A Historian Catches The Flu

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 cannons 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 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 was unbroken as he dusted himself off.  

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

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



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By Donovan

My name is Donovan Craig. This is my blog.

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