Even with the sun at its peak,
His blood ran cold.
Limping along the creek,
His stride not quite controlled.
Fingers wrapped around his gun,
Five of six chambers vacant.
Maybe he could no longer run,
But he knew how to be patient.
Across the way a welcoming tree,
A perfect place to rest.
The town behind and almost free,
A lay down for a bit might be best.
Against the wood he slumped hard,
A jolt of pain brought out a grunt.
Still he wouldn't let down his guard,
Not while they were on the hunt.
Maybe he'd close his eyes,
A moment he could afford.
Perhaps this seemed unwise,
He'd be someone's reward.
His firearm dropped to his lap,
With a bullet he'd never use.
Slowly he slid off his hat,
Never thought this is how he'd lose.
About the Creator
Jean-François Lamothe
I mainly write fantasy & sci-fi fiction and its neighbouring genres. Writing stories not of this world, I want my words to be an escape. Trying to improve my craft through short stories, though, I hope to write longer works in the future.
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More stories from Jean-François Lamothe and writers in Poets and other communities.
Babbling Dixie
The short form of tomorrow is never the whole story. Abbreviations mean nothing when we are born to die and we all are aren't we? Being spoken for before birth is something we're not supposed to remember like some kind of karma after effect. Still here we are spending our lives looking for each other.
By Canuck Scriber Lisa Lachapelleabout 9 hours ago in Fiction
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