The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #39

wanderlust

The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #39

One Picture

One Element

One Emotion

200 Words

A Sea Plane on a dock

Wanderlust

Five  Iron Writers

Please add your story in the comments below.

17 thoughts on “The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #39

  1. Five iron writers on Mingulay. One lost her pen and refused to stay.

    Four iron writers set out to Glencoe. One read the tale, frightened him so.

    Three iron writers set out to Hove. But one saw an iPad and refused move.

    Two iron writers set out to Tiree. Did one leave? No sirree!

    They fought till the dawn, pencils sharpened on down. The paper it flew all around.
    At length with a sigh, one said “I’m by.” And with that, he scampered ‘cross the ground.

    The remaining iron writer licking his thumbs, tucked them inside his lapels. To the fast disappearing opponent, he waggled a pinkie for a moment. Then sat down beside some harebells.

    But the brightening sun caught him out, oh no! and burned the tip of his ear! He got up with a shout and hopped about. Then said “I should have left with the last writer here!”

    PS This would have been better writ and word counted, had my mind been on the job instead of using as a break between getting everything out of my kitchen cupboards, deciding what’s staying and will it ever go back in again before husband comes in, back of five.

  2. I had finished my story about a love affair set at a topless beach on the tropics. It was my last night on the beach, before leaving, so I decided to walk the beach after midnight. After walking in and out of the surf for about an hour, I spied a small camp-fire. As I approached it, I realized the other four Iron Writers were all there. “Where have you guys been these last three months?” I inquired.

    One of them spoke up, “Richard, we’re not all in the same reality. When my plane landed, I was fired upon by militant soldiers, and I’ve had to hide out in the mountains to get my story written.
    Another blurted out, “It was a prehistoric mad-house for me. I was nearly eaten by Velociraptors. SIXTEEN times in the last three months! Look, I had to write my story in blood! What was that? Did you hear something?”
    Another cried and cried, and barely was able to mutter how she landed in the midst of a Amazonian community of cannibals that thought she was “very white, and squishy”, and how they fed her so much she barely got her story written.
    The last one coldly responded, “In the last three months, I’ve had to kill 50 or 60 in a local drug cartel after I stumbled onto their poppy fields. I’ve had to keep on the move these whole three months, but I’ve got the story”

    One of them asked me about my story.

    “Um … uh … It was …. I … uh … I can’t talk about it”

  3. “You can fly a plane?” said the woman with the red hair. “I thought you were a teacher?”

    “Teachers are not allowed to fly planes? Fine then I will have to learn teleportation,” replied a thin man with dark hair.

    The red head squinted at the man, “All I meant was you never mentioned flying.”

    “Just as you never mentioned how gorgeous your hair looks in the morning!”

    An older fella with short cropped salt and pepper hair stepped onto the pier the small sea plane was docked to. He scratched his goatee as he evaluated the plane.

    “She looks fit. I mean, the plane. Time to end our wanderlust and head on to the mainland.” He looked at the dark haired man. “Flirt later.”

    “Oh, he don’t bother me any,” the red head said. “If a little flirting bothered me I wouldn’t serve wine at the inn.”

    A woman in a sun dress, combat boots, and her hair done up with chopsticks approached.

    “Hey guys. Have you seen the brat around?”

    The older fella smirked, “I don’t think he slept a wink. I heard him scrawling away at his latest story all night in the dark.”

    The woman in the dress sighed. “We need to get in the air, someone go wake him up. The event is in a few hours.”

    A hatch popped open on the tail of the sea plane. A young man with shaggy brown hair and a goatee stuck his head out. His glasses slid down to the tip of his nose.

    “Waiting on you, guys! Ugh… my head is pounding,” the young man said as he retracted back into the plane.

    The woman in the dress grinned and shouted, “Shotgun!”

  4. Quickie in a Quickie

    “Where’s Brian? He’s got the keys to the plane,” asked Jordan.
    “He’s probably busy with his grandchildren on Skype, he really misses them,” replied Mamie.
    “Yeah, I think it was a good idea we all banded together on this Gung-ho world trip, seeing as we’re now all famous writers, but I sure do miss my family,” said Michael.
    They all agreed and drank their cocktails, watching the plane bob up and down.
    “Are we in ‘Castaway’ or what?” laughed Jordan.
    “More like ‘Lost’,” said DaVur. “Watch out for fast-moving invisible monsters…oh, no Equinox winners here.”
    “So, what do we do now?” asked Michael.
    “Well, what are we?” questioned Mamie.
    “Hot?”
    “No, look, we’re Iron Writers and it’s Saturday, isn’t it?”
    “Hey, a Quickie!” screamed Jordan.
    “You’ll be lucky,” remarked DaVur.
    “We can write a Quickie! We need elements.”
    “A beach?”
    “Good, now, what’s here?”
    “Other than that plane, us,” said Jordan.
    “5 Iron Writers, including Brian,” stated DaVur.
    “And now an emotion?”
    “Boredom?”
    “Terrible.”
    “How about ‘the desire to travel about’, like what we’d like to do now?” mentioned Michael.
    “I think that’s called ‘wanderlust’.”
    “Perfect! Let’s write!”
    They sat drinking their cocktails, watching the plane bob up and down.

