An Historian gets the Flu by Donovan Craig

Historian Gets the Flu Wen Image

The day was going badly for my body until glo­ri­ous King Alexan­der shat­tered the enemy for­ma­tion with a light­ning cav­alry charge from between my tem­ples to the base of my neck. Astride wild Bucephalus he cut a fig­ure of ter­ri­ble beauty.

The Emperor Napoleon has ordered a bar­rage of can­non to dis­lodge the forces entrenched in my lungs. A part of his hum­ble begin­nings is his time as a lowly artillery­man. I cough vio­lently to aid him in his work.

Han­ni­bal, for my ben­e­fit, has buried the hatchet with the Romans. He and grim Sci­pio have sur­rounded the enemy with great slaugh­ter behind my left knee. How long can such an alliance hold?

The aching in my right shoul­der is where Stonewall Jack­son him­self has his oppo­nents trapped in a with­er­ing cross­fire of mus­ket shot and grate. Ear­lier an explo­sion knocked the Gen­eral from his horse. The con­cen­tra­tion of this odd, oth­er­worldly man is unbro­ken as he dusts him­self off.

Julius Cae­sar is direct­ing the whole oper­a­tion from a base just under my heart. No detail of bat­tle escapes his great mind, infi­nitely per­cep­tive and utterly ruth­less, the most gifted killer of them all.

Though the day is uncer­tain,  I’m heart­ened that my defense has fallen into such capa­ble hands. A more cru­cial bat­tle was never fought. The fallen are dis­charged in giant waves through a shiv­er­ing tide of clammy sweat.