Iron Pen 4: "It was a dark and stormy night..." - Stories, Comments, and Voting

[Valka D'Ur]

CFC's latest Iron Pen Competitors have now finished their stories and are eagerly awaiting your comments and the outcome of the voting!

Please welcome the competitors for this challenge:

Iron Pen Ingénue
Iron Pen Lunch Bucket
Iron Pen Platypusbunny

who have all submitted entries incorporating the mystery theme "It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly...".


This round of Iron Pen was scheduled over Halloween weekend, which evokes dark and sometimes-stormy nights. And who hasn't heard of this infamous opening line? There have been other writing competitions using it as the basis of a story, and now it's CFC's turn. So please join our three Iron Pen authors as they offer their own stories of dark, stormy nights and strange happenings.


Comments/critiques: Please keep in mind that the main objective of Iron Pen is to give the writers constructive feedback on their stories. Please say why you liked or didn't like the stories. What changes would you suggest, if any? If you were writing a story on this theme, would you have done so similarly to the way the two current competitors have, or would you take another approach entirely?


Judging:

When judging, you may wish to consider these criteria, among any other personal preferences you might have:

Length. Did the story meet the minimum required length? Did it exceed the maximum length? This requirement is meant partially as a way to keep the competition fair, as it's harder to judge fairly if one story is (for example) 2000 words and the other only 500 words. Also, if a writer wants to submit stories professionally, there will be length restrictions involved in that. It never hurts to start practicing writing to meet specified requirements.

*Note: All stories have met the minimum/maximum word counts.

Mechanics. This is a “presentation” criterion. A story that is good in terms of plot, characters, and theme may have typos, formatting errors, etc. which can distract the reader. No matter if the story is written for recreation or for professional submission, proofreading matters.

Characterization: Do you think the characters are believable? Has the author succeeded in making the reader care what happens to them?

Secret Theme: Do you think the author used the theme effectively?

Entertainment: This is the major criterion. The main goal of any story is to entertain the reader and provide an interesting reading experience. Do you think the author succeeded in doing this?


Voting: The voting/scoring is explained below, after the second story.


And now, on with the stories!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

The Gift of the Storm​

by Iron Pen Ingénue​

One dark and stormy night, a lightning bolt hit the necromancer's tower. The necromancer climbed to the topmost spire himself to inspect the damage. But, unholy smokes, one of his eldritch abominations had gotten fused with a stray mutt!

"How in the name of Baphomet how did this happen?" the necromancer wondered out loud. "Perhaps this creature can terrorize the countryside AND and be housebroken." Sure enough, when it came time to vomit out the bones of its unfortunate victims, the mutant learned to do its business far away in a field.

The necromancer had to chuckle at his good fortune. His new creature adored its master, as any dog would, but chased its victims down like they were (very slow) squirrels. "This Halloween", he swore, "I will not be foiled by those kids!"

Suddenly, a bloodred portal crackled into existence above him. Blackened fire billowed from it. And a giant tentacle snaked out and seized his pet!

"Stop right there!" the necromancer thundered. He ordered his skeletons to attack, but it was too late. In one quick move, the tentacle pulled the dog back inside and the hole closed once more.

The necromancer fell to his knees. "No! Buster!", he cried. He knew he had to get his pet back!

Quickly, the necromancer raced back into his tower, his cape billowing behind him. He darted up floor after floor, past the chamber of souls and the halls of zombification. Finally, he arrived at the very heart of his fortress- an empty room lit by a red crystal floating in the center. The cloaked occultist quickly took out three more crystals, each smaller than the last. He performed the rites, cut off his right hand (he had plenty of spares), and dunked all three of the crystals in his blood. They lit up, and began circling the larger crystal, until finally- in a flash and crackle of energy-

"Hello, you have reached the Office of Perdition. If you'd like to contact Death, please press 1. If you'd like to ascend to lichd-"

The necromancer tapped the smallest crystal. The ghostly head disappeared, and a floating, grinning skull appeared in its place. "Sorry, but Death isn't available at this time. Would you like to pass on a message?" He replied, "It's me, the mysterious necromancer. Me and Death are old buddies! I can tell you that he shows up at my tower and plays Go with me every Sunday. He won't be pleased to hear about you keeping me from talking to him!"

