Flash Fiction by Matt Morrall
04:35
Field of Honour
As I studied him, his long, grey fringe blew in the wind and caressed the caterpillar above his right eye. A lonely toothpick stabbed at the air, jumping from left to right turning the adjacent side of his mouth into a snarl.
The man to my left shouted, “ready in ten” and I composed myself. The paces were marked at five by a blade digging into the ground at each.
One.
I relaxed and recalled my training. Draw quick and aim central.
Two.
I hoped I had hidden the terror in my eyes.
Three.
A tsunami of sweat flushed down my spine.
Four.
Draw Quick. Aim Central.
Five.
BANG!
I looked at his chest and saw nothing. I looked at my own. I was hit.
“Fucking loser! Come back next week you tit.”
The paint ran scarlet red. He had dishonoured me. I shall get my revenge.
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