Luc Vincent

War – a short story

The man stood facing his opponent, staring the opposite man in the eyes. His anger bubbled. His blood raged. And his eyes burned with the fires of hatred.

The stage was set and the opponents were ready to fight. Each man got ready for the attack, they grabbed their weapons, ready to fight. Each man got ready for the attack, they grabbed their weapons, ready for the blitz.

A trumpet was sounded and the men attacked. The fight was long, brutal, and gruesome. The swords clashed and the shields clanged, parrying blows–blows from one another’s swords.

One man missed the chance to parry his enemy’s quickly encroaching blow. The sword slashed the man’s enemy, his arm burning with the most immense and unbearable pain, and yet, still the wounded man fought, easily shadowed by his his opponent’s power. Fueled by war he raged on, in a week attempt to best his opponent. So the battle continued, in the ugly fashion of war. Eventually the playing fields were evened, as the wounded man landed a powerful blow to his opponent’s side. Blood trickled down his side, it felt warm as it ran down his body, the pain from the other man’s swords impaired his fighting, as did his blow to the other man impair his fighting.

Finally, the man who was slashed in the side bested his opponent, with a powerful and final attack he stabbed the man in the chest. The opponent fell to his knees, his clothes growing red with his blood. His knees collapsed, he fell to the ground still and silent. The victor stood tall, but he couldn’t be proud.

Though the enemy was no more, the man could not take pride in the deed. Weather or not it was justified, in the man’s eyes he couldn’t help but view the unjust deed as the lowest form of murder. War.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 24th, 2009 at 7:05 am and is filed under Blog, Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.