The fires grow. Fallen men groan, holding their trembling hands over hemorrhaging wounds. A rancid odor worsens. The mansion that served as a warlord’s fortress begins collapsing in on itself.
Neither of us care. We face each other, ten paces between us. Firelight flickers off of our swords. The coldness in his eyes belies his hatred.
“This is how it ends?” He asks.
“You can walk away,” I answer.
“You destroy everything I created, and expect me to believe that?”
“You brutalized people for your own gain. Now you can become someone else. Someone better.”
His derisive laughter rivals the crackling flames. “I don’t think so.”
He then charges with preternatural speed, his blade slash a blur. I’m still faster; it ends all too quickly.
Like all the others before.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
out of this stony rubbish?
for dVerse Poets Pub’s Prosery: The Waste Land (pubtended by Mish) The pub is open! Come join us!
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Frank J. Tassone 
War does seem never ending. We never learn.
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Indeed.
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It seems almost a medieval tale. Fits the sentence required well.
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Thanks, Lillian! 😀
I felt inspired by Samurai montages of the last duel between masters.
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Frank, not used to seeing you write in this genre. The end, which really never does end, with war is always so predictable in that it goes in waves and circles in perpetuity 😦
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Thanks, Lisa! 😀 It’s been a while since I’ve written a prosery!
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You’re welcome 🙂 Hoping your return prosery is the first of many.
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You aced the Prosery!
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Oh my gosh, the given line IS an American sentence! 0_0 You’re a genius, Frank!
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Great story Frank. Your ending takes me back to the childhood Westerns and High Noon!
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I kept looking for the prompt. Wow!!! Well done
Much💜love
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Engaging dialogue and what a great American sentence! Enjoyed your take!
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Some never learn…. many never learn. I like the use of the dialogue painting the scene and the impact of Eliot’s line at the end.
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Too much wealth to be gained for a warlord to change his ways… and there will always be another to fill his place.
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