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January 4, 2006

January 4, 2005

Today's iron writer ingredient is:


We'd also like to take a moment to give a warm welcome to our newest contributor, Jim Parkinson.

Weclome, Jim!

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Ted: Dave, Out for a Jog

The flames licked at his heels as they ran through the scrubland. Bobby, eight, was lagging behind. His older brother was as just as scared, but faster. Bobby quailed at the thought of being alone, burning up like gramma's house. With a burst of speed sure to drain his strength, he flew up to Steve's side: just in time to watch him trip in a prairie dog hole.

Dave came out of the smoke, panting, and lifted them up. On leave from the Marines, the neighbor had been following them and now was their only chance of rescue. Semper Fi.

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Jim: Great Balls of Fire!

“You boys know Jimmy Earl from the feed lot?” Cletus drawled around the ever-present toothpick.

“What of him?” asked Bubba Simmons.

“Well, me and him went deer hunting last Saturday. And let me tell you, it was damn cold that morning.”

We all nodded.

“So Jimmy Earl up and decides that if lighter fluid works good in pocket warmers, then gasoline ought to work better…”

“I swear that boy don’t fire on all plugs,” Bubba Daniels grunted.

“Between the smell of his burning pants and his girly screeching, he must have scared away every deer in the county,” Cletus muttered.

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Stacy: Sacrifice

Flames. Was the room really on fire? She blinked sleepy eyes at the orange light dancing on the ceiling. John. Where... His face swam into view above her.

"Thank the gods," she said, "I thought..."

She stopped at the look on his face. It was…odd.

"Yes, thank the gods," he said, breathing harshly.

She felt leaden, as if she’d had too much to drink, her eyes kept sliding out of focus. ‘Drugged’, she thought, fear beginning to surge through her. She tried to roll out of bed, run, but it was too late. The knife penetrated just above her breastbone.

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