The Battle

By R.J. Tennyson

A thunderous noise emanated from all directions.  It filled every inch of space between the opposing forces, as though a third invisible army was besieging them both.

Jack Mondello was crouching in the centre of the battlefield. His face was caked in a thick vile batter of blood, sweat and mud. He had fought in close quarters all afternoon and was unsure how much of the blood was his and how much belonged to the enemy. Jack’s right eye was almost swollen completely shut. Above it was a lump the size and shape of a quail egg.

On the back of his head was a fissure 2 inches long. It gaped open, the congealed blood that filled it left a patch of his curly brown hair matted and hanging like a dag on a sheep’s hindquarters.

It seemed possible but the noise grew louder; a roaring crescendo.

Jack fell to his hands and knees, his fingers spread, cold sticky mud oozing between them. Surely this can’t go on much longer, he thought. I just want it to end. 

He raised his head and attempted to focus his undamaged eye. His concussion caused the enemy that bared down on him to appear blurry, and their numbers greater than they really were.

The wall of sound that circled him exploded again. The roar now so loud it masked the ringing in his ears.

Please, just let it end. I want it over now!

The enemy were almost upon him. He looked left, then right for assistance, but nobody was close enough to help.

Closer.

Louder.

Closer.

The siren blew. Jack dragged the football out from underneath his tired body, and held it aloft. As the enemy fell to their knees, holding their faces in defeat,  Jack’s team-mates hoisted him onto their shoulders in a show of victory.

The battle had been won.