The Disarm (Based on a dream, 296 words)
“I can’t hear you!” went the announcer
The tournament began and the mysterious old man went through the gates fighting a battle for only the strong-heart warrior. Not of his cup of tea though. Swinging his sword across other competitors and intimidatingly scary men with even greater swords. This was his chance.
“I’ll take note of those words!”
The mysteriously old man swung his sword against the opposition and dropped them down. The crowd boomed over and again ‘the disarm the disarm the disarm the disarm.’
“We’ll see,” muttered the old man
A tiger came in from behind him adjusting its crimson eyes over to the old man, feeling it’s instincts to accompany him in the fight to make him young again. He must partake in such a rigorous task to prolong his livability as a human being of only flesh and blood.
Words hovered over his head and symbols appeared from all sides of the hall, the spectators became symbols themselves along the stony cerulean dome. Prevailing over the battle and this knowledge that he levered was this means of what he truly was. The boy was returned to him as the battle went to a close and so entering the tournament was like a restart on his existence. But decided to return to being an old brittle man. Not one sign of hesitation.
Sitting patiently at his artisan desk, he recounted the symbol on his paper that he didn’t notice when he was about to file for a memoir show-and-tell, he realized in years of his life that this disarm symbol of interestingly zig-zaggy lines perhaps resembling the sun was simply a representation of his age and there was nothing he could do about it in the end.
Last edited by Yonathan1; 08-06-2016 at 09:44 AM..