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  Dani's Shorts

  (A collection of short stories based on the elements from The Iron Writer Challenge)

  Volume 1

  by

  Dani J Caile

  Foreword by Brian Y Rogers

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Dani's Shorts

  Copyright © 2013 by Dani J Caile

  Blogs & Websites

  https://danijcaile.blogspot.hu/

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Dani J Caile 2013

  Table of Contents

  Foreword by Brian Y Rogers

  Preface / Acknowledgement

  1 - Bob the tree

  2 - Eradication

  3 - Good wins out?

  4 - This is a Parody

  5 - The Five Challenges

  6 - Hunt on the beach

  7 - On the Farm

  8 - Who's crazy now?

  9 - Taxi!

  10 - My two glassfish (RIP)

  11 - Dung

  12 - I left

  13 - Yes, dear

  14 - Sergei's Chaika

  15 - "Whoops"

  16 - No surfing on this beach

  17 - The Order

  18 - Campers

  19 - That boy's trouble

  20 - A traveller's tale of a terribly strange bet

  21 - Just one tap

  22 - In confidence

  23 - Cynthia the Robot

  24 - Get Rich Quick?

  25 - A Day at the Well with Sniff and Grint

  26 - The Big Secret

  Summer Solstice Open Elimination Round - Old Boy Network

  Summer Solstice Open Final - Monkey Business

  List of elements for Challenges 1-26 and the Summer Solstice Open

  Other work by Dani J Caile

 

  Foreword by Brian Y Rogers

  The recent birth of The Iron Writer is curious and inspirational, to me at least. Its growth has been surprising certainly but I feel I am not completely at fault. I am not that good.

  The Iron Writer began in the winter of 2013. It started when I was invited by a fellow author to participate in a blog tour. I agreed to help her. I was expecting the ubiquitous Proust Questionnaire but was surprised and somewhat bewildered when asked to write a five hundred word flash fiction piece using four elements or prompts. I was given six weeks to complete the story. At the time, I had never heard of flash fiction.

  A day later, after foolishly committing to the request, I lay in my bed unable to sleep while I struggled with the story. The next day, I did some quick research on one of the elements and in that process, Ida, my ancient and precious muse (yes, she does exist), flew by and dropped the story in my lap before scampering off to wherever she lives. I hurriedly wrote the story before I lost it and six hours later I was finished, including the editing.

  I emailed the story off and then sat at the computer reading the story. I was surprised at what I had written in so short a time and inspired with the experience. Just what had happened? Several years before, I had written the first draft of my novel in less than ten days. The experience was exactly the same. When I wrote that tome, I never suspected I could ever write a short story, let alone a flash fiction piece. Yet, just a few months afterwards, I wrote my first short. I have since written six more shorts, with several other shorts and novels buried in the imagination of my computer.

  As I read and re-read the flash piece, I learned something about how I write, how my creativity works. Writing flash fiction is more than writing a short, short story and it is the same as writing scenes in a novel. If it is done correctly, it is done very quickly. The creativity is awakened and in a flash the story is there. It is sort of like having sex during a car accident. BOOM! It is scary and almost orgasmic at the same time. And when you are smoking the proverbial cigarette afterwards, there is something extremely satisfying as one wonders what will become of your effort.

  About a week later, still mesmerized by the experience, I was regaling a friend about it. He mentioned that it reminded him of those food shows on cable television, where you have to use certain foods and create a dinner or a desert on a deadline. That is when Ida reappeared, only for a moment, and I knew I had to create The Iron Writer. I had the entire project in my mind in mere seconds, as sure as any novel Ida had deigned to deliver to me.

  That night I created the website and launched it on Facebook and Twitter. Within a few days, I had enough writers to sustain it and I have been wrestling the beast every week since then. I worry about it, I obsess over it; it does not leave my mind.

  Gratefully, along the way, several authors have found the site and volunteered to take a challenge. These first few supporters have become loyal friends, with suggestions, guidance and creative counsel at every step. They are indispensable to me. Dani J Caile is one of them.

  Dani, like a few others, have taken this project a step further. While The Iron Writer only allows four writers per challenge, Dani was inspired to use the elements to create a flash story for himself each week. To him, me, and the others, it is like exercising. It sharpens the mind and it stretches the imagination. The benefit comes when the author is struggling with a scene in a novel they are writing. The tools are there to help that scene reveals itself and thus the entire story flows. It is a tool every author should use so that every reader can enjoy their words.

  I hope you enjoy Dani’s compilation. I hope you find the stories creative, serious, humorous, filled with pointless nonsense and poignant emotions. I hope you get angry, I hope you laugh, I hope you cry. I hope you share this work with everyone you know. Isn’t that what good writing is for?

  B Y Rogers

  Preface / Acknowledgement

  I've always loved a good short story - the shorter the better, and the Iron Writer Challenge gave me the opportunity to move into this genre. After entering the Challenge, and winning a few, I realised I enjoyed its concept and so I decided to make it a ritual to write up each challenge as they appeared.

  So, here they are, my own personal takes on the first 6 months of the Iron Writer Challenge, including the Summer Solstice Open. I hope you enjoy these short snippets.

