The Iron Writer Challenge #73 Summer Tournament Final

You know me as an author. Mostly comical, sometimes serious, but always… an author.

I don’t dabble much in poetry for a few reasons. One, I have this strange feeling that poems should, somehow, someway, rhyme. I have no idea why I sometimes see a jumble of words that don’t rhyme being referred to as ‘poetry'. Just correct me if I’m wrong, thanks.

And the second reason… I’m no poet, fair and simple. Thank you very much.

Why bring poetry in all of a sudden? I’m getting there.

Thanks to the unexpected win I pulled over the heads of fellow Irons Dani J Caile, Jordan Bell and Suzann Smith in The Iron Writer Summer Tournament Preliminary, I was pulled into the Final. Ergo, I was given yet another Challenge to do, one that I never asked for. Sigh.

As always, the elements were four… but this time, it seemed a bit too easy. Judge for yourselves. They were:

A lost key

A travel brochure

A thermostat

Dessert topping

  

They strangely seemed pretty straightforward… or at least they did to me. After your fourth challenge or so, this stuff tends to grow on you a bit. Still hate flash fiction though, no getting around that.

Like with all my challenges so far, the gist of an idea flashed in my head the moment I saw these. I thought to myself: hotel.

Did that make sense?

It did to me at the time, but the idea was too simplistic. I needed something good, something solid, something unique (that’s the word) to offer up for the Final. And a something about all my story ideas didn’t seem to have that spark I was looking for.

Until I had the bright idea (in hindsight, maybe not so bright); why not make it a poem?

And so I, Mathew W. Weaver, author exclusive, drafted a poem. Not my first, mind you, and not my best, either. But with seconds ticking down and with no other bright ideas threatening to take over, I went with it.

And so, without further ado, my contribution to The Iron Writer Summer Tournament Final:

When Inn Doubt

There is a tale I’d like to tell,

About a sweet hotel off the road,

Where all seems good and bodes quite well,

And niceness frankly flowed.

But if you plan on staying a day,

That’s when the troubles begin,

So 'ware, weary traveler, and keep away

From the Smithson Bradley Inn.

Why you ask, I'll tell you,

And make light not of my woes,

For, darn right, all I say is true,

And NONE of it anything I chose.

The letter was deceptively cheerful,

My brother's scrawl composed,

"You never visit, so I booked you a bed

Look, the key is enclosed!"

His calls were quite annoying,

and more so my wife's hullabaloo,

Thus I packed for the drive to Wyoming,

to get this sordid affair over and through.

After two days in the driver's seat,

With my feet sore and back bruising,

I'll not lie, when on the Inn's concrete,

Relief was all I was feeling.

At my door troubles began somewhat,

When damn thing stood fast shut,

It was all for naught, my key I forgot,

Lying somewhere between here and Connecticut.

The folks at the reception, now offensive and cold,

Couldn't care less what I had to say,

"Fork cash over for a new room," I was told,

'coz there was apparently no other way to stay.

My wallet now a good deal lighter,

And a throbbing vein in my forehead,

Feeling like I just pulled an all-nighter,

I tumbled with thanks into bed.

For but a moment there did I manage to rest,

And then the squeals began to chime,

For it seemed that I wasn't the only guest,

In mouse ridden Room 25 at the time.

Next morning was not any better,

For breakfast was a nightmare come true,

With rubber like toast, and brick hard butter,

And the items on the menu too few.

The whipped cream was far from chilled,

The mousse underneath all runny,

And the tiny steak that I ordered grilled,

Was squishy, soft and smelled funny.

"The 'fridge don't work, thermostat broke,"

Was all the waiter could say,

"And here, look, I got you a Coke,

Since we're fresh outa tea today."

"I'm sorry," said my brother when we finally met,

"The place seemed good, you quite sure?"

I glared, he protested, visibly upset,

"But that’s not what it said in the brochure!

So one more night I was forced to spend,

In that demonic room of dread,

All through the night, from end to end,

I patrolled up and down on my bed.

Early next morning, at check-out,

When the words, “Come back again!” fell on my ear,

I stormed outside, trying my best not to shout,

Willing the place to disappear.

The lot was quite empty in the morning haze,

My car gone, all I could do was just stand,

Till a squeak and a pinch attracted my gaze,

Looked down to see the mouse on my hand.

Now you know I mean what I say,

And you shuddered at my tales of chagrin,

So 'ware, weary traveler, and know to keep away,

From the Smithson Bradley Inn.

And that’s a wrap.

What do you think? Good enough to win the Final? Or should I just give up poetry altogether?

It’s all up to you to decide, and you can do that by voting here. I’m up against the likes of DL Mackenzie, Tiffany Brown, and Lisa Reynolds, and I’m not going to lie, all three of them have some amazing stories lined up.

Go ahead and check them out, and please don’t forget to vote. These Final things come only once every three months, after all.

Thanks a lot, and may the best writer win!