The Iron Writer Challenge #129
The 2015 Autumn Equinox Challenge
500 Words, 5 Days, 4 Elements
The Homer Bracket
A worldwide holiday celebrating a fictional character ( you must name the character)
Testing the first bullet-proof vest
The first mosquito of the season
Susan recognized Cal waiting for her by the plane in the predawn darkness.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Cal. “Thanks for joining our adventure on Snoopy.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” said Susan. “This is somewhat different than the Sky Harbor I’m used to.”
“We’ll be ready to go at sunrise, in about, oh, ten minutes,” said Cal, looking at his watch.
“Can I ask you a few quest…?” Susan was checked by a look from Cal.
“There’ll be time for questions once we’re in the air,” said Cal. “Time to go aboard.”
Cal helped Susan climb the fold-down steps and through the ridiculously narrow side door. In the dark interior she stumbled onto a sleeping figure and recoiled.
“Don’t mind him,” said Cal behind her. “Through the door on the right, then sit on the right.”
In minutes they were stowed and strapped-in, the sun rising over Lake Superior. Susan realized the plane was painted a bright yellow, and the cockpit had that new car smell. Propellers turned and the plane vibrated as the engines came to life, first the left, then the right. She watched Cal turn knobs and flick switches while talking over his headset, his eyes and hands synched with the dialog.
“Thank you, tower,” said Cal. “We’re rolling.”
As the plane started Cal’s left hand went to his headset, and he turned to her, smiling.
She didn’t answer; the plane rolled faster and faster with their shadow stretched out before them; Cal pulled back the yoke and they lifted smoothly into the air.
“You can ask me a question now,” said Cal, after several minutes.
“Well,” Susan collected herself, “GA Magazine would like to know what inspired Lazarus Duke to recreate World War Two aircraft?”
“Not any aircraft,” said Cal. “The DeHavilland Mosquito was one of the most successful aircraft ever created. It served as a bomber, a fighter, a torpedo plane, and for photo-reconnaissance; it was made almost entirely of wood and glue so it was light and fast, faster than a Spitfire. And it was almost invisible to German radar: the first stealth aircraft.”
“And what about Mr. Calvin McRaven, test pilot?” asked Susan. “With your history, you’re like the guy testing bulletproof vests.”
“Not really,” said Cal. “You know they test bulletproof vests on adolescent pigs. By the time they point a gun at a guy in a vest, it’s more like a demonstration.”
“So why the name Snoopy?” asked Susan.
“Production of Mosquitos ended in 1950,” said Cal. “Snoopy was created October 4, 1950, by Charles Schwartz, which is now International Snoopy Day. Snoopy is the first Mosquito Mr. Duke built. We have two more coming out in November and early December.”
“I was hoping to meet Mr. Duke,” said Susan.
“If you’d joined us for breakfast you would have,” said Cal. “He came down to the guesthouse and cooked for us: corned beef hash patties in maple syrup, dipped in pancake batter and deep fried.”
“Will I meet him?” asked Susan.
“When we get to the Miramar Airshow, I expect,” said Cal. “Or whenever he wakes up.”
E. Chris Garrison
“Here we are, Jen, October 21st, 2015 at last! International Marty McFly day!” cried Calvin, as we arrived on the scene at Hill Valley, California.
Well, there’s no real Hill Valley, but Calvin and I had worked things out using clues from the movie, which led us to Inyo County, California.
I squeezed his hand and said, “Wow, looks like we’re not the only ones who figured this out. Just look at all of the DeLoreans! Did they even make that many?”
There had to be at least a couple dozen of the retro-futuristic stainless steel gull-winged cars scattered across the field, a few giving off vapor, encrusted in frost. Dozens of Marty McFly cosplayers milled around, quoting catchphrases. There were plenty of puffy orange vests, some iridescent ball caps, ridiculous cowboy duds, and even a few leather jackets and walkie talkies.
“I think we’re underdressed,” I said, looking over our outfits. I’d attempted a genderswapped suspendered 1985 Marty, with a replica pink Mattel hoverboard for a prop. Calvin had cheaped out and wore a Mexican serape, bowler hat, and cowboy boots.
Just as we passed under the banner that welcomed us to the makeshift camp site, Doc Brown leaped in front of us and grabbed us by the shoulders. His eyes wild, his white hair singed on the tips, he said, “You kids! You’re from this timeline! Which one’s the real Marty?”
Calvin laughed. “Awesome!”
I smiled at him. “All of them?”
The Doc’s eyes squinted at me. “Aren’t you a clever girl. If you’re so smart, how can a movie character come to life?”
“Well, you just said, ‘this timeline’. Maybe this is 2015A, where Marty never existed, only movies about him.”
Calvin said, “This guy’s creepin’ me out, let’s book it.”
Doc pushed him aside and stared into my eyes. “Good, good. What if I told you one of them, the original, carries a mutant form of West Nile Virus from 2015 prime that would wipe out all of mankind if even the first mosquito of the season bit him?”
Calvin shoved back. “It’s November!”
I said, “I guess you’d have to pick the right one and do something drastic to save the future.”
“Precisely!” cried the Doc. “Now, which one?”
“This is stupid,” said Calvin as I scanned the field.
“Well, we first see Marty in the Doc’s lab in 1985, with the breakfast machine.”
Doc Brown slapped his forehead. “Of course!” He pulled a long rifle from under his lab coat. He aimed at a puffy-vested Marty, carrying a jug of instant pancake batter. The look-a-like raised his hands and screamed.
All the Martys screamed.
“That’s heavy,” said Calvin.