  Thank you to Brian and all the other Iron Writers for making The Iron Writers phenomenon the success that it already is.

  If you are 'up to the Challenge', then go to...

  https://theironwriter.com/

  1 - Bob the tree

  (empty ATM, talking tree, toilet bowl cleaner, meteor)

  I am a talking tree. Yes, I am. One of many or at least I think so. I still remember the day when we were all embued with higher awareness, just little acorns in the eye of our mother, our dumb, primitive mother. She never felt the wondrous benefit from the magical meteor which fell to Earth many many years ago. Of course, we've all grown apart since then, blown in the wind to the corners of our existence. For a few years I had the luck to be in shouting distance of one of my siblings until he was struck down with Dutch elm disease. He told me the details, bite by bite. Gruesome, really, those beetles.

  Talk you say? Well, I learnt pretty early on to be careful when to speak, especially after the massacre over the first few days. Those young monkeys can be very very cruel. So I've learnt to be selective.

  Me? I've been around for a while now, growing and stretching,
standing next to a corner shop on the pavement, pushing up the slabs and tripping up the passers-by. Every day I watch the monkeys rush along with their daily lives, pushing prams, driving cars, smoking sticks and pressing plastic to the sides of their faces. Occasionally I growl at a dog which tries to pee on me but other than that I think the act of speech is quite over-rated.

  Saying that, there are times when I have a bit of fun, though. For example, the corner shop has an ATM stuck in the wall next to it, it's used quite a bit. Once there was this monkey, just come out from shopping who decided to take some money out. Problem was, the ATM was empty, I'd watched it all day, it was like the monkeys were robbing it. Anyway, it kept trying and trying but the machine wouldn't give out. The monkey got quite irate, shouting profanities, and started kicking and punching the thing. Now, some of my branches hang over that ATM, so I thought I'd surprise the little monkey and speak back, pretending to be the ATM. Oh, it was so shocked, it fell backwards onto the pavement. It didn't even notice my leaves shaking with laughter. Well, the next thing I knew, that monkey was grabbing something in his shopping bag. First it took out a beer can, thought better of it and put it back, and then found a toilet bowl cleaner, one of those ones that looks like a duck. Well, what it did next was squirt the ATM with it, covering it with this thick, blue, pine-smelling cleaning liquid. There were sparks and crackles like you'd never believe! It blew up in its face!

  Then I shouted some of my own profantities at it, and you should've seen that monkey run! It even forgot its beer.

  Sorry? You have to go? Oh, okay, well, thanks for dropping by. You will come around again sometime, won't you?

  2 - Eradication

  (Tucker Turret, ruby red slippers, Russian Olive tree, mermaid)

  "Bernie?"

  "Yes?"

  "Don't you think this is a bit extreme for eradicating Russian olive trees?"

  "What?" Bernie was busy loading the ammunition into the breach.

  "I mean, couldn't we just use chainsaws or something? Even chop 'em down?" Ted passed another belt over.

  "What? Chop 'em down? And miss this opportunity? Do you know how long I've waited for a chance to use this beauty?"

  "I can guess. Are you sure it even works?"

  "You saying I don't know how to keep me guns?" Bernie now sat in the seat, feeling the controls.

  "Bernie, this ain't your usual carbine. This is a Tucker turret welded on the back of your truck."

  "Ah, it's just got a few more moving parts, that's all." Bernie swung it left and then right, moving the machine gun up and down, testing its maneuverability.

  "A few? Where'd ya get it anyways? It's not the kinda thing you can get at the local gunshop."

  "From this World War Two enthusiast I know. Said he didn't have the space anymore." Bernie polished off some dirt from the framework.

  "And the ammo? That's a lot of ammo."

  "Same guy. That's why I kept it hidden all this time, round the back of the old tractor."

  "So this was what was under that big dust cover?"

  "Yep."

  "Oh, right. No wonder I 'aven't seen it before." Ted picked at some rust and Bernie slapped his hand away.

  "And now I get ta try it out." Bernie got ready to shoot, aiming at some of the trees in front.

  "But Bernie?"

  "What?"

  "Are you sure this is a good idea? Ain't it a bit O.T.T.?"

  "Err, yes, it is. That's why I'm doing it. You only live once." Bernie got ready again.

  "That's what I'm afraid of. This is a dangerous weapon, Bernie, even if it has a mermaid painted on the side of it." They both looked at the decal dating back to the days when the turret was stuck on a B-17.

  "What's your problem, Ted? Jeff asked us to get rid of his Russian olives. He didn't say 'how'."

  "I'm sure he didn't mean like this. But you're right, there was no 'stipulation'."

  "'Stip-pew'-what?" Bernie took off his baseball cap and scratched his head. "Look Ted, if you've got a problem with this, why don't ya use your ruby red slippers and get the hell out of here?"

  "I would but I don't think any place is safe when that thing opens up."

  "You're just one big stick in the mud, aren't ya Ted?"

  "No, I just think..."

  "Stop thinking." Bernie got ready. "Now, here we go." He aimed at the nearest tree and hit the trigger. Nothing happened. He hit it again and again.

