top of page

Excerpt of "To The End"

Flash Fiction Short Story

          Lights shone with blinding intensity. A stream of warm tears trickled down my swollen left eye, which by now likely resembled a mangled plum. This wasn’t the first time I’d experienced rubber legs, but never before had that been accompanied by such severe shooting pains within the base of my spine. In the midst of the inferno raging within my body, I carved out enough energy to turn my head towards Mama at ringside. There she sat, biting her bottom lip as I looked into her eyes—those emerald green eyes, full of her own tears which she desperately tried to suppress. In all of our years together, I had never once seen her sit with such rigid posture. In a way, it was a funny sight. Sleazy men in stained business uniforms, shouting in all directions, puffing and coughing on their own cigar smoke. The air reeks of booze and body odor. Yet this gentle, frail old woman wearing a bright pink dress sits in the middle of all the ensuing chaos, determined to watch her boy see it through to the end. I gave her a small smile, so faint that she probably wasn’t even able to tell. Fighting the urge to hack up the blood which had been collecting within my mouth, I looked upon the horizon of hazy faces. Roaring with anticipation, spectators arose from their seats. Somewhere along the way, the referee had made his way back to the side, clearing a path for Robinson’s impending fury. With all the energy I could muster, I lifted my gloves up to my chin, and stood like a statue as the devil himself proceeded to charge towards me, hellbent on defending his title.

© W. Trent Welstead, 2018

bottom of page