The blow rocketed in from the humid atmosphere to my left—spun me—I didn’t go down. Can’t go down. Clear the fog...compute. Scan...assess threat. Outnumbered in unfamiliar territory. Increase heart rate sixty percent. Here’s the issue...here comes pride—a byproduct of the automated testosterone boost. What would dad do? Blood and impulse rush to the brain like voltage across copper. My unproven hands instinctively tighten, forging formidable weapons of gratuitous, youthful combat. Computation complete...elapsed time, four seconds. The switch flipped and I beat it. Adrenaline, meet asphalt. Easily the best decision I made that year.
David Gauthier has been getting serious about his writing for about 30 years now. He spends most of his time in his Salem, Massachusetts backyard, musing.