The Iron

This time for our Flash Fiction we took one of the ideas I had (scary I know) and went with it. The concept: Take the absolute worst thing you can think of for a weapon, and have a character use it expertly in a combat situation. It was a bit more complicated than a normal writing prompt of just one word, but no matter, we thought it was a good idea.

I am happy to report that mine was not the grossest in the group, which is a real accomplishment considering mine uses the phrase ‘throbbing flesh petals.

Hope you enjoy!

The Iron

Pfffft. The steam gave out another pathetic sigh as it escaped the confines of the iron and Muriel mimicked the noise. She hadn’t even started to iron the actual pile yet thanks to the newly purchased ‘time-saving’ shirts.

“No wrinkle shirts,” she scoffed, “more like… uh… always wrinkle… over wrinkle… perma-wrinkle… oh whatever.”

Pfffft. She wasn’t going to have time to make breakfast this morning at this rate, and knowing Daniel he would get all – CRASH!

Through the patio glass door came a horrible creature. Once a man but now twisted, foul, evil. He was one of those ‘Infected’ Muriel had heard about on the news, there was no mistaking the half-man, half-plant for anything else.

How was this possible? All of the incidents had taken place over two thousand miles away. Possible or not, it stumbled towards the frozen housewife as it mumbled “Lungs…”

Muriel didn’t know what to do. What could she possibly do against an infected? Her lungs were as good as eaten.

Pfffft. The steam from the forgotten iron burned Muriel’s hand, and the annoying perma-wrinkle shirt. It snapped Muriel out of her trance.

“No!” Muriel shouted.

With a determination not seen since her badminton days in eleventh grade Muriel spring into action. She ripped the iron’s cord from the wall and gripped it tightly. Remembering her Wonder Woman fan club membership Muriel swung the iron over her head with a swift motion and brought the hot iron down hard on her assailant.

The Infected fell to the floor, iron mark still visibly burning its throbbing flesh petals. Muriel came down hard again with the iron and cracked the creature’s headnut, and with a final grim resolve  she used the cord to slowly strangle the plant-man until its leafy feat stopped twitching on the pollen dusted carpet.

“That’s right you bastard,” Muriel screamed with elation, “Not today. These are my lungs!”

Wiping the sweat from her brow with her apron Muriel was taken away from her victory by the sound of broken glass crunching underfoot, then a scream. Outside was Esther, Muriel’s long time cribbage partner, mercilessly beating an Infected to a pulp with her trusty rolling pin. There were a dozen more Infected that Muriel could see in Shady Acres, and more at the gate.

“Oh yeah. It’s time to get pressing.” Muriel quipped as she grabbed her battle iron and jumped into the fray.

What is the worst item you can think of to use as a weapon? If you only had 15 minutes to write about it, what would have happened?

(Yes, that iron in the picture is what my actual iron looks like, and yes, it is purple.)

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