The judges' feedback was, as usual for me, strange. I was expecting top points in Spelling and Grammar (as you would) but I forgot to use "Spell Check" on my new fangled computer (I didn't know where it was in Hungarian) and 2 really silly spelling mistakes were left in my 500 word story "Uncle Terence" (see below). That lost me many points. Plus the fact 2 of the 3 judges didn't "get" the story - which is a shame. That was quite possibly my last outing in the Iron Writer, though I stay on as a judge...methinks.
So, WITHOUT the spelling mistakes, here is my non-winning story...
(Elements: Venice, Astigmatism, Magma, a Solid Plutonium Halberd)
Uncle Terence
A cool breeze sweeping down the canal
stirred Uncle Terence into action, awakening him with a snort. The gondolier
continued on as before, propelling us skillfully through the water with each
stroke.
"I say, it's a little chilly this
morning." He wrapped his infamous Alpaca scarf tighter around his neck,
allowing no room for any mischievous nip.
"Aren't we meant to be at Saint
Mark's by eight?" I asked, knowing full well Uncle Terence had no
intention of keeping the appointment. He hated anything to do with religion or
the church, it reminded him of his own mortality and wicked, selfish life.
Myself and the rest of our entourage blamed it on those Franciscan friars from
his youth. Uncle Terence pretended to ignore my inquiry and gazed at the
buildings we floated by with indifference. I went back to my Marlena de Blasi
paperback.
"Ah, Venice. Such an auspicious city,
full of wonder, full of history. My family's connection with this glorious
place dates back to ancient times. There were Viscounts, Barons and Baronesses
in my ancestry, even a hero or two."
"Heroes, uncle?"
"Oh yes, heroes. One I know well,
Gerhardt Le Lorraine the third, twenty-second 'nobiluomo' to the Emperor
himself." Uncle Terence brushed the gondolier's insolent cough off his
Radford jacket.
"When was this, uncle?" Stories
of his ancient noble ancestry were synonymous with the greatest of fragrant
untruths.
"Oh, long ago, when men were men and
women..."
"...were women, uncle?" I
giggled at his clichéd manner.
"Quite. Gerhardt Le Lorraine. He
slayed the monstrous Beast of Grotta del Cavallone! With his halberd made from
solid plutonium forged by the magma of Mount Vesuvius, he boldly stepped into
the cave where no man had ever returned alive before!"
"Uncle, how can you forge a solid
plutonium halberd with magma?"
"He didn't, of course. It was
Hephaestus, God of fire."
"Hephaestus was a Greek god, Uncle.
Don't you mean Vulcan?"
"What's in a name? Anyway, it was
said that many times Gerhardt thrust that great weapon at the beast. You see,
he had blurred vision and was known as "Squinting Jack" by closer
acquaintances. An inside joke, perhaps, as some of his earlier responsibilities
were akin to those of a valet."
I couldn't keep up with all these connections
and tangents. Sometimes Uncle Terence's mind would fly off on such an
imaginative journey no one could grasp where he’d been or where he was going.
"He had astigmatism. Runs in the
family, as far back as anyone can perceive. We are all blind."
"Well, 'among the blind, the squinter
rules'," I replied.
"Quite." We passed under a
bridge, making our gondolier duck. Uncle Terence shivered slightly as the bridge’s
shadow brushed across his being.
"Wouldn't he die of radiation
poisoning, uncle?"
"Excuse me?"
"Plutonium, uncle. You said his
halberd was made from solid plutonium."
"Did I? You are quite attentive, my
dear," he smiled and settled down once more, taking only but a moment to
return to his dreams.
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