The skull frowned, or gave that impression somehow. "Sir, I don't know anything about this, but policy very clearly states that no special privileges are given to anyone. I'm afraid that I can't allow you access to Death at this time." The necromancer was mad! He shook his fist, he hopped up and down, but the skull refused to break from its silly rules.

Finally, he tired out and sat down. "Hmmm", he said, rubbing his chin. "If there's any way to contact Death- but of course! I feel so foolish now!"

He went back over to the transceiver and redialed, sacrificing his left hand this time. Again the response sounded, but the voice didn't get very far before the necromancer nudged the medium-sized crystal. This time a pair of disembodied eyes stared back at him. "Would you like to become undead today, sir?", a voice rasped.

The necromancer said, "Yes!"

"Then please complete your ritual and look directly at the basilisk. And remember that your phylactery must stay in contact with you at all times." The eyes vanished, to be replaced with a floating pair of binoculars. The necromancer put them to his eyes and then dropped to the floor, dead.

He awoke in a huge and gray field, with a monochrome sky and blackened arms reaching up between the rocks. As he glanced around, a hooded apparition appeared to his right. "Haha! Another necromancer forget his phylactery? When wi- oh, it's you, George." The apparition sighed. "What is it?"

The necromancer, with both hands restored, replied, "I'm here to get my pet back. Some tentacled thing from hell stole my mutant dog! Besides", he added, "you still owe me a few favors, don't you?"

Death folded his arms. "I'll find your pet for you, but doing that AND letting you come back to life is going to count as double!" With that, he vanished.

The necromancer waited, and waited. Finally Death appeared once again. "There's a demon who has a beast like you describe, but claims that it bred it himself. I can't just take someone's pet without proof." But the necromancer was adamant. "Buster knows me. We'll just see which person he sees as his master!"

So Death took the necromancer to the Plane of Eternal Bliss, which was not really very blissful- it was just billowing flames without anything solid to stand on, forever. He materialized a platform and placed the necromancer's dog on it. "Thus," Death declared, with the legions of hell watching, "whomever the creature comes to shall be declared its master!"

Now the necromancer first shouted, "Here, Buster! Do we want a WALKIES?" And Buster wagged his tails and stepped in his master's direction.

But the demon with a thousand tentacles took out a flaming morningstar and cracked it against its hide. "Don't you want to come to your real master, Asggiravetiryst?" it hissed. Now the dog took a step in the demon's direction. The necromancer groaned. His pet had begun walking towards the opposite end of the platform. Suddenly, Buster darted forward and tore the morningstar apart with his jaws, acid spraying from his mouth. As the demon jumped back, Buster raced back over to be embraced by his one and only owner!

(His evil plans were still foiled that Halloween, though.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

Porch Chimes​

by Iron Pen Lunch Bucket​

It was a dark and stormy night. The tree branches swayed frantically as a heavy wind pushed against them, tossing them around like they were hanging strings rather than large pieces of wood that could deal a serious blow to someone’s sports car if nature were so inclined. As chaotic as storms often were, they had the habit of being relaxing if you were watching from a safe place. One such safe place could, for example, be someone’s properly-built porch with a weighted door so it doesn’t swing wildly along with the branches. There were no mishaps to be taking place here, no sir, just a good old fashioned watching of the storm where you could hear everything clearly and see much better than you would from behind a window with light glaring against it.

There was something to be said about being so close to an expression of nature’s power like this. The eerie calm it brings you, immersing you in its howling and its rampant beating against the earth. Your thoughts become much clearer, your ideas take on a sense of romance that isn’t afforded to them during the quiet, dull moments in an ordinary room. In many parts of the world, it’s an experience you’d only get the opportunity to have a handful of times a year, and that’s only if the storm happens to take place when you’re not busy. It’s a comparatively rare opportunity, one that should be taken if possible.

