Pistols at DawnHe takes the first step. Blades of freshly cut grass bend beneath the worn leather heel of his boot. “One.” he mutters to himself, his breath still carrying the sweet scent of wine. The tail of his coat brushes the ground stirring up the morning dew. Never had he hoped to take these steps; to tread so precariously on the edge of death. The Garden was teaming with life and color. The vibrant hues of blossoms demanded the attention of the wandering eye. But his gaze does not stray. He takes a step. “Two.” A cut of dark brown hair falls across his face. He tightens his grip. What fallacy has led him to this fate? His memory is but a blur. No map would ever navigate the storm of his confusion. Voices can be heard in the distance. Are they shouting? One cannot be sure. The beating of his heart now rivals the beating of a drum; leading his funeral procession. “Three.” The words barely fall from his lips. He is shaking. He tightens his grip once more, wrapping his fingers around the aged wood. How many men have held this pose? A thought of old love passes through his mind. He thinks of Helen. Will he see her face once more? Will he ever feel her sweet embrace and affrim his love for her? “Turn.” He is a dancer, turning with such grace, such poise; his coat fanning in the wind. Only for a moment does he meet his adversary’s stare. "Fire." His fingers convulse. The hammer falls. A flash of phosphorescent red. A crack of sound splits the silence. He waits. He prays. A man falls to the ground. He stands. 
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