The Iron Writer Challenge #182 – 2017 Spring Equinox Challenge #3

The Iron Writer Challenge #182

2017 Spring Equinox Challenge #3

500 Words, 5 Days, 4 Elements

The Authors:

E. Chris Garrison, Bobby Salomons, M. D. Pitman, Vance Rowe, Josh Flores

The Elements:

A lying national media cable TV anchorman (real or fictional)

Global warming

A crystal ball

A small snowblower

Doing Something About the Weather

E. Chris Garrison

Sally’s elderly Prius barreled along the breakdown lane of the freeway. The thermometer and the speedometer both read 75.

Other drivers, stuck in a jam, blared their horns at Sally. Some made rude gestures. Did she hear cars backfiring or shots being fired by hotheads? 

Sally didn’t care. She wouldn’t be denied the truth.

From the bracket on her windshield, her smartphone streamed news of the Weather Emergency. Bundled up in a parka, the cable news anchor mimed shivering cold while talking with a bespectacled woman in a puffy coat. White flakes swirled around them on the New York City streets.

“So, this wave of cold will continue until the end of January, Dr. Fahrenheit?”

The woman stared at the camera. Her eyes panned from right to left as she said, “Yes, that is correct. The polar vortex is sweeping across the plains, through the Midwest, and on to the East Coast.”

Sally exited the freeway, upsetting more drivers as she whizzed past them on the shoulder. The side of her car struck sparks from the concrete barricades along the right. Sally laughed as she passed a supermarket, its lot full of cars. The news told her that stores had all the French Toast ingredients depleted due to the Weather Emergency, since citizens had been warned that they’d have to stay off the streets after dark, so that plows could clear the streets for the morning commute.

Sally turned up her air conditioning as she skidded onto Broadway, the back end of her car fishtailing.

A great glass orb, very much like a giant snowglobe, blocked the roadway. Inside, Sally made out the figures of Blaine Roberts and Dr. Fahrenheit, their gestures slightly leading the broadcast. Sally resisted the urge to speed up as their faces registered terror as her car burst through flasher barricades and hired guards flung themselves out of her way.

The nose of her Prius met the enormous glass enclosure, which cracked like an egg. Sally hit the brakes even as the airbag deployed and shoved her back in her seat.

She flung open the car door and stumbled into the space between the camera and the other two. She picked up handfuls of white flakes and rubbed them all over her face. “It’s a lie! Global warming is real! They’re lying to you! This is just styrofoam!”

The low drone of a small snowblower’s electric motor quit. So did the camera’s red light.

Many rough hands seized Sally at once.

Blaine Roberts stood before her. “Ma’am, you’re in a lot of trouble. Vehicular assault, sure, but also the Weather Normalization Act, which makes discussing Global… Discussing that topic, a federal offense.”

“You’re not fooling anyone! They’re pretending, just like you! This is stupid! Why doesn’t anyone wake up?”

“Look, if you people win the election next time, then you can write the news.” Blaine flicked a piece of glass off his parka as Sally was dragged away. “Could someone get that poor woman a coat?”

Cold Lies, Burning Truth

Josh Flores

Why do I keep trusting Jimenti Roso after he made up stories to improve ratings? No one caught on when he lied about a magic cure to cancer being tested or how the perfect weight loss drug was found. Then he decided to make up a kidnapping. That made the Were-Police begin sniffing around. He had to admit he lied. The scandal lasted a while. 

He was fired. He was interviewed. He wrote a book. He became more famous. He did the talk shows. He was re-hired. Ratings went up. Job accomplished. 

I watch his plastic-like mouth stretch out on my cable-ready crystal ball. Canines sharp and white belied the words barking past them.  

“Global warming, the world’s leading sorcerers have confirmed, is a human urban myth! It is simply not happening. There is no danger of the Earth’s climate changing. The Warlock Coven has released an official statement today. They have looked at the mortals’ scientific data and consulted their charts, familiars, crystal balls, the stars, and the bones; and have determined global warming to be a hoax, created by some of the human corporations and political groups to control others and make money.”

I’m hoping he isn’t lying. Winter business has been bad for a few years now. I look at my inventory: snow plows, shovels, salt, scrapers, dragon’s fire-spit, heaters, and of course, snow blowers. I stock from small to heavy duty ones. But the last few winters have been mild and if it wasn’t for the other stuff selling at a reasonable rate, I would be bankrupt. 

My attention goes back to Roso. 

“In other news, sightings of dragons, chimeras, phoenixes, and other fire creatures have increased. These beasts have been captured and handled by the Defense Mystics, who have put out a national alert asking anyone who notices unusual steam, flames, or heat to report it immediately. When asked as to why these pests are populating rapidly, the spokesman said, 

‘No comment. Man, it is getting warm in here.’” 

I wonder if I can sell Roso a snow blower or two. I fantasize about it for a bit when my doorbell rings. A customer! Finally.  

I look up to see a brown-skinned lanky man, with salt and pepper hair and beard.  

“Hablas Espanol?” 

“No.”

He lifts his hand in a stop motion and reaches into his pocket to pull out his wand.  

