The Iron Writer Challenge #71

  

When I said I was feeling lazy, I didn’t expect to take an almost two week break from posting. But somehow, that’s exactly what happened.

I just wasn’t in the mood to write, and so I didn’t.

  

But I had to come back to this thing eventually; and so here I am, vacation sadly over. Sigh.

And once again, on the Iron Writer.

Thanks to my first ever story, the one I managed to win, I apparently got into the quarterly tournament. It's big deal here, since it happens only once in every three months. You know how in the regular weekly tournament, there are just four writers with the four elements? Well, in this, there are sixteen writers with the same set of elements.

Thankfully, these sixteen are broken into brackets of four; brackets named in honor of famous authors. I ended up in the same bracket as my pal Dani J Caile, along with Jordan Bell and Suzann Smith.

And the elements this time, painfully mismatched, as always. Observe: 

The Avengers vs The Justice League of America

A Minion

The story must be told from the point of view of Death, the Grim Reaper

A Travelling Chamber Pot Salesman

With the clock ticking down on me as ever, here is what I came up with.

Dust and Dusted

You wouldn’t think that, with my job description, I’d have much to do with humor. On the contrary; there’s plenty of irony that crops up in my line of work, and irony goes to waste without a good sense of humor to appreciate it.

Sometimes, though, the irony just doesn’t cut it.

He was still in the dust when I found him, upright suitcase intact.

“Bad day?” I ventured.

“The nerve of that guy. The nerve!”

He looked at me and shook his head.

“I just showed him the 2009 Minion Type A, and he slammed the door in my face!” he gestured, forlorn, at the pieces of ceramic scattered by his ankle, “And I broke my last Minion Type A, too.”

“A shame,” I ventured, “That yellow and blue really stood out,”

“Exactly!”

He stood up, and dusted himself off.

“How well do you know your chamber pots?” he asked, looking me up and down. Whether or not he was sizing me up for one was uncomfortably unclear. He noticed my cowl shift, and laughed.

“Forgive me, where are my manners,” he tipped his hat, “Ross Rutherford, manufacturer and salesman of the highest quality, custom made recreational chamber pots you can find,”

“Pleasure,” I sized him up. He hardly seemed fazed, which was rather unusual.

“How’s business?”

He shrugged, “Well... not too good, really. My best ones are the comic book themed pots... most teens go for the Wonder Woman and the Scarlet Witch, but Avengers versus the Justice League sells well, too. Oh, and there’s my Minion collection, the kids love those. That’s about it,”

He nodded his head at the closed door, “And mostly there are guys like this, slamming the door in your face and ruining perfectly good chamber pots,” he shrugged, “I mean, what is his problem?”

“He’s a psycho, with a collection of guns and knives, who lives out here in the middle of nowhere,” I said, “What do you expect when knock at a door in a house out in the desert?”

“Darn it,” he pumped his fist into his palm, “Makes sense. See, I’m a travelling salesman. It’s what I do. Besides, deserts, and plumbing….”

“He didn’t just slam the door, Ross,” I said, “He blew out your torso with a shotgun,”

He didn’t understand me, but he swiveled around. His jaw dropped as he took in the mangled body, blood soaking into the sand. His body.

“That would explain it,” he offered, “Hurt a lot more than it should have had,”

After centuries of telling people that they just passed their expiry date, you tend to get used to the reactions. You get the standard sad acceptance, the standard hysterics… but it’s a treat when you get the non-conventional optimist.

Ross Rutherford sighed, “This how it ends, then. All those years of plodding up and down…” he paused, “Wait, wouldn’t this make you…”

“Call me Reaper,” I supplied, “T. G. Reaper,”

“That would explain the…”

“Robe, cowl, and skeletal hands, yes,”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“How big are they on chamber pots in the afterlife?” he wondered.

“Let’s find out,” I suggested.

He took my hand.

…and that’s when I ran out of words. Hate when that happens.

Certainly not the best out of the bunch there, but I hope it’s passable. I’m not asking for your vote here; just for you to visit The Iron Writer and check out these stories. If you like any of them better than the others, please feel free to vote for it. My bracket, Dean Koontz, is one of four; and all of them have some great stories.

The four bracket winners would go forward into the quarterly Final; and the winner of that can take part in the yearly final. I’m not so sure about my chances on making it into the final, but let’s see what the judges decide.

Hoping to have something new up here in another three days. Like I said, vacation is over. The Blog Must Go On!