The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #31

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The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #31

One Picture

One Element

One Emotion

200 Words

A trail in the forest

A portent that provokes fear

An Infatuation

Please add your story in the comments below.

12 thoughts on “The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #31

  1. Somewhere, they must be somewhere! He ran through the lush green undergrowth of the forest, searching, hoping. If only he could…a rook cawed deep in the forest. A sign of impending doom! He began to sweat not only in exhaustion but also fear, the adrenalin racing through his body. He saw dark foreboding shadows rushing between the trees. Were they real? No matter, he didn’t care! Come hell or high water he had to complete this task, for her, for the one! To hold her, to have her as his own! They said he’d been taken over by an infatuation, like a disease but she was his life, his love! Every living moment he could think of no one else but her! Tripping over a thornbush, he lost a shoe but he could not stop! He had to find them! He tried to remember, retrace his steps…there! He had passed this way earlier! Yes! There they were! He picked them up and ran back from whence he came. Running through the trees, ignoring sounds, visions, all distractions, no matter how frightening! He was back to the road and turned the keys in the door.
    “I’m back.” He kissed the dashboard.

  2. It couldn’t have been more than a breath’s worth of time that I saw him. Now everywhere I turn, he is there, in the shadows, in every corner of every room, in the light that dances between the trees. Each thought is consumed by the memory of his presence. How could I ever meet him again? His will is no longer his own, but bound by shackles and chains. The dungeon is his only maiden. In the brief time our eyes met, we exchanged souls over tops of hats and heads in a crowded room. We became lovers yet to touch. Now, I cannot drive him from my mind, where his scruff beard scratches my face before finding my lips, while calloused hands enclose mine.The soothsayer did portent, through beans, grains and seeds, that he will make his narrow escape on the full moon.So I wait for him,drowned in darkness, deafened by heartbeat. My eyes making every breeze, every soaring owl, my love.

  3. “Oh yes”, I chirped, “It’s simply fascinating! The native civet is a small furry animal that eats coffee tree berries, digests them, and poops them out … whole. You collect the pooped-out beans and boil them to make the very best coffee ever!

    The other hotel guests at my table were all ears. “That’s why I’m here. I’m going on a private excursion into the forest to collect the beans straight from the wild; oh, they’re so expensive in the stores! And these will be as fresh as they come!” They all were so intrigued with the novelty of it, they agreed to come along.

    Out in the woods on a well-worn trail, I showed them what to look for. “See, here are some! Look for these pellets found in small concentrations along the path.” After three or four hours we had collected about 25 pounds of pellets before we all decided to head back.

    The whole gang of collectors sat around the kitchenette of my hotel room sipping on cups of the hot, fresh beverage. About the time I noticed the odd looks on their faces, one of the helpers came over and whispered in my ear, “Um …I can’t seem to find any beans in any of these pellets.”

  4. Nephlihim
    “Hopefully we will meet sometime,” I wrote, and then quickly logged out, knowing it was no use, knowing that within an hour, a half-hour I would be logging in again to see what he had said. I blushed, my cheeks growing hot. “A walk, I murmured, “a walk would be nice.” I pulled a light jacket over my shoulders and headed out to the wooded park behind my house. I meandered along a narrow path, between the moss and trees, listening to the brook as it babbled along merrily beside. Suddenly, my skin went cold. I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter. I rounded the corner and in front of me, collapsed on the path, lay a man. He was grotesque, his skin smooth and hairless, his limbs sprawled and stretching yards to either side of the walkway. Two deep gashes covered his broad back. He groaned and turned to me and I gasped, grabbing at the tree next to me for purchase. Those eyes. I knew them. Hadn’t I just been staring at them, not an hour ago? “Who are you?” I asked. “Don’t you know, Jenna? You invited me here.” Suddenly, his screen name made sense.

  5. She was walking along a path lined with the greenest of mosses, the trees towering above, her gnawing hunger making every step difficult. Banished. Where could she go except wherever this path takes her?

    “Where are you?”

    She shook her head.

    As she rounded the next corner, she heard a noise, a clanking, metal against metal.

    She leaped off the path and hunkered down, pulling her hood over her fair hair. She cautiously peered ahead.

    The man was short in stature but immensely strong. He was sitting on his red cloak on the bank, his helm, sword and shield beside him. He was eating bread and her stomach growled. With a start, she recognised him to be one of the feared Centurions, crossed from Hadrian’s Wall north into the land of the Picts.

    “What’s happening?”

    Suddenly he looked up, straight into her eyes. She stood; he extended a hand, offering her the bread. Food. She moved towards him. His eyes, his bread…her heart flipped.

    He touched her hair softly…

    “You will wake on the count of three…one…two…three!”

    Her eyes blazed.

    “Sorry, Sarah. Some people are just not very hypnotisable,” the therapist said. “We’ll use another technique next week.”

  6. “Can you see him?” Lily demanded as she pulled on my dress sleeve.

    Standing a full head taller, I was able to look over the window sill of the barn to stare at Marcus shoveling hay for the horses.

    “Quiet!” I whispered and slapped at the hand pulling on me.

    “I want to see!”

    “Shhh!”

    Marcus paused in his work and tilted his head at the sound. He started to turn and I ducked and grabbed Lily.

    We ran into the forest giggling at our narrow miss. As we neared the fork in the path that would separate us, I squeezed her hand and warned her to be careful. Her home was closer and she took off quickly not wanting to be wandering alone in the twilight.