A woman, quite old if I had to make a guess, often sat in a rocking chair on this porch we spoke of before. It would creak beneath her swinging feet as her eyes peered out into the darkness, the forest lit up every few seconds by a bolt of lightning in the cloudy sky. It was through her this narration came to be. She created this experience for us to share. For countless years she had eagerly grasped at the chance to simply sit quietly and listen as well as watch a raging storm. Without fail she’d find her way to her trusty rocking chair, plop down, begin swinging forwards and then backwards, and just exist until nature’s wrath calmed itself. A temporarily calm sense of existence, she’d say, was a luxury not many could enjoy. You’d be crazy not to take advantage of it.

It always seemed like a reasonable argument. And during her later years she had kept the habit alive and well. This porch had not changed in nearly forty years. The chair was the same, the plank flooring was the same, and the chimes near the small staircase were the same as well. It was the epitome of a safe retreat for her. She’d built the porch just for this singular purpose for it was a staple of her life. The experience was to be shared with anyone willing to try. In fact, if you were to look from side to side in this rocking chair she would sit in, you’d see a gathering of others. Her husband was here as were her three grown-up children, all nearly pushing the middle-aged years at this point. Their children, as a matter of principle, were also present. Just behind the chair you’d find the woman’s best friend, another woman who had been by her side every step of the way since they were in diapers.

What had started as a personal retreat grew, as the years went by, into an experience to be shared with family. Everyone would stop what they were doing, pile their way onto the porch, and sit in silence as the storm roared around the house and eventually made its escape elsewhere. It had become a staple of their lives much like it had become the woman’s, and they gave her the credit. She was Vivian to her husband and best friend, Mama to her children, and Oma to her grandchildren. But more importantly, she was the person who gave them a priceless experience each and every single year.

It was the first anniversary of her passing. It had been a rough year as everyone grew accustomed to the hole that had appeared in their lives. Nobody was looking forward to this day. Suddenly, a storm had emerged and like clockwork everyone had once again piled onto the porch, not realizing that they did so without a second thought or hesitation. The rocking chair remained empty but rocked with the wind, almost as though she were still with them. Although Vivian was no longer of this world, those dearest to her did not feel alone anymore. She was still there, just in a different way. Through this experience they learned that they will never have to live without her comforting touch again. It was a dark and stormy night, their favourite kind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

Two Knights​

by Iron Pen Platypusbunny​

The rain pounds on the roof of the castle like the blow of a stone flung from a siege machine. The wind howls and batters the castle walls like fiends trying to tear down civilization. The darkness is so absolute it seems it has swallowed the earth. Worst of all it is cold like the embrace of a Yukionna.

Despite the calamitous weather, outside the castle walls, two knights fight a life and death struggle. The rain and cold numbs their sense of touch, the wind deafens their ears, makes it difficult to swing their swords, and the darkness leaves them blind. To the knights involved, however, this is a fight that must happen no matter what the conditions. It is about more than power, greed, loyalty, or honor. It is about relevance, and keeping their identity as warriors.

Ever since the foreigners brought their guns to the Island, the age of the sword has been dying. Battlefields are no longer about the individual knight proving his supremacy, but about lines and lines of soldiers shooting each other. Neither of them could adapt to the guns, nor the change in tactics they required, so their lords cut them loose, with neither land nor titles to tide them over in old age, claiming that loyalty is its own reward. These knights were obsolete entities in a rapidly changing world, which is why they were overjoyed to have found one another.

With each reverberation of steel, they remember the adrenaline and pure exhilaration mortal combat gives them. They remember the camaraderie they shared with their brothers in arms. They remember the pride they felt in wearing their lord’s colors. They remember those humiliating defeats in which they hid amongst the faceless dead, and they remember those momentous victories in which they marched back to their Lord’s capital greeted by cheers. They remember the wisdom of their masters, and the endearing foolishness of their disciples. They remember the countless hours of training to master their strokes, repeating one motion thousands of times until it became as natural as breathing. In short they remember what it means to be a knight.

As the fight continues, a curious thing happens. The combatants’ movements grow more fluid, and each stroke is a masterpiece no less vivid, grand and evocative than the statue of David. It is as if they are possessed by the supernatural, and their fight has transcended mortal limits. The result is a magnum opus of martial prowess.

