The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #2

The_Women_Fighting_for_the_Breeches_by_John_Smith

The Iron Writer

Weekend Quickie #2

Saturday, September 21, 2013

One Image!

One Prompt!

One Emotion!

200 Words!

19th Century women fighting in the street

A can of Alphabet Soup

Elation

Please add your story in the comments below.

12 thoughts on “The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #2

  1. The stage lights faded out amid the lingering smoke of the final act pyrotechnics. Devin’s band, Broken Sky, had finished playing and exited the stage.

    The band waded through a swarm of girls down the corridor to the band dressing room. All the girls were screaming and reaching out for the band members as they passed by. They shouted their names and insisted they were all Broken Sky’s number one fan.

    “Can you believe it man?” asked Chad, the bassist. Devin shook his head as he pushed through the throng of girls, squinting against all the flash photography.

    “Yeah no kidding, there’s so many girls out here with so many different names. Dude it’s like a can of alphabet soup got served up, just for us!” the drummer Mark said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

    The band reached the end of the corridor and slipped into the dressing room.

    “Oh dude,” crooned Chad. Devin’s jaw dropped. Some of the girls had gotten into the room and were fighting over a pair of his leather pants. In a mad fit of elation one of the girls tore a leg off.

    “Behold… Groupies,” Mark said in awe.

    Broken Sky had achieved super-stardom.

  2. “Her blood is mine!” The winner slumped to the ground, a ring of offal surrounding her.

    The struggle for the monthly prize waged on. Montifera, the goddess of fertility, thrilled her worshippers at the menses each month so one lucky woman would be blessed with a demi-god child. Monitfera became an idol in the large cities as dignitaries and politicians struggled to win her favor. These children were born with extraordinary minds, extended lives, and graced with delicate features.

    The blessings bestowed upon Montifera’s congregations were a bloody affair, one that only became greater for the winner. For no one saw the life drained from the mothers as they gave birth. “The demi-gods often need more nourishment,” the nursemaids would say. “Your beauty simply pales beside that of the gods.” The premature wrinkles, the withered bones and sunken eyes—all small tokens to pay for the notoriety the parents were graced with as their child blossomed in the world. Families squabbled over the fortunes made by the demi-gods, lives ended impulsively over jealousy, and previous children lay abandoned by their preoccupied parents.

    Beauty and fortune have a price most are willing to pay.

  3. “Lucy, trust you to only pack one pair of breeches.”
    Fanny stirred her alphabet soup with increasing irritation.
    “Yes, Lucy. You know young Mr. Braithwaite would like to go riding this afternoon on the Downs. It’s not sporting of you to not think of your other sisters in this matter.”
    Her mother also played with her soup and suprised herself.
    “Oh I say, I’ve spelt ‘cad’. Would you believe it?”
    “How wonderful, mother! May I?”
    Charlotte, the youngest of the siblings, reached over to admire her mother’s soup.
    “I’m sorry mother, I never thought to pack more than one pair.”
    “You did it in spite, Lucy! You know how much I’d like to ride with him.”
    “Looks like I get to ride with him…alone.”
    They sat in silence, spelling out words which appeared in their soup.
    “It’s only right you hand over those breeches.”
    “What? These?”
    Lucy held up the aforementioned item and she jumped from the table, chased by her sisters. A playful, screaming fight broke out, with no outright winner.
    “Girls! Please!”
    Their mother’s plea quietened them down.
    “Oh my, that has brought on such…elation!”
    “Yes.”
    “Let us try again.”
    “Oh, lets!”
    And so they began yet again.

  4. “Her blood is mine!” The winner, elated, slumped to the ground, a ring of offal surrounding her.

    The monthly struggle waged on. Montifera, the goddess of fertility, blessed one woman with a demi-god child. Monitfera, an idol in the large cities as dignitaries and politicians struggled to win her favor. Demi-gods were born with extraordinary minds, extended lives, and graced with delicate features.
    Montifera’s congregations were a bloody affair, one that only became greater for the winner. For no one saw the life drained from the mothers as they gave birth. “The demi-gods often need more nourishment,” the nursemaids would say. “Your beauty simply pales beside that of the gods.”

    The premature wrinkles, withered bones and sunken eyes—all small tokens to pay for the notoriety the parents were graced with as their child blossomed in the world. Families squabbled over the fortunes made by the demi-gods, lives ended impulsively over jealousy, and previous children lay abandoned by their uninterested parents.

    * * *

    “Mommy, are these stories true?” Casey asked, her schoolbook lying open next to her bowl of alphabet soup.
    “Unfortunately they are, my dear. Beauty and fortune have a price most are willing to pay.”

  5. The worst part of the day is Art Appreciation. There is nothing worse than Professor Treial droning on and on and on about Michelangelo and Da Vincci. Although, this picture was interesting; John Smith? Why would he be doing art? Really, why?
    One more hour to go. Just one more, my friend. I really hate waiting for the time to pass. My boyfriend is waiting for this class to be over, so he can make me soup. He does a great twist on Alphabet soup. He adds little bow tie noodles and diced Spam. It’s not the most conventional dish in the world, but as a college student lucky to eat, I don’t complain. You never complain when your heart already belongs to someone.
    Finally, the hour ticks down to the last seconds. My feet bounce in anticipation. My day is complete with the presence of his smile at the door. Even though we live in an apartment together, there is nothing like the elation you feel when someone makes you their world. I float through the halls to the doors. He holds the door for me, and we walk to our apartment across the street.