    I hastened through the labyrinth of trees silently as the thick carpet of moss masked my footsteps.

    Halfway there.

    I could barely make out the tip of her roof through the dense trees when the forest fell eerily quiet and I could hear the deep breathing at my back. I turned slowly and saw the beast feared for the first time.

    I would not make it home this time.

    “Hello, Red.”

  7. My first son was conceived here. This cabin. These woods. I stared at the dilapidated building that used to be a gorgeously maintained rental some years ago.

    It was the idyllic weekend get-away. I remember the woods around the place, so full of life it was incredible. The trees were giants with moss draped across their tangled roots. They stood watch over the rustic cabin where young lovers stole away to find an escape and each other.

    The cabin was abandoned. I wanted it bad. The woods were still majestic, though the building my wife and I had made love in was not. It could be fixed. Just like my marriage. I would fix them both. One would help fix the other.

    This cabin, this was the key.

    I walked along the path striking out into the woods from the cabin. The trees opened into a clearing I did not remember that was rutted with hundreds of tire tracks. The sun glinted off a sign that read, “Future site of Brunswick Juvenile Corrections Academy.”

    Soon the woods, the cabin, my marriage, my plan… all of it, would be gone.

    The nature of a fool is revealed by his breaking heart.

  8. I’d been out here in the forest, lost, since forever. The snow had gone, and I felt free. There were no more fears of discovery – it had been too long for THEM to find me. I looked out from my cave, and noticed the moss. It looked so inviting.
    I stripped and rolled around in the softness. My heart expanded with the feeling. I closed my eyes and reveled in the moment.
    “What are you doing?”
    The voice shocked me. I had been discovered. Where could I hide?
    I opened my eyes and he looked at me with love.
    “Gosh,” I said, looking down at myself to see if I was naked. I was. The sheets were rolled around my body. “I was dreaming, wasn’t I?”
    He smiled. “Maybe.”

  9. Take 2.

    The Trees.

    “Next door’s trees are a joke”, said my husband. “We can’t see the hills any more. This end one, is damaging our shed roof.”

    He was right of course. Appeared to be my turn to approach the neighbours.

    For some reason, I never quite clicked with Mrs N. Oh, I’d tried, but tell me this – who, when asked ‘How was recent trip to Liverpool?’, says ‘Well, you have to wear a jumper at night because it can get cold.’ No mention of The Beatles, The Cavern. I call that odd but maybe that’s my fifty year infatuation with the Mersey Sound, that’s talking.

    The trees were planted as a windbreak, then inter-planted with more trees and now resemble a small but dense eighty foot forest. I keep waiting for that fateful winter storm, to hear the fence creak under their sway. It’s my portent of fear – wind speeds hereabouts can reach 80mph – and it’ll be more than the shed that’ll suffer if the whole lot go.

    I knock the door. Mr N answers. “About the trees..” He interrupts, saying, “They’re coming down. Mrs N is fed up with bird shit on the washing line.”

  10. Richard Russell, that was a cracker! Not tempted by the thought of pre-digested coffee beans, you have certainly put the tin lid on it for anyone else who might have been tempted. 😉

  11. Take 1

    After The Killing Times

    Before the trees grew thick and fast..
    Before the saplings were dropped like sentries..
    Before the ditches ran like zip fasteners across the hill..

    Mountains with their short vegetation and long scree tumbles. Caledonian forest, only viewable through peat bog. Wind-aged and white, branches suck in pools. No hiding place unless by knowing feet waiting for the sound of soldiers’ marching feet echoing on Wade’s road.

    We knew to take our belongings to hide on the hill, on impassible moor or down in the deep crevassed burn. The army so hell-bent on routing unbelievers.

    And yet my ancestors did believe and worship God but for not taking the Throne as head of the church, they were hunted, arrested and put on trial. In 1666, a great crowd of us were rounded up and put on ships for America, only to be wrecked in the sullen seas of The Orkneys.

    Jump forward, four hundred years and we became the hunted again. Decoy target. Nuclear submarines based in our long sea lochs. Nuclear convoys pass by our town even now.

    This year, 2014, Scotland makes up its mind. The infatuation of regaining our independence since fateful 1707. I would hope our forefathers are watching. Perhaps at last we can offer payback. To be free of being the hunted.

  12. Love Bites
    Danielle Lee Zwissler
    It was late, and Sherry Wormer’s car broke down on the way home from work. It was one of those things that shouldn’t have happened. She kept her car maintenance-changed the oil regularly, made sure the pressure was right in the tires and even kept them rotated, but now, on the side of the road in the dead of night she was stranded, and without a cell phone.
    It was not a good sign.
    At first she stayed in the car, and tried to wait out the night, but the thought of being on the side of the road when any murderer could come out and snatch her was way too scary.
    So she got out, and she moved further off into the grasses, and near the trees, hoping that it would be too far away from prying eyes, and unwanted guests.
    She heard a howl, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She started to run, but she could hear something behind her. She wasn’t fast enough, and she could feel bites at the back of her legs. She screamed, hoping that this was a dream and that it had something to do with her infatuation with Twilight and Edward Cullen had something to do with it. Yes, that was it. She was dreaming, she told herself as she fell to the ground and let the bites continue. When she closed her eyes and scrambled for her breath she realized she was wrong.

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