Then, almost imperceptibly, as if on cue, both knights sheathe their swords, then fall to the ground and die. They have bled to death from nine hundred and ninety nine cuts positioned on their legs, on their arms, on their chests, on their faces. There is only one spot unmarked by wounds: their backs. The blistering wind and icy rain didn’t help their chances of survival. Such is the price for a fight for the ages. Still, the knights would not regret it. Better to die as warriors than live as ghosts. Especially since they had no wives or children or land, devoting their life to the battlefield and service of their master.

Several days after this momentous fight, a wandering merchant, finds the remains of these two honorable knights clad in chainmail armor with their swords in their sheathes, looking like sleeping giants. Moved by a sense of awe he cannot explain, he buries the bodies and uses the sword as a tombstone to mark the graves. And there they lie, two swords of unsullied steel in front of a decrepit castle, relics of a bygone age, monument to the hopes, dreams, and fears of a forgotten era.


Voting:

How this works: This is an anonymous, multiple-choice poll. Please vote for one choice for each contestant. That's 3 votes in all. VBulletin isn't set up for multiple questions within the same poll, so this is the only way to do this without having separate threads for each story.


The poll choices represent scores from 1-5 points, on a scale of how well you think the story met the judging guidelines outlined above.

A = 5 points
B = 4 points
C = 3 points
D = 2 points
F = 1 point

How the scoring works is that the totals for each grade will be added up and used to arrive at an overall score. It is possible for a tie to happen, and if it does, I will not be casting a tie-breaking vote.

Please do not vote more than three times, as that would result in unbalanced (and unfair) votes.


Please take the time to offer comments and constructive feedback, as well as voting. The people who compete in these contests work hard on their stories, and appreciate knowing what readers think of them.

 

[jackelgull]

A) The gift of the storm: I didn't find this one funny as the author was probably hoping. I did find some parts funny, like the press one for death, but as a whole, any comedic moments in this story are undermined by the fact that this thing goes too frelling fast to enjoy. That's part of the reason why writing instructors drill show don't tell into people's brains-showing slows down the pace of the story and thus allows for greater appreciation. My score: 2.5 rounded up to a 3.
B) Porch chimes: I think this is the probably the best of all three submissions. It captures something very abstract- loss, through a concrete method (tradition the deceased usually did). The writing is a bit awkward in the beginning, and I think the first person narrator is perhaps not the best choice since it raises the question of what is this person's relationship to the woman in the rocking chair. A third person omniscient narrator is better. My score: 4
C) Two Knights: I like the concept behind this one, making the end of an era something abstract and impersonal more concrete and personal through these two knights. I don't think it does it as well as it could, but it is decent enough. I also have a fondness for ronin stories. My score: 4

 

[JohannaK]

Gift of the Storm: Repeated typos, essentially in the beginning. Action comes from nowhere and, most importantly, goes nowhere. To call the reader a spectator is an overstatement here. The plot, if there is one, is barely understandable. The secret theme was completely wasted: it was reduced to the first sentence. The only strength here was in the rituals scene. That one was pretty good God knows how the necromancer put on the binoculars without hands to do so, but I liked how straightforward it was. The rest of the story was too distraught. It went out of its way to be silly where it didn't need to. I felt generous with a 2, but it's deserved.

Porch Chimes: It actually wasn't bad, but I feel like it isn't built right. The sports car... thing. That just wasn't right. It set you off on the wrong foot. I feel like it was good but it introduced the character too late. You can do that with a novel, but it feels weird in such a short story. It's mostly the tone being off. It was too naked and didn't tell you anything much about the old lady, by which I mean that the story feels mostly meaningless, and the very nice ending can't make up for it. I give it a 3 (I accidentally clicked 4 and didn't notice, so disregard one of the 4 for Lunch Bucket

Two Knights: Personally? My favourite idea. The execution, however, is a bit sloppy. Wants to tell too much and ends up explaining too little.It would have been better if it had been focused. We don't necessarily need to know their past. That can be better left to imagination with only vague explanations, like "Phased out by the age of gunpowder, they fight the last battle of times long gone". Boastful and evocative enough. What I mean is that, given the theme, this information could be kept to a minimum to focus on your really dramatic moment, which is of course the fight. Gave it a 3.