The Doc swung around and aimed at my boyfriend’s chest. “The machine didn’t make pancakes.” Doc Brown fired. Calvin fell down.
The time travel paradox resolved, I stood over Calvin’s body in an empty field.
He cracked an eye open. “Are they gone?”
“Yes! I guess he never saw Back to the Future III!”
Calvin threw back his serape to reveal his makeshift vintage 1885 cast iron bulletproof vest. “Who’s chicken now?”
The day they celebrated Sherlock Holmes, was a world wide affair. Major cities like New York, Beijing, Moscow, would have theatres and cinemas showing Sherlock Holmes plays and films. Their streets, bunting overhead, were filled with stalls selling cheap but badly made deer stalkers, curly pipes, and fake whiskers. Photo booths, where you could dress in period. From my perch on the roof, facing 221B Baker Street, most of the world, seemed to arrive en masse on such days.
Crowds of tourists milling around, the visit to 221B, as a pilgrimage they must all make. Excited tourist chatter was the norm, most days, on that otherwise quiet street. On Sherlock Holmes Day, the chatter became a thunderous roar. It suited my purpose. All eyes on 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, London W1U 3BW.
The year in question, the Sherlock Holmes Society had arranged that one of their own, should portray that illustrious gent. To be seen at the window, walking between the rooms. Occasionally, if the crowds died down a little, he would open the front door and reach out to tap his pipe on the wall, before rapidly retiring from the throng that threatened to rush him. So great was their joy at seeing ‘him’ in person. Back inside that ordinary but elegant door, society members clicked the locks fast. I waited. I had time enough.
Nearing lunchtime, I knew a most delicious smell would emanate from the kitchen. Freshly squeezed lemon indicated the mixing of pancake batter. A nod to Conan Doyle’s mastery.
Aficionados will recall Sherlock using a crêpe to lift a shoe print. The Society’s chap would think more longingly of lunch. I planned to act before that meal was served.
I pressed the trigger while looking through the telescopic sight. The chink of glass falling and a buzz at his ear, would have him turn in puzzlement. First mosquito of the season? Another second, and he would feel the hit of a bullet on his chest. As he fell backward, the thought came to me. ‘Challenge Accomplished.’ I broke the gun, threw it in the air, then happily watched as it fell behind bushes in the gardens below.
The sirens grew near and I settled myself for discovery. As police boots thundered up to my roof perch, my self congratulation took a hit. Through 221B’s window, I stared, as the man, with not a mark on him, was being helped to his feet by a police constable.
Heavy hands on my shoulder, I succumbed to handcuffing and being taken back downstairs. Not a bit puzzled, I climbed into the police van.
The Evening News was full of the attempt on Sherlock Holmes. This time, no Moriarty. This time, a disgruntled writer wanting notoriety. To be forever linked with murder on a Sherlock Holmes Day. The article going on to quote the chap hit by the bullet. ‘Thank goodness I decided to try on Sherlock’s first bullet proof vest.”
Dani J Caile
I opened door number twenty-three and there he was, Dave, lying in a hospital bed, bloated up like a balloon. Every part of him visible was red and inflammed, the poor sod. When he saw me, he sat up.
“Bob! Good to see you! Come on in!”
After some hesitation, I took a chair next to the bed. “Dave, you look… you look… what the hell happened, Dave?”
“I tried out my new thing, Bob, my anti-mosquito t-shirt. Look!” He pointed over to the bedside cupboard and I saw a colourful promotional flyer with Dave splashed all over it wearing some strange t-shirt. Was this his latest ’get-rich-quick’ scheme?
“What’s that on the t-shirt, Dave?”
“That? That’s my own secret concoction of chemicals designed to repel and kill all mosquitos! It’s stuck together with pancake batter, which is both an excellent base and glue. And if I mix food dye in it, I can also get different coloured t-shirts! Ingenious, huh?”
I guess I didn’t jump up and down enough, because the next thing I knew, I was watching a video on his flashy new android phone. The camera was a bit shaky but there he was, standing next to a river. “Is that the Tisza, Dave?”
People were walking by him quickly, holding their noses, basically running away.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting for the first mosquito of the season. The Tisza’s always the first place they appear. I’ve got to start production of these t-shirts as soon as possible. I’m telling you, once they hit the shops, sales will be immense!” A baby in a pram started crying as it was pushed past briskly. “Oh, Bob, how did your thing go?”
Thing? The Winnie-the-Pooh Appreciation Society just had Pooh Day, celebrated across the world, and I was nominated as head of the county’s, yes, county’s happenings. I had the great idea of re-enacting ’The Heffalump’, seeing as Mavis the treasurer looked so good in the elephant costume. Of course, Hundred Acre Wood wasn’t available, so we had to find somewhere suitable. Getting permission didn’t work out, so we did a ’Flash Mob’ performance at the local garden centre. There wasn’t much of a turnout but it was great. And to Dave it was ‘a thing’?
“Listen!” There was a close up in the video.
“Remember this day, remember it well!” said the Dave in the video. “Wow, I feel like that guy, you know… Zepplin, testing the first bullet-proof vest.”
“Err, Dave, it was Zeglen, I think.”
Then the Dave in the video moved like he’d been hit, falling to the ground. The camera view dropped, showing only grass.
“Who… who is that woman screaming, Dave?”
“Oh.” I didn’t understand. Why was he in a good mood if it had failed? “What happened, the t-shirt didn’t work?”
“Of course it works!”
“So… what happened?”
“I got bitten by a tiny 3mm white crab spider. That’s what happened!”