T H E D U E L Two men, both equipped with a black suitcase. It is early in the morning, early dawn. Fog and mist is in the hills. Talking. Talking with silent voices. Talking nothing, not knowing what to say. Two men, both wearing black suits and black hats. Their black shoes, already covered by mud. They walk, side by side. Looking. Looking at each other. Looking with frightened eyes, full of fear. Two men, both shivering in the cold of the morning. The moist air is full of tiny water-drops. The sky is covered by black clouds. Stopping. Stopping in silence. Stopping to put their suitcases on the ground. Two men, both opening their black suitcases. In the suitcase, guns and ammo - one piece for each of them. They take out their weapons, also black. Loading. Loading the weapons. Loading one bullet into the pistols, nervously. Two men, both turning their backs at each other. Nothing can be heard except the silence of loneliness. They walk away from each other. Starting. Starting to count. Starting the countdown of death. Two men, both counting loudly the deadly numbers. Each number is accompanied by a step. They count until they reach the deadly number. Turning. Turning around quickly. Turning to fire one single shot at the opponent. Two men, both lying on the cold ground in the fog. No more moves hush over their bodies. The duel did not mean victory to one of them. Dying. Dying lonely. Dying from the wound in the head. Two men, wanted to fight for honor. Both now find a tragic end, found their honor. (c) by Phil, a.k.a. one of THE POETS OF DARKNESS
Reason for writing:
I don't have a reason. I just had the sudden idea in my mind. So I wrote it.
Birth sign: Not entered
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