 

[Hygro]

I judged them on keeping my attention. This came down almost entirely to style. I preferred them in the order they were presented and thus ranked them ordinally.

 

[jackelgull]

You preferred the first one the most?

 

[Hygro]

Yes. It was the most entertaining and had the best writing, although I enjoyed the present-tense of the third.

 

[jackelgull]

Yes. It was the most entertaining and had the best writing, although I enjoyed the present-tense of the third.

That's funny, because I had the opposite reaction to the first one, I disliked it the most. Probably because I'm used to slower paced stories. What precisely did you enjoy about the style?

 

[Blasph23]

Story 1 (The Gift of the Storm):

I see several technical issues here: frequent repetitions which are only addressed later (by calling the protagonist "cloaked occultist") and some obvious mistakes like repeating "how" in the second sentence. That, sort of, breaks the spell for me. Some sentences are needlessly split into two (line 5) and the second one begins with "And".
You don't start a proper sentence like that. Those are very basic linguistic issues, easily fixed by reading your own story at least once. I doubt that was the case here.

You attempt to fuse technology and mysticism together by creating a mix of both in something akin to a Deus Ex Machina and it sadly doesn't work. Phone-calling Death by severing your own hand in some poorly explained ritual? It might hold in passing mention but you utilize it twice as a major plot device and the necromancer doesn't appear to suffer from pain, bleeding, nausea or faintness due to a loss of a major body part. That just doesn't stick. You don't explain it sufficiently, you present a twisted world to the readers and expect them to find their way around it. Again, it doesn't work.

You personify death as some guy running errands for living (or undead) people and as a lesser creature with debts to pay. I have a considerable benefit of doubt for fantasy and sci-fi themes but this goes beyond the threshold for me. Plus, it calls the protagonist George. Really? George? I understand the whole story is meant to have a comedic, pastiche effect and the narration, as poor as it is, reflects that, but you could have given him a better name.

You employ several known storytelling tropes in your story - liches, phylactery, undead creatures, demons, bloody rituals... yet the impression, ultimately, is that you add too much of that and it loses its meaning, it's diluted in an overflow of campy themes so often used, with miserable effect. You only have 1000 words to use for the whole story and with the extra content, you overdid it by a large margin.

There's too much action and too little description; it forces the reader on a chaotic journey, where there is no lasting impression of what's going on and hence - the reader fails to care about what happens next.

Finally there is the question of ending - it's rushed, underdeveloped and silly. There doesn't seem to be any justification for what happened, no story behind the demon calling that abomination his own, not a single reference to that. The whole thing leaves much the same impression as a half-remembered dream and in a bad way.
The abrupt ending is disappointing, given the buildup; I'd half expected the necro to be shredded to pieces by his "pet" but no. All the grimness, occult and mysticism boils down to a dog's reunion with his master. I suspect you wrote a large chunk of the story, then realized you're at the 950 word mark and wrapped it up without much thought.

The entire story feels rushed and chaotic; the secret theme has only a small passing mention and no actual role in the narration (yes the lightning struck the dog and fused it with the abomination but you don't expand that at all), the main theme is that of the necromancer looking for his dog; the story feels like you've never read it yourself and simply wanted to be done with it. The subject was original and that is really the only plus I see here. Everything else is of very poor quality.

2/5 but only for the originality of the attempt.

