The first blow struck Wyman on his jaw. It was fierce and brutal, but had little effect, with only a small trickle of blood appearing out the left corner of Wyman’s mouth. His head moved slightly, and this only served to infuriate Pierre. He felt the adrenalin pumping through his body at the rate of knots. His face was taut with anger and his fists were tightly clenched. He was determined not to walk away, even if every bone in his body had to be broken.
The only advantage he had over Wyman was his speed and agility. Using both of these was the only way he could hope to win this fight. He knew that if Wyman got a punch in, it would be all over; he was just too powerful a man. Pierre ducked the first three blows that came his way and managed to stay on his feet. He led Wyman all over the place, never staying in one spot long enough for Wyman to get in a punch. Pierre caught Wyman in the rib cage, hoping it would wind him sufficiently enough to at least make him curl up in agony. But Pierre couldn’t believe it; there was virtually no movement from Wyman. The crowd shouted and cheered at the blow, but it soon died down when they saw Wyman’s reaction and the cheers changed to cries of, ‘Oh no!’ Pierre could feel the crowd’s support, but he also could sense they felt that he had no chance. He hit Wyman again, but this time it was a blow just above his eye. Although Wyman didn’t quiver, the flesh around the eye was tender and the blood came streaming down his face. Wyman moved his hand up to the cut and wiped the blood with the back of his right hand. He looked down to see his own blood covering his hand. He walked up to Pierre, ready to punch him once and for all. But Wyman wasn’t quick enough as Pierre darted to and fro, ducking and diving, avoiding all the punches that came his way. Pierre could see the anger growing inside Wyman as he became more enraged with frustration. He ducked one of Wyman’s punches and ran around him, now waiting for another hit. As Wyman turned to find him, Pierre struck another blow to Wyman’s face, but still there was no reaction; a small drop of blood ran down his face.
I was born in Zambia, Africa where I lived until I left in my late teens to travel.
My grandfather was a diamond prospector in Kimberley, South Africa; hence the theme for my story. He would often tell us great stories about his mining and we loved to see the jam jar that he kept on his mantelpiece, filled with uncut diamonds. Once the jar was full he would use it for his holiday money.
I lived in Australia for seven years, England for four years and have been living in America for the last sixteen years. I have four children and four grandchildren.
I have a passion for the universe at large and a great love for life.