“Sorry, Willie. My dad’s home. I’ll come get you later.” Joey ran up to his dad and leaped into his arms.

“Are we going to Montreal, Dad?” Joey buried his head into his father’s chest.

“No. I didn’t qualify. My pole broke on my final pole vault. But we’ll try again in four years.” He knew that won’t happen. Thirty-eight would be just too old for the 1980 Olympic trials. “What were you doing outside?”

“Willie and me were playing ball. Can you believe he took Steve Carlton deep?”

“What? No! Carlton’ll get him next time.” His father mussed Joey’s hair. “Go cleanup for dinner, champ.”

Nancy hung up the phone sitting on a table in the kitchen. She called for Dan.

“What did the doc say about Joey still ‘playing’ with Willie?”

Nancy traced her hands over the rotary dial. “They want to either give him more medicine or take him to a specialist.” She exhaled deeply. “I’m so worried, Dan.” Nancy rubbed her already red eyes.

“Why can’t we just handle this ourselves? Just take Joey to Willie’s grave and tell him he’s dead, and hold him tight until he stops crying?”

“You know why, Dan. The doctor said it may scar even deeper. He’s fragile.”

“It’s been a year and nothing has helped. I’m just … just … ”

“Frustrated,” Nancy said finishing his thought.

Dan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ya.”

Joey stomped down the stairs and nearly toppled his chair at the dinner table. Nancy and Dan helplessly watched. The excitement on Joey’s face faded into a somber stare at his empty plate. “Mom, Dad. Can I tell you something?”

They quickly sat on either side of Joey at the table.

“Ya, anything, champ,” Dan said.

“I really miss Willie.”