“Parli Ingles!” He incants. “Me understand you?” 

My face said no.

“Parli Ingles ni google!” He pauses. “Do you understand me?” 

“Yes. How may I help you?” 

“I want to buy all this. How much?” 

“Why?”  

“This year a lot of snow in my country. I sell these and all others I find, no?” 

“Sure, we can come up with a price fair to both.” 

I look at my crystal ball TV. “So no such thing as global warming, Mr. Roso?”

“Jimenti Roso?”

“Yes.” 

“His name in Spanish sounds like He mentiroso — ummm — He Liar.” 

 Blasted Snow

 Vance Rowe

“There will be little to no snow at all this year due to global warming in the upper portion of North America and Canada, so you can all sell your snowblowers and keep your shovels in the shed. You won’t even need winter clothes this year as it will never be colder than 72 degrees Fahrenheit,”said Smiling Chet Armstrong, America’s favorite newscaster.

“Hot Damn. No snow this year,” Eustis said, looking outside. Eustis lives on a hill and his driveway is long. He tires of walking it with a snowblower. “Now I can sell that blasted thing.”

“Wait a minute, you cannot trust that liar. Before you do anything, let me consult with my crystal ball. Spirit has never led us astray yet,” his wife said. 

“Bah, you and that damn crystal ball. You consult your glass ball and I will put a sign up down by the road.” 

After Eustis put the sign up, he walked back up the long driveway to his house, his wife greeted him at the door and said, “Spirit says we are in store for a lot of snow this year, Eustis.”

“Grenadine, I want to hear no more about it. I will believe Smiling Chet over your stupid ball.”

“You’re a fool, Eustis. What happens if we get a lot of snow this year?”

“We won’t, Grenadine. Smiling Chet said so.”

Two days later, the snowblower sold and Chet was a thrilled man. Regrettably, two weeks later, Chet stopped being a thrilled man when the snow fell. It fell for two days straight.

“You blamed fool. I told you not to believe that son-of-an-unnamed-goat. Now what are you going to do?”

“I will just go buy another snowblower, Grenadine.”

Eustis found a place that sold only small snowblowers.

He purchased a small snowblowers, and it only just made a path up his driveway after hours of use. 

“Face it, Eustis. It will be easier just to shovel.” Grenadine yelled to him.

Seething, Eustis responded with, “I ain’t shoveling jack.”

Eustis grabbed his shotgun off of the rack above the fireplace, went out to his truck and drove to the news studio where Smiling Chet broadcasts at. He walked inside and grabbed the newscaster by the scruff of his neck and dragged him out to the truck.

“What happened to not being any snow, Smiling Chet? What do you call this? I sold my big snowblower because of your stinking lies.”

“I-I-I don’t know what happened,” Chet replied, stuttering.

“Shut up and shovel before your new nickname is Toothless Chet.”

A police car soon pulled up in front of Eustis’s house and the county sheriff stepped out of the vehicle.

“Oh, thank God. This man kidnapped me and is forcing me to shovel his driveway.”

“Is this true, Eustis?”

“Sure is, Sheriff. This lyin’ so and so said we wouldn’t be getting any snow this year and I sold my snowblower.”

“Sheriff, don’t just stand there. Arrest him and let me go.”

“Nope, I sold my snowblower too because of you. Bring him by my place when you are done, Eustis.”

“Sure will, Sheriff. I sure will.”

Papa

Bobby Salomons

The director and live studio are blabbering through each other like drunk sonority girls on Mardi Gras. I know – I was one.

“So, why the crystal ball again?” I say to the expert next to me. “I don’t think I caught on the first time.”

“’Global Warming’ is pure ‘fortune-telling’. A hoax.”

Across from the parking lot, an elderly, black man is clearing his lawn with a small snowblower. His red ski jacket and white snow hat remind me of my grandfather. ‘Papa’ was a Norwegian immigrant, loved snow and ice. Never used a snowblower, maybe a snow shovel but not before we’d play and build a snowman. I miss him.
“We’re about to go live.” Terry, my cameraman, says. “Maybe more cleavage?”

“Cleavage!? It’s freaking 23F!” I bark.
“It was a joke, Melissa.”

“A cold day for Global Warming!” My colleague Nancy in the studio chuckles, I hate her. “And my colleague is outside! In a blizzard! With an expert! Melissa, how is it out there?”

“Hi, Nancy! It sure is cold! They theorize the Earth is warming but it sure doesn’t feel that way out here! Oh! Is that a polar bear!?” I say, pointing at a white Husky passing by. Fake laughter in the studio.

“I’m here with Simon DeWitt! Expert from the Independent Ecological Research Institute.”

“That’s right!” He grins, “No associations with other research groups, no government grants!”

“So, tell us about this ‘Global Warming’-theory in the middle of a blizzard!”

He begins his story of disinformation. I zone out, looking across the street. The man’s still there, blowing snow, his back to me. For a moment, I believe it really is my ‘papa’. He turns around. I gasp. It is.

“I know!” The expert says smug, crystal ball in hand, believing it’s about him.

I choke. Seconds pass. Terry’s making a face at me.