  6. Tannis Laidlaw

    Yet Another Visit to the National Portrait Gallery

    I love the National Portrait Gallery – all those earnest faces staring into my plebeian eyes. Except for one little etching which has the longest title in the lot, a veritable can of alphabet soup – The Women Fighting for the Breeches – four women, lots of skin and no one staring at me. The disputed breeches are being waved in the air, their previous owner as bare-bottomed as a newborn and a man coming in. That’s what really catches my attention. One of his hands is discretely positioned (slightly un-anatomically) over his …. Is the man himself breecherless?

    Who notices the mask and coins on the floor? Hiding behind a mask? Coins? My goodness, is it portraying the inside of a brothel? In the National Portrait Gallery? In 1690?

    This cheeky little engraving shares gallery space with so many sober noblemen and women from all eras – and I’m thinking especially about the Victorians – it gives me uncontrollable giggles. But what really makes me laugh is that I have figured out which engraving would be hanging in the rooms of every Victorian seducer. You know, the ‘cads’ who said…

    ‘Come up to my rooms, my dear. I want to show you my etchings.’

  7. I liked danijcaile’s quickie. It was amusing and I could really see what was being written in my head.

    For Miranda’s it took me a while to figure out how she incorporated the image… she had to tell me in fact. Not a hard thing to do since she was only 15 feet away at our mutual workplace, lol. John Smith is the artist that painted it… she refers to him in the beginning. Clever.

  8. The screen door slammed, startling me out of dark thoughts, the imminent loss of our home being foremost. Carol walked in beaming a broad, incongruous smile, and clutching a stack of documents.
    “Do you remember who this is?” she asked, handing me a framed portrait.
    A distinguished gentleman in uniform, leonine bespectacled head, the small printing at the bottom read “Sir Rosslyn Erskine Wemyss, GCB CMG MVO.”
    “That’s your famous grandfather, Admiral Fancypants. What’s with the alphabet soup?”
    “First Lord Baron Wemyss is my great grandfather,” she said, “and those acronyms stand for Order of the Bath, Order of Saint Michael and Saint George, and the Victorian Order.”
    “Nice. Now why are you so happy?”
    “You know the print hanging in the guestroom, the one with the women and breeches?”
    “I rarely forget a pornographic image. We saw the original in England on our honeymoon, at that museum.”
    “That print was given to my great grandfather by his friend T.E. Lawrence … Lawrence of Arabia, and it passed down to me.”
    “Okay?”
    “I took it to the Smithsonian and they contacted London’s National Portrait Gallery. They confirmed ours is the original engraving, and said Christie’s and Sotheby’s have already called.”

  9. Developing Tastes
    Danielle Lee Zwissler
    I opened up the can of Alphabet Soup and smiled as I looked at the red Campbell soup label. The little blonde haired fat kid had a great big grin on his face. I imagined him to be singing the alphabet as he ate the little letters. I turned the stove on, and picked up a medium sized pot and began cooking the concoction of noodles and flavored broth.
    A few moments later, I heard the familiar sound of my mailbox being shut. I walked out to the front door, fiddled with the lock on the box, and pulled out two postcards. One was of four women in a scuffle with a man watching on. I grinned, knowing who sent me the postcard right away.
    Jan Biers.
    I read:
    Dear Darla,
    You can’t imagine how big the campus is. It is not only immense, but the population ratio of male vs. female is definitely noticeable. Lol! I can’t wait until you get here. This postcard pretty much depicts the way I feel right now. I feel like I’m surrounded by only women as one lone guy must figure out which one of us he fancies. Maybe I’ll develop new tastes?
    Hope to see you soon!
    Jan

    I laughed out loud at the possibility of Jan switching teams as I took the hot saucepan off the stove. The soup swirled around like a whirlpool as I moved it to a hotpad and started to scoop out the contents into a bowl.
    I took a slow taste. It was good, and thought about Jan and her new developing tastes.
    Mmm

  10. Pantless and ordered to the kitchen, assigned to prepare lunch, I heard the womenfolk in the parlor, screeching, bickering at each others, disparaging names cast about like malicious thunderbolts.
    Being a lifelong wuss, albeit financially independent due to a successful writing career with a 100 millions blind followers, I did as I commanded by the women. Make lunch.

    The overstuff pantry was filled with sweets, chips, and chocolate. The refrigerator crammed with every meat a woman would want, bland and boring. No spice. I rummaged further until I found a open can of alphabet soup of considerable age.

    I tossed the contents into a dirty pot (left behind from last night’s orgy feeding, to which I was not invited, not that I would go). I warmed the soup, refusing to let it boil.

    I slopped a little into a bowl and added four spoons, one for each of them. Elated, I picked up the bowl and brought it to the parlor.

    I found the women in every fashion of disarray. Sprawled on the couch, one of them on the floor, my britches held aloft, like a trophy recently won.

    Like any good writer, I edited the soup. I had forgotten the poison.

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