hemingway blog

Frank took another pull on his cigar. He swirled the cup of whiskey in his hand, contemplating another sip but deciding against it. He set the glass down on the small table and stared into the setting African sun. Finally, he opened his mouth, but stopped abruptly. After a long pause he spoke, “Jim. I need that Rhino.”
Jim sat across from him, each sitting low to the ground in their folding chairs. They had been afield for eight days already. Neither man killed their quarry yet. Both had traveled half-way around the world to bag their mark. After a long manly silence, Jim took a pull from his brandy flask. “I know Frank, I know.”
Thick manly plumes of smoke rose from the smoldering ashes of the campfire as the sun plunged headlong into the savanna. Both men retired to their respective dwellings for the night. Each lay his rifle by his bed.
The night passed too slowly for Frank. He woke twice in a cold sweat. His dreams kept bringing him back to Madrid, back to the Plaza de Toros. He couldn’t get the death-bellows of the bull out of his head. It called to him across time. The shear ferocity with which the innocent bull was hacked apart filled him with near-divine fervor. The savage grace of that final skewer, the warm splash of fresh blood, and the bewildered look of the bull all stuck in Frank’s consciousness. He woke in a cold sweat. He needed that Rhino.