Wooden Stick

The wooden stick swung through the early morning air, cleaving its way through scores of imaginary enemies as if it were the finest sword ever made. Jonathan hacked and slashed the stick, spinning it expertly. He had been practicing a lot since he had arrived in Los Angeles. He did not know why. In fact he could not fully understand why he practiced at all. It was the twenty first century and people used guns and bombs and yet he still played the swordsman. A pseudo opponent fell to a carefully timed counter attack and then another to a disemboweling backward stab.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. He noticed the air stream in, cold inside his nostrils. He noticed the feeling of warmth on his lips as the air flowed out. The stick snapped up from the opponent's stomach, flicking into a high guard before his eyes. He felt his diaphragm expand and slowly deflate. His concentration fixed on his breathing, he let thoughts float across his mind. Let the voices speak their peace unnoticed.

“The world is rotting...”

“We came here for a better life, but we can see the place is falling apart. Why can't they?”

“The twenty-first century...”

“World War Four, sticks and stones...”

Downward slash!

His arms slashed the stick down, and he flowed subconsciously into a twirling set of movements. With a slow out breath he expand his awareness to the yard around him. He felt the prickle of the lawn beneath his feet. He felt the small vertices of cool air rushing past him. Without looking he noticed the last remaining removal boxes, empty now, sitting next to the recycling bin. He noticed everything around him, and pushed out. He could almost feel his mind racing outward faster and faster, but also pulsing with each breath.

The wooden stick thrust forward and up, leveled at a throat.

“Crumbling... Can't they see it...”

He could almost feel the earth spinning beneath him now, picture the the sun and the stars rushing into his mind. The enormity of the universe consuming and becoming him, but at the same time the minuscule became apparent in every contraction of his muscles.

Then in the darkness behind his eyelids he saw an army arrayed before him, spears leveled as he charged them. It did them no good. He slashed into their ranks a blur of motion, cutting and killing with his beautiful sword, shimmering in the moonlight. The enemy seemed frozen in time, as he carved a swath into them. But then, a pain erupted in his side and he turned to see a bearded man, moving ever so slowly amongst the statues, holding a spear that jutted from his body.

He forced his eyes open as the stick clunked against his bare foot.

“Legacy,” whispered a voice, so quiet he may not have even heard it.