Taking The Bull By The Horns

What he had once loved more than life itself had left him. Feeling empty like a clay bowl lying broken in pieces in an ancient Indian ruin. Excitement and meaning were disappearing clouds drifting before a tempestuous wind.

The roar of the crowd reached his dressing room, as he completed his final preparations. The sequinned jacket and pants fit like a second skin. Black hair knottted in back, hat snug on his head. Removing his golden crucifix, the one she had given him. He stared at it a moment and then tossed it into the waste basket. Looking into the mirror, a bitter smile looked questioning back at him.

Walking down the corridor like the king of the Gods, people watched him in awe. One could cut anticipation with a machete.

The bulls were the most dangerous in Mexico. A picador's horse had to be dragged from the arena. Blood glistened crimson and dribbled onto the banderillas protruding from the bull's shoulders.

After six paper thin passes, the audience that only moments before had been a roaring train became silent. The matador asked for the sword and short killing cape. The aficionados knew the time was much too early to attempt a kill. The bull was stronger and madder than when the corrida started.

The matador slashed the air with the razor sharp sword. The sun reflecting off steel, illuminated brightly all parts of the arena in blinding death light.

The bull charged, its horn entered the matador's heart, as he looked on laughing. The horn exited near the back of his neck, as he was lifted from his feet. The bull galloped around the ring, its trophy held aloft.

Finally the bull stopped and flung the body into the stands. Its hoofs scraped at the earth, as if to say, bring on another.