The Throws of Battle (Part 1)...

"Face front, bow!" Peace and serenity.

"Face each other, bow!" The body bends at the waste, rigid and strait. The eyes never leave their opponent. They tell him nothing. No fear, no worry, no pain, no doubt, nothing is in them. There is no emotion, not even fatigue in them. They are as empty as the sea.

"Fighting stance!" Left foot steps back, right foot forward. Your hands lift to guard, fists clinched tight enough to hold a rod, but gentil enough to cradle a grape. Your body is loosed from ceremnoial rigidness and is light.

The mind is calm. No thought runs through it. You don't think any longer. You anticipate his movements, and predict his attack, but there is no thinking, merely reacting. The belt you wear is dark and tattered. It has seen many days. You no longer deliberate you course of action. You simply dance to the rhythm of battle. You do not fear it because you have met it before. And now, you shall meet it head on once again.

Your eyes work from the floor, up the body of your opponent, and find their target in his. But now there is a message that flashes across them like red lightning in the midnight sky: "I'm ready." It is the calm before the storm.

"FIGHT!"

He lunges forward. You shfit sideways. He is overzealous. He punches, and his fists are blinding. Pain rushes through your body like ice water through your veins, but you are not shaken. He comes again, but you parry and counter with your own. He spins and his foot rushes towards your head, but you are not concerned. You slide your head back just far enough to let it pass; but not too much. No, you want him close. You allow only the smallest margin possible. His foot passes you and the breath of wind kisses your face. Momentum squares his chest to yours. Still, your mind is quiet. Your side kick finds its mark in his chest. Not anywhere, but in a precise location as if it were a surgeons scalpel. Your heel fits nicely below his sternum and above his stomache. It is the chink in his armor. A crevice ever so small where the muscles meet, and his weakness is exposed.

The breath rushes from him, cast out by the force of your heel. Your opponent is stunned for a most breif eternity. STILL, you do not think. You react. Your hips twist and your shoulders turn. Your head is the first around and you see your target. Your foot follows the path given to it by your eyes and accomplishes its task. The back of your heel strikes his helmet. He faulters to the ground. You lord over him, one foot on each side, and grasp the jacket of his uniform. Your right hand is fixed into postion, cocked and ready to thrust downward to his temple. Fear grips him as he looks up at you. Your eyes are no longer yours, but instead the lioness' before she takes her prey....

And then, you stop.

Your enviornment floods around you as if you were pulled by the collar back into time and a realm not of violence, but of learniong and sanctuary.

Things that were no longer acknowledged, the smell of sweat, the sounds of hands and feet rustling and pads popping, and even a stinging sensation in your nose rush back to you. Your hand moves swiftly downwards, but not as a fist, and not towards an opponent. It is open and offers help to a friend.

You help dust him off and a small smile creaks across your face. You return to your spot on the floor, and you prepare to begin again...