I plunge into the underbrush, slashing at chest-high weeds in the choking thicket, my machete in hand. Long since dulled against reeds and briars, the knife’s once razor-edged blade makes it more useful as a club than a sickle. The noise of cold steel rustling through dry grass and snapping brittle branches muffles the sounds of insistent legs thrashing through the path I’ve created behind me. But I hear those boots crashing through the bramble, muted though they are by my own frenzied progress. As the sounds of my pursuers grow louder, I stop to listen to their voices.

“Go ’round to the left, by the creek. You can move faster on the banks. Get in front of him and cut him off; I’ll close in behind.”

“Right. When you get to him, don’t shoot if you can help it. Do it quietly.”

I gently slither off the path I’ve created, into the thick grass away from the creek. I wait as the one closing in behind gets closer. My cudgel will slam into his forehead the moment he reaches the end of the path I’ve made for him. And, then, his gun will be mine. And his partner will be my target.


About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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2 Responses to Target

  1. Gracias mi amigo. Agradezco sus comentarios y me alegra que haya disfrutado esta pequeña historia.

  2. El Niño de Los Cabos says:

    And here I thought I was going to read a rant about a retail experience you had gone awry… Instead, I was treated to one of my favorite pieces of short fiction you’ve written so far. Bravo!

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