  5. Five iron writers on Mingulay. One lost her pen and refused to stay.

    Four iron writers set out to Glencoe. One read the tale, frightened him so.

    Three iron writers set out to Hove. But one saw an iPad and refused move.

    Two iron writers set out to Tiree. Did one leave? No sirree!

    They fought till the dawn, pencils sharpened on down. The paper it flew all around.
    At length with a sigh, one said “I’m by.” And with that, he scampered ‘cross the ground.

    The remaining iron writer licking his thumbs, tucked them inside his lapels. To the fast disappearing opponent, he waggled a pinkie for a moment. Then sat down beside some harebells.

    But the brightening sun caught him out, oh no! and burned the tip of his ear! He got up with a shout and hopped about. Then said “I should have left with the last writer here!”

    *Author’s note –
    This would have been better writ and word counted, had my mind been on the job instead of using this as a break between getting everything out of my kitchen cupboards, deciding what’s staying and will it ever go back in again before husband comes in, back of five.

  6. Where’s Thomas? Ian called, walking up with a mysterious bag slug over his shoulder.
    “He wandered off,” Michael replied, “muttering something about how ‘six people is NOT a deserted island.;”
    “Ah well,” Ian sighed, “it can’t be helped. I’ll bet you’re wondering why I brought you here.”
    “Wanderlust?” Brian looked up questioningly from his laptop. No matter how many times people told him he couldn’t update the site, he couldn’t seem to stop trying.
    Amanda and Suzann looked at each other and burst into giggles.
    “Honey, we have ten kids between us – ”
    “-not right now,” Amanda interrupted, “they couldn’t get here!” This struck them funnier than they should have.
    “- I don’t care why you brought us here.”
    “Amen.” said Amanda “Barkeep!”
    Tony popped up, half-empty bottle in hand. “You see,” he said to no one in particular, “if I get them drunk-”
    “Dream on, Jaeger,” Amanda said, “You’re hair isn’t that great.”
    A gunshot ended their repartee.
    “There’s a week worth of water and only one seat home” Ian said wickedly, emptying the bag onto the sand. Myriad weapons, gleaming and wicked, fell into a pile,
    “let’s see who gets it.”

  7. The Five-Iron Golf Course

    A long time ago, the Five-Iron Golfers sat sipping drinks, their paunches attesting to their fat-cat life.

    “We own it outright now?” the fattest fat-cat asked.

    “Deeds right here,” the shortest said, reaching past his paunch to a briefcase by his foot. “Earthworks start as soon as we can.”

    “Any palm trees?” another asked. “Otherwise I’ll organise some. Gotta have big palms over the entire course. And at the jetty. First impressions, y’know.”

    “When do the villagers leave?” the tallest asked.

    “Got a tramp steamer coming next week. That is, if they’re sober enough.”

    “So the booze trick worked,” the fattest said. “Do they even know they’ve sold?”

    “Got legal signatures; thank you, missionary schools. And bless their inherent wanderlust. I talked up the Big Smokes, Auckland and Sydney,” the shortest said.

    But the island was too far away, no protection against tsunami waves; an economic downturn meant American golfers were staying home.

    Today, the jetty is able to take one seaplane at a time…and a pretty village is re-established amongst the palms.

    The villagers hold a Writer’s Retreat each year. Who attend regularly? The Five-Iron Writers, of course. Paunches a little reduced, no longer golfing, but fiercely competitive and ever optimistic.

  8. Brian looked to his left. The sun was setting and the island was gelid. It was time to fly to Nuie before it got too dark. He yawned. Bored. He looked at his Rolex then his guests; friends from another world.

    He stood up, pulled the planes keys from his pockets, mentioned to everyone he was going to do a preflight check and they would leave in twenty minutes. The five of them, Ian, Mike, Amanda, Tony and Mamie smiled in total confidence before they walked to their huts to gather their belongs.

    He had spent nearly $50m setting this place up, purchasing the off the map island, the grass huts the Professor would be proud of, the dock, the seaplane and the flying lessons. The rest of the $500m Buffet had given him was tucked safely away Macau, and Geneva, and George Town.

    Brian strolled to the seaplane, put the keys in and turned the engine over. There was no hestitation. The plane was ready. He didn’t need his luggage and the preflight check was pointless. It was time to go. He pushed the throttle forward as he closed the door, skipping over the waves until the bird took flight.

    They would be happy here, after they got over it, until the food disappeared. He wondered who would be eaten first.

    The jobs was not finished, no, far from it before there would be no more NaNoWriMo.

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