Seemingly millions of blades, only five of my own. As I stood to survey the looming battlefield, I wondered if the odds were insurmountable, if my urge to join this battle was suicidal.
The sun bore down like the fires of Hades. The weeks prior to this glorious day were dark, skies gray with constant rain. Yet today dawned perfect, a light breeze ruffled my scruffy locks and the warmth emboldened me. For months prior, weather kept me from satisfying the warring instinct within. The enemy’s countless blades grew bolder with each raindrop, taunting me as I wistfully gazed out upon the expanse. It seemed they grew in number, as if they called for reinforcements as my battle implements sat idle and grew only rust. Alas, as our nearest star finally shone brightly and invited me to do battle, I found my own weapons dull and useless. Fueled with the desire to tame the insolence of my foes, I called upon my neighbor, Mark of Clarendon, to see if he had weaponry suitable to the task. He did, and I pushed boldly into battle with borrowed blades which gleamed and growled with a blood lust equalling my own.
Each of us confident in our assured victory, our blades clashed with a fury unmatched in modern times. My own cut into theirs with a frenzy. Before long, they wilted in fear as I boldly assaulted their superior numbers.
“No, I will not fear thee, no matter how outnumbered I may be!” I bellowed over the roar of battle.
My feet squashed vanquished soldiers as I cut through them without mercy. Even though my victory seemed assured, I was losing energy. Years of easy living have rendered me less vibrant than I was once not so long ago. My enemy sensed this weakness. My progress slowed, and even though I continued to cut a destructive swath, the enemy was closing in.
Ah, the shout and war cry alerted me to the brave infusion of reinforcement, by my son! He rode gloriously onto the field with the confidence and vitality of youth, charging ahead to lead the fight, giving me respite against these brutish foes. Oh what a glorious sight he was! Pausing only to wipe his brow with one hand, he simultaneously cut down hundreds with his other. Grateful for his joining the fight, I once again felt confident victory was at hand. Within a short time, he had finished and we emerged from the smoke of battle.
Finally as victors, father and son stood and surveyed the scene. After a long siege, the battle was over. As Mark’s lawn mower wheezed its last drop of gas, we celebrated. My back yard was finally tamed.
Time for a victory lap, a cold beer, and a nap. The way it rains in Oregon, I’ll need the rest; the next battle looms shortly.
© 2014 by Patrick Coomer. All rights reserved, may not be reprinted or used in any way without express written permission of the author.