The Homecoming - The Iron Writer quarterfinals

I got into the quarterfinals for The Iron Writer by winning one of the challenges. The elements for this challenge were: a grieving boy, growing up and growing old, an imprisoning life, an adventuresome journey. I like the way this one turned out, even though I turned the "adventuresome journey" around from what the reader (and judge) might have been expecting.

As to the outcome, the judges gave me 1st, 1st, 2nd and 3rd (four judges), but in the popular vote, I was fourth, so didn't win. Here's the story.

Homecoming

It was the first time I had been to my home town in years. Last time was to lay my mother to rest. The place hadn't changed a bit, though in some ways it seemed smaller than ever. I walked into the funeral home, this time for my brother. Though we were identical twins, we looked nothing alike, least of all with him in the casket. We were both tall, but he had always hunched, which turned into a stoop. I have dark hair. What little he had left is gray. He spent his days in whatever weather the farm offered, while I was in my city office. Our differences didn't stop there. Any time I would try to help improve his life, we fought. It didn't matter if it was helping him meet outside suppliers or trying to get internet out to his farm. He wanted nothing to do with me. If we spoke of religion, we fought. Sports? We fought. Family? We fought.

My nephew sat up front, nearest the open casket. He stared at the only man he had known his entire life, his face streaked with tears. He had grown, both up and out, filling out the borrowed suit he wore. He was just getting to an age where he would have rebelled against his old man, and now he wouldn't get to. I was in for a rough road, but he was my blood. With luck, he would appreciate a change in scenery. After all, the world is a much bigger place. He was about to discover how much bigger.

I sat next to him. “Hello, William.”

Without looking at me he said, “Uncle.” After a deep, shaky breath, he turned to me. “You here to sell the farm?”

“I am.”

“My daddy always said you weren't no good at running things. He figured once he got sick that you'd swoop in like a vulture and cash out. I guess he was right about you.”

There was so much of his father in him, it made me wonder about myself. Before I could stop myself, I said, “Tell you what. You show me how to run things and I'll give it a year.”

“You mean that?”

I looked at my late brother, then at my nephew, my pulse racing. “I believe I do. I'm up for retirement anyway.”

William nodded and stood up. “We better get to it, then. There's a lot to do before the sun goes down.” When I stood next to him, he offered his hand. “Call me Bill.”