Flash Fiction
I sat kneeling, eyes closed.

Enemies all around, the flexible yet hard staff at my side, the quiet before the storm, before the whirlwind that cannot be stopped.

I slowly rose holding the staff at my side, and stood feet shoulder width apart. There was no fear only patience, there is no death only carma.

Suddenly they all charged at once, kiai's gurgling in their throats, the first one raised his katana (Japanese sword sometimes called samurai sword.) Just a little too low, I tapped its top and hit him in the face. I whirled around and hit one on the nefck, then rotated the staff to connect with the adjacents guys temple. Then jumped and did a 360 in mid-air, slammed the end of the staff on the one behind me on the top of his head as he rushed in to eviscerate my back. Then I used the staff as if it were a sword, it had almost a domino effect, though, instead of slicing their skulls from their bodies, it gave them concussions. As I made each strike I did a kiai, a yell of supreme energy to give power to execute a technique.

And then, I again sat kneeling, eyes closed waiting for the strike that would come. The strike that would end my life.

"A good martial artist does not become tense but ready. Not thinking yet not dreaming, ready for whatever may come. A martial artist has to take responsibility for himself and face the consequences of his own doing. To have no technique, there is no opponent because the word 'I' does not exist. When the opponent expands I contrat when the opponent contracts, I expand. And when there is an opportunity, 'I' do not hit, 'It' hits all by itself." -Bruce Lee