by Hannah Smith

Sir Augustus Arkwright ached like the King’s counsel had just run over him with every chariot they owned. A metallic tang stung his mouth and his right leg slumped with early paresthesia. Old hope was fast percolating fresh despair. The outcome of the final fight looked glum. Very glum. But heroes are not weaned on quitter’s juice, and so, with his favorite sword raised tall and proud, Arkwright stared into the soulless eyes of his approaching nemesis. The swords prepared their dance, Grim Reaper prepared the coffin and–

Crack. The Macintosh snaps to a black screen.

“The hell . . .?” Our author blinks disorientated into the inky study; her sudden blindness punctuated by dazzling white flashes peeking through the blinds. Damn. Another storm, another blackout. And she had just reached the climax too.

Hannah Smith is a young writer, a part-time procrastinator and full-time daydreamer from Australia.

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