Off in the distance he heard the sound of the coming storm, a storm that would tear the very life from him. Then, over the grey ridge, he saw it: two thousand men, running up and over the stone hill, charging with full force.

He turned and began to run, attempting to escape the oncoming slaughter. He soon approached a stone wall, the same height as his shoulders, and he began to climb it.

Then he heard the beating of the drums coming nearer, nearer, nearer. He finally stepped onto the top of the wall, then turned to look behind. And as he did, arrows flew, and one struck him in the chest.

Slowly, painfully, he knelt down on the wall. Then, in an immense struggle to stay alive, he fell down to the ground behind the wall.

The drums sounded and moved away, farther and farther still. And as the army retreated back, still one drum he could hear: his heart’s rapid beating, the last sound he heard. Slowly, the dim light and the beating faded away.

© Erick Pratt