Story 2 (Porch Chimes):

I can relate to this story in a way. I have also always enjoyed storms observed from the safety of a warm and dry place. Me and my father used to point out the bigger lightning flashes to each other as we watched the skies. Now that I live somewhere else, it’s a very rare opportunity and this story reminds of the better days.
From the technical standpoint, it’s nearly flawless. The language is diversified with very few repetitions. Sentence construction is well done, with the exception, perhaps, of the second one – it’s definitely too long. At first, it reads like a prelude to a larger story but when the narrator begins to tailor the story from the first person perspective, it turns into a diary of sorts, or a semi-biographic recollection, which it in fact turned out to be in the end.
The secret theme has been superbly woven into the narration and persists as the major element of the plot. With the focused descriptions, I can feel the storm myself, I can smell the fresh air and feel my eyes blinking at the mention of lightning strikes. I thought at first that a little over 800 words in a 1k word limit is a poor utilization of available limit but that is not the case – there’s very little to add here.
The culmination of the story is of course the death of a beloved mother/wife/grandmother and how she seems to continue her existence in the storm, which her family once again gathers to observe - a personal ritual during which they can sense her presence, despite her not being physically there anymore. The story evokes some beautiful emotions and the delicate narrative multiplies the effect. It is well written and structured, none of it feels rushed.

5/5 from me.

Story 3 (Two Knights):

The final story lies overall somewhere between the first and the second.
It is well written, without the glaring errors, repetitions and uncoordinated narrative. Yet it fails to properly implement the secret theme. It’s out there, yes, they’re fighting in the rain, but that’s as far as it goes. The main theme is that of a passing era as the last people to live in it eventually die. It’s well written prose on its own, it neatly tackles a large subject in few words without skipping anything particularly important.
However, it is a bit too short. 600 words is what I counted. There’s some considerable room for improvement – you could have said how even the stormy weather seems to bow down to these last remnants of the old world – how each lightning strike accentuates the clash of steel, how rain seems to fall in two directions to help both combatants. This would achieve two things: extend the narration to make better use of the word limit and enhance the implementation of the secret theme. The clouds could be whirling above their heads, uncertain of who will prevail; the entire environment could be supportive for those two warriors and hostile to everyone else.
The present tense is interesting but unnecessary. I suspect it’s a matter of readers’ preference and in my case, I favor traditional past tense. In this story, present tense doesn’t seem to have a specific function. Its only achievement is to make the story read differently than what a reader might otherwise be used to but neither the subject nor the style benefit from it in my opinion. Mind you, they do not suffer either. In a short term it doesn't bother me but for longer stories, it would be more of a disadvantage.
Overall, I have to split my judgment into two for this story:

As a standalone short story it get 4.5/5 from me. The secret theme was poorly implemented and that is really the only serious problem I see here. 3/5 overall (3.5 if that were the voting option).

 

[Valka D'Ur]

I judged them on keeping my attention. This came down almost entirely to style. I preferred them in the order they were presented and thus ranked them ordinally.

Just a note about presentation order: I always post the stories in alphabetical order by the author's Pen Name.

 

[Serutan]

When the authors are allowed to comment, I would be interested in knowing if if Two Knights
was inspired by Roger Zelazny's Last Defender of Camelot

 

[Cutlass]

Sorry. I meant to get to this today, but my day got eaten up.

 

[Valka D'Ur]

You still have time, Cutlass. The poll still has over 8 hours before it closes.

 

[Hygro]

That's funny, because I had the opposite reaction to the first one, I disliked it the most. Probably because I'm used to slower paced stories. What precisely did you enjoy about the style?

It only asked for as much attention as it could deliver. There's a real value in matching ambition and execution. If something is loud in its presentation then it better present something substantively cool.

 

[Cutlass]

I thought the writing on all 3 was fairly good.

Story 1 (The Gift of the Storm):

I liked this as comedy and farce. it doesn't try to take itself seriously, it just throws it out there. The writing isn't as clean as it could be. But overall I think it works for what it is.

Story 2 (Porch Chimes):

This didn't initially get me, but then it just ended so strongly I had to give it top marks. The imagery built slowly, and then it was just there, a whole picture.

Story 3 (Two Knights):

Not a bad story, but the execution could be better. The echos of faded glory was a powerful theme. But I don't feel it ended strongly.

 

[Birchbark22]

The Gift of the Storm

I did enjoy a variety of the imagery that the writer had utilized in this story.

There were a number of typos, more proofreading is required and more attention to detail.

The story was somewhat entertaining for the Hallow'een season, although at times, it was a bit difficult to wade through, yet I was entertained at times ...therefore the story was given a three. At least the mutated dog was able to get back to its owner. Being hugged by demon master sporting some 1000 tentacles would have been rather a confusing way to live, even for a mutant dog.