  "What is it, Bernie?"

  "Looks like it's jammed."

  "Oh. Really?" Ted wiped the sweat off his brow and Bernie stood up from his seat, arms resting over the turret's open framework.

  "Any idea where we can get a couple of chainsaws, Ted?"

  3 - Good wins out?

  (failed superhero, Chechen (and) Chaca tree, piano, boat propeller)

  "So glad you could come. I was afraid you wouldn't." Evil megalomaniac Petofiski tinkled a little Rachmaninoff on his large onboard piano before standing up and directing his attention to his guest, superhero Fantasticman.

  "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

  "Funny you should say that. Today is the culmination of a lifetime's work. The work of a genius, if I say so myself."

  "Well, you did say it yourself. It came out of your mouth."

  "Yes. Exactly. Where was I?"

  "At the culmination of a lifetime's work."

  "Really? Oh, yes, yes..."

  Petofiski sat opposite Fantasticman on a plush sofa and played with some chess pieces.

  "Well? I do have other things to do rather than visit my local insane power-crazed villain."

  "What, like saving a crying baby from a burning building, or rescuing a group of miners from a collapsed mineshaft?"

  "Yes, for example."

  Petofiski offered Fantasticman a glass of opened wine and they both saluted. "Cheers."

  "Bottoms up."

  "Yes...super."

  "The '89 was sweeter, if I recall correctly."

  "I prefer the '84, had a little 'kick' to it, much like this one."

  "What...I...I don't feel so well." Fantasticman felt something strange happening, he was becoming weaker, his superhero powers were fading...

  "Do you trust me, my dear friend?"

  "I don't trust you as far as I can throw you, which is far I can tell you. Ouch." He was losing his powers, there was something in the drink. "What...what was in that glass?"

  "Oh, I've searched far and wide for what's in there. As I said, a lifetime's work, reading encylopedias, almanacs, guides, journeying through jungles and wastelands..."

  "You do all that AND devise millions of deviously evil plans to rule the world?"

  "Well, I do have holidays, my dear fellow."

  "Yes, of course."

  "Finally, in the deepest darkest part of a Guatemalan jungle, my search was at an end. I had found the Chechen tree."

  "The chicken tree?"

  "The Chechen tree, philistine! There is an ancient Mayan legend of the Chechen and Chaca trees, trees which grew together. The Chechen's sap was poisonous, whereas the Chaca's nectar neutralised the effect."

  "You...you poisoned me with an ancient Mayan legend tree?"

  "Yeeeeesss."

  "So all I need is the antidote from the Chaca tree?"

  "Yeeeeesss." Petofiski gave a disgustingly evil laugh. "And there is only one in existence."

  "One?"

  "And here it is!" The evil Petofiski took out a seedling of a tree and before Fantasticman could move, he crushed it in his hands. "Now my little boat will speed onwards, crashing into that pier over there and killing all those innocent tourists. Ha ha! What's it like to be a failed superhero?"

  "You wouldn't dare. You'd die, too."

  "I have an escape plan..."

  Fantasticman didn't wait for the show, he took out a pill, flew to the back of the yacht and ripped off the boat's propeller, bringing everything to a halt.

  "What? How? The poison!"

  "No superhero worth his
salt leaves home without his box of Chacatox pills."

  "What? No!"

  4 - This is a Parody

  (giraffe, microwave, elevator, kumquat)

  Microwave dinners are killing me. They turn my life flat from the inside out, 'dullifying' my innards and seeping through my bones, boring my skin to hang. Once yellow and black, now mere shades of grey.

  Gloomy city, murky sky, nothing here of interest. Sleep, that's the best. I need sleep, my dreams bring hope, brightness, one step to the next.

  Orange? There is orange in the sky? On the rooftop, breaking through the bleakness, destroying the grey? What is this? A tree, a small tree? One lone breath bringing colour to my life, my city, bearing fruit, juicy fruit, exploding tastes within my soul!

  Down the stairs, through the door, on the street. Where is the tree? Across the melancholy mass that is my neighbour of joylessness.

  Through the door and into a foyer.

  "Good morning, sir. May I help you?"

  "I have come to see the tree."

  "Then pass, dear sir, for you are so in need."

  The elevator, it takes me up on higher plains and sweet savannas to reach for which I seek. The tree, the tree of orange, the small glimpse of hope and wonder.

  The door opens and out I walk onto the expanse of roof, clip clopping, looking for my treasure. There. Small, irreverent to the grey around it, contemptuous with colour. It's taste is the sun itself, vibrant, sweet, biting. A pocket of joyous time and no more…

  A dream? No! It cannot be! The door, why does it not open? Where are the keys? Opened, and down the stairs. Distance, get out of my way! In the street, noises, dust, smells.

  "Oi! Watch where ya put them great big clobbers of yours!"

  Where is the tree, that fantastical kumquat tree? This building, it was this building, I cannot see the rooftop from here. Move to the door!

  "Hey! You? Damn giraffe!"

  Push through and into the foyer.

  "Good morning, sir. How may I help you?"

  "Err, yes, I have come to see the tree."

  "Excuse me, sir? What tree? There is no tree, sir."