The short story thread

[Perun]

Amazing what you can come up with after waking up to Eye of the Tiger on the radio. Enjoy!

The Boxer​

It was the fight of his life. Within minutes, he would be out there facing his worst enemy. And it was not the man he was to fight against in the ring, but the millions of eyes that rested upon him. The thousands in the hall, and the millions in front of the television screens all around the world. And it was as if they were already peeking at him in voyeuristic manner hoping to make out either the steadfast determination he was so famous for, or a crack in this façade revealing a champion about to fall.
Even the iron door he sat behind seemed like only a veil between him and the rest of the world that could be blown away by so much as a sigh. And he dreaded the pressing-down of the door handle that would send an echo across the room, empty save for a sandbag idly hanging down in its centre and a wooden stool, and on it, the remains of a man who had come so far, from a dark and dirty back alley to this point with merely his wit and his bare hands.
Somebody had once told him after a glorious victory that his left fist alone is worth a million dollars. Now it seemed that every one of them weighed on it like lumps of lead, and even the sweat on his brows seemed too much of a burden to be carried by his mountain of muscles. He knew that for all the people in the world who would watch him tonight, who would cheer for him and yet secretly wish for his public demise, he would be out there all by himself, forsaken and lonely. And all the people that had waged their money on him would take his victory for granted but unload all responsibility on him for his defeat.

But what could they get him for? He was merely a man with two fists and all he ever knew was to take blows and to deal them out.

And now, within the faint flickering neon light that gave the room a ghostly colour neither bright nor dark, he knew that he had already won. Even though he was going to take on the world all by himself, he now felt as its undisputed king, and he would never feel a blow on him again. If he lost, all those greedy and grimy creatures that bet on him lost with him, and their desire to gather and hoard the money that would yet never saturate their hunger for more would die on those boards as he fell down with the sweat on his brow having turned into blood, mere human blood and not the nectar of the gods that some believed was flowing through his veins. Never again would they bet on him and the heavy burden they had loaded on him would fall off all by itself and drown in the sea of disappointment like a heavy rock never to surface again.
And if he won, he would never have to fight again. For once, he would have all earthly powers in his clinched fists and step to the audience that would be eager to suck up every word of his as if it were the revelation of the Allmighty himself, and he would say two simple words which had more meaning to him than all those hopeful eyes that cheered for his victory as they would have cheered for his defeat: “I quit.”
A hint of a faint smile emerged at the corners of his mouth as his stare wandered to the million-dollar fist that would perhaps save his world tonight but not that of those who had laid their hope on it. He had already won, and they had already lost. It was a mere matter of carrying it out.

He was ready.

 

[Forostar]

Re: That's right, a short story.

Some elements remind me of one of my favourite film noirs:

The Set-Up (1949), directed by Robert Wise, starring Robert Ryan and Audrey Totter.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Set-Up_(film)

 

[SinisterMinisterX]

Re: That's right, a short story.

Yo Adrian!

 

[Perun]

Re: That's right, a short story.

How a single song you wake up to can sometimes make your day...

 

[LooseCannon]

The young man stood atop the hill, watching the dust slowly rise in carefully twisting billows over the canopy of treetops, wondering what doom the dust would bring.  He was an advance scout, about a day, day and a half ahead of the main body, and very travel-worn.  He had only a basic idea where his army was going, but it was in this direction, following the natural valley between the rugged hills.  However, that dust could very well mean trouble for his boys.
His horse was a sleek Arabian.  However he got it, he wasn’t sure – luck of the draw, but it was a fine mount.  He slipped up onto the horse and pushed his feet into the stirrups, giving the horse a gentle poke with his spurs, to send the beast trotting down the hill.  The man was an experienced rider, he didn’t bounce in the saddle at all, and he had carefully coated all the loose metal bits in his horse’s harness with little bits of leather and cloth.
The Arabian picked her way through the sparse trees and knee-high grass, her eyes obviously watching for loose rubble and rocks, as the path she chose seemed mostly flawless.  Before long, the scout was down at the water’s edge, and he could hear the ever so faint noise of drums driving towards him through the trees on the other side of the river.  The river itself was quick and deep, though not particularly wide; it could be a great hazard to the army.
Following the river at a brisk walk, the scout peered through the trees, but could not yet see any opposing soldiers.  The dust cloud he had previously observed could no longer be seen with his lack of vantage point, but he decided to take a risk and prod his horse into a run.  For over a mile his beast strode rapidly, following the small plain by the river, turning around one bend, then another, till they reached the old stone bridge.
It appeared suddenly, and the scout was hard-pressed to reign in before charging across the road.  Instead, he led the horse deeper into the woods, moving to hide her behind a collection of rushes and firs.  The Arabian was docile, and did as she was told.  The scout snuck back towards the road, crouching and moving from bush to bush, tree to tree.  Flankers were moving through the sparser trees towards the road, and the scout had to pause.  His long overcoat was dirty, and smudged with the dyes of plants and trees, and he blended easily in with the thicker underbrush.  He was close enough to see the road, as it was.
Seventy-Fourth Regiment of Foot.  Nineteenth Regiment of Dragoons.  Tenth Regiment of Artillery.  Prince’s Own Guards.  Thirty-first Regiment of Foot.  First Regiment of Cavalry.  The flags and banners traveling by were many.  He’d found at the least a powerful reconnaissance, and possibly the main body.  The scout wasn’t sure.  He could be stuck here for hours, counting and watching, while the soldiers get closer and closer together; or he could leave now and miss valuable information.
It’s at least two corps by now.  Two corps headquarters had passed, and he decided it was time to move.  Two corps suggests, at the very least, a vanguard.  The scout started to slink backwards through the trees, moving slowly, keeping his eyes on the road.  He payed, perhaps, too much attention to where he was coming from, and none from where it was going to, because he suddenly felt the lethally-sharp point of a bayonet prodding his back.
“I say, looks like we found ourselves a spy,” the enemy picket said.  There was an answering laugh.  The scout was facing two of them.  At least.  He slowly turned around to look at the bearded picket pointing a rifle at him.  The pointed steel on the end glimmered in the light.  The scout acted fast, grabbing at the bayonet with a leather-gloved hand.  He could feel the blade slicing into the tendons of his palm as he twisted, yanking the rifle to the side.
The gun belched black smoke, temporarily enveloping the scout in it, as the rifle’s slug thudded into a tree.  There’d be more pickets coming now.  The scout moved in quickly, yanking his pistol free with his spare hand, using the first enemy’s body for cover from the second.  His pistol barked, a shorter, sharper jerk.  He dropped it after, yanking his knife and using it to stab at the first sentry.
He ran.  He ran up the slight slope, not caring who saw him now.  He could hear the hard pop of rifled muskets behind him, but at that range, nobody could hit.  Still, some of the branches that were shattering with the impact of shot were near.  He reached the ferns hiding his Arabian and swung up with the ease and desperation of a veteran rider.  His spurs pressed into the horse’s flank and he was charging away, up the hill.  The sentries were behind him.  He had escaped.
Only now, as he was mounting the hill, did the enormity of how close the thing had come reach him.  His heart pounded rapidly in his chest, as he felt cold sweats soaking his palms.  The horse seemed to know, and the Arabian slowed down so her rider could catch his breath.  He looked back over the valley, noticing how far back the curl of dust went.
Raising up a dirty sleeve, he wiped fresh sweat from his forehead, feeling his pulse throbbing beneath the skin.  It was the main body.  He had to report.