Porch Chimes

I was able to relate to this story, since observing storms happens to be a favourite pastime of mine. I certainly could empathize, especially when the writer had mentioned how in some parts of the world the opportunities arose only a handful of times for people to watch a storm. This really resonates with me, as I believe that there were so many more storms taking place when I was younger and now, there appears (at least to me) that there are fewer storms to enjoy, leaving me truly bereft. I really do miss those tumultuous and continual thunderstorms of my youth.
I even feel that the storms were far more intense.

This story had a slow and a warm pace as it wove together the passion for watching storms together with that of time honoured family companionship.

I had wished that the writer would have written about what had been the grandmother's most favoured storm and how she had enjoyed the experience of observing it. There is the ache illustrated by the writer of the sad experience of missing a treasured person, of how the grandmother's presence is often only now felt during certain stormy times. For those of us now missing our grandparents, our parents, brothers or sisters, this is a very relatable experience.

Good imagery. Gave the story a 4.


Two Knights

A quick-paced story in many parts with quite a lot of vibrant imagery utilized. Certainly, the theme of keeping their identities as warriors is passionately illustrated by the writer and is the crux of this story.

Old warriors want to die fighting. For warriors, their final clash of combat boils and seethes in their blood, a thirst for them that is never to be forgotten. Such desires of true warriors are often lost in the age of modernity where combat often consists of using weapons that can kill the enemy from a far distance without ever seeing their faces.

In the times of yore, hand-to-hand combat was vital to a warrior, rather than the soulless killing of an opponent from a distance, where one often does not witness the death throes of the enemy durning the time that he/she was slain. The old-fashioned warriors would find much of today's combat a very sterile experience indeed.
Worf would have truly enjoyed this warrior's story.

I gave it a 5. Interesting, as I am a rather un-warlike person, so the story about the storms should have won me over the most, yet I found this was the story that held me the most with its vibrant imagery and theme.

 

[jackelgull]

Hasn't a week passed by?

 

[Valka D'Ur]

Yep, many apologies for the wait, folks. I'll have the final tallies shortly.

 

[Valka D'Ur]

Before posting the results, I apologize to everyone for the long wait. I should have had them posted before now.

Please note that the poll tally doesn't match with what one voter stated was his intended vote. That error has been accounted for in the tallies to follow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nine people voted, and the results are as follows:

Iron Pen Ingénue received 28 points for The Gift of the Storm.

Iron Pen Lunch Bucket received 33 points for Porch Chimes.

Iron Pen Platypusbunny received 30 points for Two Knights.


Therefore, it is my pleasure to declare that Iron Pen Lunch Bucket is the winner of Iron Pen 4: "It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly...". Congratulations!

This is the first time we've done this contest with 3 contestants, and I'm happy with the turnout. The scores are close, and all three authors had some interesting and different interpretations on the theme.


But wait... Just who are these writers, really? They used Pen Names, so as not to influence any votes. Well, now that this round is over, it's time to reveal their true identities.

Please welcome Mouthwash, aka Ingénue!
Please welcome Synsensa, aka Lunch Bucket!
Please welcome jackelgull, aka Platypusbunny!


Thank you to all the writers who stepped up to this round. This was a learning experience on my part, as I wasn't sure if 3 stories would fit in the same thread. They did, though, and everything ultimately worked out.

Thanks also to everyone who took the time to read the stories, offer feedback, and vote. Some new people have expressed interest in joining Iron Pen, and some folks who we usually see in OT have had a look to see what's going on here.

The next round may be a poetry challenge. I'm still working on the format for that sort of challenge, as it obviously can't be just based on one theme and the standard word count.

Iron Pen 5 will definitely take place before Christmas, but the timing will depend on peoples' schedules. As always, anyone interested in competing is welcome to PM me.

 

[Synobun]

Congrats to Jackelgull and Mouthwash.

 

[jackelgull]

Congratulations to Synesa for his victory, and congratulations for Mouthwash for participation