*This story was submitted to Esquire’s Aspen Short Fiction Contest, in which writers were to tell an entire story in 78 words. No more. No less.
The bull desperately slid through the cracked earth after another unsuccessful charge. A third sword stood erect from the left side of his blood-soaked hump of twitching muscle, behind its majestic, withered horns.
The crowd roared as life spilled from the bull. His eyes remained undefeated. But there was also sadness.
One final, pathetic charge. It was over. After 23 years with the company, Ernest was forced into retirement.
We are not the bullfighters. We are the bull.
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