My short story won in the Iron Writer Challenge!
The Iron Writer is a group I am in where there are weekly flash fiction challenges. Five writers are given four elements to include in a story that can be no longer than 525 words. They must complete the story within four days. It is then ranked by four judges and there is a popular vote.
Thank you to everyone who read the stories and voted, even if you didn't vote for mine. And if you are interested in participating in the challenges let me know and you can be a member of the group.
Here is my story for those who didn't get a chance to read it.
Sweet Season
“Damn it,” she shouted as she stubbed her toes on the leg of
the table.
Of course it had to be that foot. The other one, the hoof of
a goat, could whack things all day long with no ill effect. And the thought of
ill effects reminded her once again that she must eat soon. Ah, well, it would be soon enough.
She limped over to her pantry. The large wood plank door was
hard to open. The bottom of the door caught on a nail in the floor and she had
to shake it loose. Cobwebs fell as the door opened enough to allow her large
frame to enter the pantry. They covered her black raiment with a ghostly shawl
before she shrugged them loose.
Squinting, she eyed the labels on her many jars. She chose
four and exited the small room.
She set her jars down on the dusty table next to the big
copper kettle. The wood fire beneath had the watery contents at a nice rolling
boil.
Carefully she added her ingredients. The pickled frog was a
pain to get out. She had to give the jar an earnest shaking.
She gave her concoction a good stirring with the large
wooden paddle that she had found next to the kettle. This abandoned maple syrup
camp was proving to be an excellent hideout. It was perfect for her needs.
With her warty, crooked tongue she licked the paddle. Her violet
eyes rolled in ecstasy. This had been a tough meal to come by but it was all
going to be worth it.
With a ladle she spooned herself a large portion into a bowl
and made her way to the table by a long wall of windows. They provided her with
a panoramic view of the snow covered hills and bare trees. She found it to be
quite beautiful.
She uncorked a small jug and covered her meal with some of
the home brewed maple syrup she had found in the closed shop next door. And for
the next three hours she ate and ate and ate.
Once done, she felt her strength returning. Her renewed
vigor gave her the conviction that she would be okay through the coming months.
She pushed herself away from the table. It was time for her
favorite part.
In what had been the office of the camp she had made a
trophy wall. This one, of all the ones she had ever made in her hundreds of
years, showed her greatest accomplishments.
She leveled the batarang on two pegs and smiled. It hung
nicely, front and center. Surrounding it were a tattered shirt with an S on it,
a golden lariat, a visor of ruby-quartz meant to be worn over the eyes, and a
severed hand with long, wickedly sharp claws protruding from it.
Yes, she was having a super, sweet season.
