Undefeated Champions-

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Sports  |  House: Booksie Classic

I don't want to give it away... It's a pretty short story, so please just give it a chance and read! :)

Our enemies are across the field, watching us as we ready ourselves to finish what we had started. We stand out in our surroundings, dusty and beaten, refusing to accept defeat. They held the grenade, searching for our fear with their sniper eyes. They had always been in the lead, and no amount of luck would change that.

We knew.

We could run away from the shore that was harboring our battle, we contemplated, but where was the honor in that? We must fight ‘til the death. We must win, or our bodies will be buried in the sands on which we stand; the sands that burn a spiral rash around our ankles as it constricts.

The sun gives us no mercy, our foreheads dripping with sweat. Off in the distance we can swear we hear our children laughing, playing, calling for us with a cry, but we are sure we’re hallucinating, the fatigue finally affecting our weakened minds. We convinced ourselves we did this for our family, but it’s not so. We are power hungry. We must win.

We had a solid stance, waiting for the salute, the approval to get into our position. Next to me skulks my partner, knees bent, highlighting the muscles in his legs, below his skin, glued to his bones. His arms are loosely in front of his chest, enabling him to hit the floor as soon as needed. We learned to dive as children, we knew the territory. We were fighting on our soil. We will not lose. We must win. For our families. For our honor.

Through our blurry visions we analyzed the soldier’s tactic, watching the grenade approach, and like a deer in headlights, we shook with fear. We had been poorly trained, no amount of preparation doing us any good. It was too late to surrender, and we had already changed sides. There was no one left to blame, except ourselves. We had chosen to enlist. We had been set up for failure.

We could not negate the attack. We could not retaliate against the hit. We could not redirect the shot. We could not deflect the fire. The bullet was too fast. We couldn’t become a target. We could only dodge, by miles, (it seemed), the wind the final factor in our triumphant loss. We had made a promise, but it had been broken, as were are arms, bruised with mounds of wounds. Our legs stopped working, our brains stopped responding. All we could think of is how we had lost the revolution. How we had been killed in stats. We were still owned, regardless of our aim and dedication. Regardless of our strength and skill. We were still the underdogs, beaten again, again, and once again, and maybe an infinite more we‘ve forgotten due to our frequent amnesia, as we warriors try to block out the bloody images of our slaughter.

We can almost taste the bitter sweet of their victory this time, doused with salt from our assault. Our mouths were dry, quickly drying, hanging slightly open as we mourned ourselves in agony. How we wanted to drink the water hoisting out ships whom were oblivious to what had just taken place; many attempts of serving justice blocked. Our seagulls fled the scene, taking flight with the planes as they retreated, our only reinforcements leaving us for dead.

Our ranks will not improve. It is at an end. They were in. We were out. The court is theirs. The war is over, we can return home, but this does not bring us peace. Their invasion was irreversible. Even so, the meaningless offence had little impact on our homeland, only bringing destruction to the trenches. We were now free to cross the boundaries, our rally matched by their demon spikes. It was single elimination, and we had been eliminated. We are not relieved.

Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Remembering this, we shook hands with our murderers, foul contact, defending our dignity as we spoke.

“Good game.”

Our arms were broken, bruised with mounds of wounds. We didn’t leave unscarred. We will return. We will conquer. We will walk away with our heads held low, ignoring the hurt from our scraped knees, turning back to watch through blurry eyes as the undefeated champions begin a new battle, the net swaying in the wind; our country’s flag.


Submitted: March 11, 2012

© Copyright 2021 Kenie1107. All rights reserved.

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Jamal gaither


Wed, July 11th, 2012 2:49am

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