Victory

The force of the sword against my shield knocked me to the ground. As the sword came toward me, I turned and pushed myself up. I could barely see through my protective head shield and the sweat dripped down my face. The man, large and fierce, came at me again, and the clanking of our swords filled the arena.

One of us would die, slaves no one cared about.

In one last attempt, I lunged, stuck my sword into his side and twisted. He moaned, collapsing to the ground face down. The crowd cheered.

I raised my hands in victory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Arena

He sat on the stone bench waiting his turn. All his training for the last ten years led up to this moment. He could hear the muffled roar of sixty-thousand screaming fans in the stadium above. If he won today, the Emperor would grant him his freedom and the citizenship.

His trainer signaled him to get ready. He picked up his shield and sword and walked to the platform that would slowly raise him to the arena floor. As his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, he saw the lions. A sudden foreboding flooded through his body. The crowd cheered.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Sunday Morning

Polystyrene-on-glass calls pause. Unknown bird waits. Magpie’s hoarse rattle bobs upon chill breeze, followed by one clipped caw. Wind and distant slumber.

Dog yelp, muffled by intervening streets, punctuates keyboard-click.

Repeated.

Nothing.

Wheeze of diesel engine and hiss of pneumatic tyres upon Tarmac cue pair of voices in garbled conversation, growing as they near.

The dog dips paw into arena of proper barking before relenting, wounded by unanimous indifference.

Then...timeless chorus of seagulls.

All cede to a hesitant wind under sombre sky.

Footfalls.

Children’s voices shatter tableau, announcing subdued urgency of Sunday morning.

Bleakness prevails, yet wind chimes sound.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Test Day

Test day had arrived. Paul entered the arena with overwhelming trepidation. Failure today would mean death.

The arena was smaller than on television. And the stench of blood and burning flesh threatened to suffocate him. No matter how much training they'd given him, nothing had prepared him for that.

In the end, Paul passed his test, the lone survivor among his 99 classmates. He didn't like being a stooge for the network--murder should be a choice, not something forced upon you--but at least he was still alive.

In any case, he looked forward to graduating to middle school.