The Golden Torch

Followed that compass needle straight across the floorboards to the radiator shelf under the window. Sunlight was pouring in hot and bright. Right on the painted wood sat a chunky antique brass key, long and tarnished. The round loop at the end looked just like a mini championship medal waiting for a lift. Perfect noon grip test. I planted my bare feet firmly on the timber, clamped my bare right hand around the notched stem, and wedged my red glove under the bow. One, two, heave! Hoisted that heavy brass straight up on its tip, gleaming like an arena torch. Held the balance for a clean ten-count. Pure champion form.