The Iron Writer Challenge, Grudge Match #11 – Monday, September 22, 2014

mud-18

Grudge Match #11

Monday, September 22, 2014

Mathew W. Weaver & Mamie Pound

vs

Dani J Caile & Jordan Bell

Judges:

Christopher A Liccardi

B Y Rogers

Maureen Larter

Tiffany Brown

Danielle Zwissler

Alis Van Doorn

Rules:

1 element from each writer

1 story from each team

250 words from each writer with discussion and collaboration within the teams.

If there is a tiebreaker, ‘Duel’: Mathew vs Dani  – 3 elements, 300 words.

Elements: 

Sooty2011 neoPogo-Stick

 

Neo (from Matrix) holding a Sooty Puppet

One character must be riding a pogo stick

Must contain at least three characters with no spoken dialogue between them

Must implement every line of the William Carlos Williams poem, The Red Wheelbarrow, in order.

Lines may be interspersed with other prose but individual lines of the poem must be intact.

Note: Grudge #11 fell apart for a variety of complicated reasons.

However, in the spirit waste management, below is the lone submission, plus one from our cowardly and superfluous leader.

 

Dani-J-CaileDown on the FarmJordan Bell

Grudge 11

Dani J Caile and Jordan Bell

 

 

“What’s all this then, eh?”

When I’d gone to bed, all had been normal but now, at the break of dawn, with the cows out in the meadow and the chickens scattered about, the scene before me was mystifying.

“What’s that, Sooty?” A leather-clad Neo from the Matrix was standing over by the coop, stone-faced, with a yellow puppet shoved up to his ear. It was Sooty from the Sooty Show. Where was Matthew Corbett when you needed him? Or Sweep and Sue, even? And as if that wasn’t bad enough, a crazed naked man on a pogo stick, with parts of his anatomy dangling like some throttled turkey was ranting on about some literature nonsense.

“So much depends upon accuracy, clarity. Language is then…efficient!” He bounced around the muddy farmyard until his pogo stick hit a red wheel barrow and he went flying into a heap of wet manure.

“What the hell! Get off my land!” The usual line didn’t work with these nutters, so I went back in for my shotgun. When I returned, all was quiet until finally a noise came from the old barn. I cautiously made my way over. In the shadows, far over in the back, I could see Sooty, held high over a stall, his wand waggling.

“Izzy wizzy, let’s get busy!”

“I’ll give yer ‘Izzy bloody wizzy’!” I fired a warning shot. Hay exploded into the air as man and puppet crashed through the slats of the old barn and into a startled sow glazed with rainwater from last night’s showers.

I loaded another shell into my shotgun as I ran out of the barn and around to the pigsty. Here, I was met with another vision of absurdity.

The naked literati, thus removed from his pogo stick and now covered head to toe in shite, wrestled with ’he-of-the-not-quite-there-spoon’ for control of Sooty. I levelled my shotgun at the mad duo and growled, “Oi, you lot! Get off my pigs!”

Sooty in hand, the naked man sprung to his feet and dashed across the farmyard towards the coop, screaming in the morning air, “A man of genius has a right to any mode of expression.” I looked to Neo who sat in the mud defeated and took off after the sullied poet.

Nearing the coop I slowed, having lost sight of the puppet-wielding Pound. I heard yet another voice nearby. There, on the ground, a man in a tweed suit tossed grains all about and addressed his non-existent audience.

“Only those who will risk going too far can know how far one can possibly go,” he said, seated beside the white chickens as they darted after their food. He reached into the grain bag again and said, “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”

Suddenly feeling quite ill, I staggered on, soon coming to an abandoned Sooty. I laughed, quite madly, and with a whoop snatched up the vexatious puppet leaving my last remnants of sanity in its place.

Hey Nonny Nonny and a Ho, Ho, Ho.B Y Rogers photo

B Y Rogers

A sober, white bearded astute looking fellow sitting in the front row blew a whistle above the din of the pots and and pans clanging in inebriated anticipation. Two short but loud blasts. A hundred and seventeen compatriots sat in horrified silence as the final round of the First Annual Iron Writer Banging Pots Award began.

The curtains parted, revealing Dani dressed in his Neo Matrix black leather trench coat and wearing wrap around sunglasses bounced precariously on the pogo stick, holding a yellow stuffed toy name Sooty, his childhood security toy (a rule for the final round). A stool stood patiently on his right, a full shot glass and the remains of a bottle of Seagram’s Seven Crown waited balanced on top. Half of the bottle was consumed in the last thirty minutes (another rule).

“So much depends upon,” Dani spoke between halting breathes as he bounced on the tilting stick. He belched and the crowd cheered. The pogo stick landed unevenly near the microphone stand, not quite tipping over to the left. Sooty lashed out, a counter balance to the right. The congregation jeered and cheered. Pots and pans banged. Dani landed on his feet and wobbled to the stool, downing a quick shot (another rule) for dismounting. His hand shaking, the shot ingested, he tried again. Unable to mount the pogo stick, he fell to the floor and closed his eyes with a groan.

The whistle blew again and Jordan, in the same costume, danced in from stage left, duct taped to his pogo stick, trying to keep the stick directly over his feet. Sooty in one hand and a shot glass in the other. In a matter of seconds he danced out of sight, stage right, tearing the curtains from their moors, never to be seen again.

Next came a teetotaler from Sri Lanka name Mathew. He entered from the rear of the stage carrying his stick. He stopped first by the stool to empty the remaining Seagram. He recognized someone from the audience, saluted then passed out, landing directly on top of Dani in an compromising position. The crowd cheered approval while a revolting sound echoed from under the curtains, stage right. A sudden redolent aroma filled the confined auditorium.

Regurgitation ruled the scene. An unscheduled intermission was announced by the only sober whistleblower in attendance.

Twenty minutes latter, when all had returned, the curtains opened and a lone woman stood on the stage. Classy, above the childish adventures of those inebriated men before her, she climbed upon the pogo stick, wrapping her belt around it. She placed a mint julep into Sooty’s hand and smiled.

The pogo stick started slow, bouncing just inches off the floor. Bouncing and rebounding higher and higher. The audience becoming nauseated.

She chanted.

“So much depends upon the red barrow, glazed with rain…”

Here she poured the remaining mint julep over her head like sacred frankincense.

“…water, beside the white chickens!”

She tossed the glass at her audience, waved goodbye, and exited on the pogo stick to the rear of the stage.

The hens in the audience clucked, the roosters crowed.

Victory.

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