“I-I can’t do this.” I say, thinking of ‘papa’, “This is all a lie. This man isn’t a real expert, he’s an economist paid by Exxon Mobil!”

“We have no asso-”

“-Oh, please! You’re wearing one of their key chains right now!”

Terry zooms in, the expert breaks sweat.

“I’m sorry, global warming is real. Pass the world on to our children the way it was left to us, so they too can see a REAL polar bear, not just a dog pointed out by a lying anchorwoman! Just Google it, dammit!” I yell emotional.

“Um, thanks, Melissa. We’re back in the studio, it appears our colleague is having some… technical problems…” Nancy says.

“Why don’t you go suck a dick, Nancy! Maybe it’ll warm your cold heart!”

“That’s it! You’re fired!” The director barks over the headset.

“Good! I’ll go work for the Home Shopping Network!”

I push my microphone into the ‘expert’s’ hands, head for my car and drive off passed the house. The man’s stopped the snowblower. He’s himself again, waves and smiles. I blow a kiss his way.

One Lie Too Many

M.D. Pitman

Jacob Scott’s jaw hung open for a good fifteen seconds before he realized he wasn’t saying anything and asked the ZNN’s president, “You want me to say what?”

“I don’t think I stuttered,” said Louis Copeland, who founded the news network 40 years ago as a way to report the news how he saw fit.

ZNN has developed into the go-to echo chamber for those of a certain political persuasion, which is the same persuasion of those currently in power. That made ZNN the most powerful and popular news networks, and Louis Copeland the most powerful political figure.

It also is the most despised because of the sensationalized and often inaccurate news. But Louis did not care because he’s making more money than ever before even though his rhetoric has transformed from fringe to flat out falsehoods.

Jacob’s been told to say many things over the years, who started out as a 38-year-old anchor with idealistic fervor. A half-decade later he’s developed into a jaded cynic because of the B.S. he’s been ordered to “report.” 

He compares Louis Copeland to a charlatan clairvoyant gazing into an oversized crystal ball. But the only thing oversized was Louis’ ego … and Jacob’s dependency on his seven-figure salary. That’s been enough to compensate his conscious as he’s become America’s most unreliable news anchor

“I’m to say global warming is a hoax because of Stihl? The power tool company?” Jacob’s jaw has yet to shut.

“Specifically their lawnmowers and snow blowers,” Louis added.

Jacob could usually spin what Louis wanted to be said on the news, but he’s been able to spin it into something that didn’t sound like it was a mandated from a senile fool. “That doesn’t sound a bid … um, odd?”

“No. Not at all,” said the octogenarian news magnate.

Jacob ran his fingers through his perfectly sculpted hair. He closed his eyes as he inhaled a deep breath, held it for a second, and slowly released it. He opened his eyes, looked Louis into the eyes and said, “It’ll be an unforgettable report.”

Louis Copeland slyly smiled as he nodded. “That’s by boy.”

*****

“Hey, Linda,” said Frank as he cracked open his second beer from the cooler next to his recliner. “Check this out. I think that Jacob Scott guy you like on ZNN is having a nervous breakdown.”

Dressed in an apron and wiping her hands with a kitchen towel, Linda walked into the living room staring at the television. All that appeared were the color bars with the words “Please Stand By” appearing. “What did he do?”

Frank tapped rewind on the DVR to the start of the newscast the pressed play. “Watch this craziness.”

“Good evening and welcome to ZNN,” Jacob Scott started before pausing. He took out his earpiece. “I can’t do this anymore. I’ve been told to repot” – and he made quote marks around that word – “and because I wanted to keep my job I did. But I can’t anymore.”

Before Jacob Scott could say another word, a producers rushes on set and the color bars appear.

The Iron Writer Challenge #129 – 2015 Autumn Equinox Open, Homer Bracket

The Iron Writer Challenge #129

The 2015 Autumn Equinox Challenge

500 Words, 5 Days, 4 Elements

The Homer Bracket

Homer_British_Museum

The Authors:

Dani J. Caile, Moria McArthur, E. Chris Garrison, Bill Prins

The Elements:

vest

A worldwide holiday celebrating a fictional character ( you must name the character)

Testing the first bullet-proof vest

The first mosquito of the season

Pancake batter

Miramar AwaitsBill Prins

Bill Prins

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.

“Ready?”

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.”

Marty McFly Must Die!Eric Garrison

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?”

Sighting SherlockMoira McAtrthur

Moira McArthur

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.” 

Losers United!Dani-J-Caile

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?”

“Yep.”

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’?

“Well…”

“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.”

“Whatever.”

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?”

“That’s me.”

“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!”

 

The Iron Writer Challenge #129 – 2015 Autumn Equinox Open

The Iron Writer Challenge #129

The 2015 Autumn Equinox Challenge

500 Words, 5 Days, 4 Elements

The Brackets:

 Homer_British_Museum

Homer


Doug Adams

Edward Abbey

Edward Abbey

(Please click on bracket image to read stories)

The Elements:

vest

A worldwide holiday celebrating a fictional character ( you must name the character)

Testing the first bullet-proof vest

The first mosquito of the season

Pancake batter

Stories will be posted

October 1, 2015