There isn't enough fiction about modern fencing...Maybe I'll write some

Fencing, by its very nature, brings out a very powerful force in people. It is not a sport where you run or play alongside others, constantly changing direction, trying to avoid the tackle or the box-out. In fencing you are staring straight into the shining eyes of another human being and have no other option but to do so. The object of the sport will inevitably bring two clashing together, breathing one another's breath, struggling for dominance, willing the other just a little closer. To her, it was no wonder then, that precarious relationships rose and fell monthly at the club. She herself had, on occasion, eyed a long lean man in a white jacket with a quiet what-if sort of reverie. But these ideas she dismissed as rapidly as they arose. That is not what she was there for.

As the club door swung shut behind her with a bang, she was broken from such musings and tried to focus on the task at hand. There was not much activity yet, but the regulars were milling along the walls, warming up or testing equipment. She dropped her bag and herself to the floor. Tucking her chin, she concentrated hard on tying her shoes, trying to clear her mind of unnecessary clutter; there would be plenty of time for a boyfriend after the World Cup. True, she was aiming for one two years in the future, but she would need at least that long to get ready if she even wanted to break into the top 32. She began mentally ticking off the women in the Section she would need to surpass as she began to slip into her jacket, her eyes now traveling around the room carelessly.

The unlooked for glance she met caused her confusion at first. He was sitting on the opposite side of the room - at the far end of one of the strips. He seemed as surprised as she that their eyes had met, but it was a moment before he had the presence of mind to look away. Before the connection broke, her brain attempted to define the emotion behind his gaze: thoughtful? hopeful? interested? It was the last one that caused her the most consternation and all thoughts of a World Cup were diminished as the girl inside her overcame the athlete. And all the while her hands continued to work with practiced efficiency at arranging bodycords and pulling up socks, she was wondering what the long look had meant. Of course she knew him, the basics, but mainly as a teammate. She knew he was fast and strong, but was susceptible to low line shots. They had even shared quiet words on occasion about training or upcoming tournaments. But "interested", she would never have guessed.

Finding nothing left to do to get ready, she sat again, waiting for maestro to begin the practice. Naturally, she told herself, she was overreacting. Too much training and not enough socializing had put her in such a state. She chanced another look in his direction, but he was stretching and his eyes were on the floor this time. Definitely overreacting she decided, but when they were called to salute, she purposefully chose the far end of the floor, opposite him, just in case. There was a Cup to think about.

Hmm...Maybe I won't. It's a little silly I think.

An Exchange

http://slithytove.org/fencing/index.htm

It is late in the 19th century and the pursuit of fencing is fully developed as both a sport and an art. In a sprawling room with high ceilings and a glossy wooden floor, men in white jackets and mesh masks practice with the foil. Above, there is a gallery for viewing which is mostly occupied by ladies. One lady descends the wide staircase, one hand trailing upon the banister. She is slender, but not overly so as to make her appear frail. Her expression is cool, unmoved by her surroundings, suggestive of a mask to much more intense emotions. At the base of the stair is an older man, wearing the uniform of the amateur fencer. He is tall, but not so tall as to be imposing and he is handsome in a roguish sort of way. His eyes are drawn to the woman descending.

Man, inclining his head courteously: My lady.

Woman, curtseying upon the bottommost stair: Sir.You fence fine. I have seen you just now.

Man: Truly? It is kind of you to say: your propriety humbles me. Do you follow fencing?

Woman, remaining detached, matter-of-fact: I admit I do not. I have come to watch my brother. He aspires to fence as fine as you I suspect. Here he comes now.

She nods toward a young man who has emerged from the dressing area, but is stopped by friends before he can cross the room.

Man: I know of him - he is a fine athlete, if my opinion is to be trusted. What of you - have you held a blade? There is a class for ladies in the mornings. If you will not think it untoward of me, I will tell you that your figure would lend itself to the piste.

Woman, not necessarily taken aback: It is rather untoward of you sir, but I will forgive you as you have steel in your hand and I do not. I myself have not held a weapon nor do I have any wish for it. I prefer the pen.

Man, intrigued: A poetess? But you must try. I daresay you will find the language of the sword as elegant as any words upon a page. Though I can admit from firsthand experience that a blade cannot wound so deeply as a woman and her pen when she tires of a gentleman's attentions. He smiles weakly

Woman: Tell me then, Sir, why I should choose the lesser weapon? Were I to try and fend off suitors with a sword, I daresay it should only encourage them.

Man, impish: You have put your finger on the very reason, my lady. No man can resist a woman who can defend her own honor. I tell you it lifts a great burden from our shoulders! Here...

He takes his foil by the blade and lays the guard across his extended forearm, offering her the hilt, as it were

She regards him silently, inscrutable, then takes the proffered weapon. She holds it at arm's length, the point towards the floor

Man, smiling: Do not be afraid of it. You hold it as if there were a snake coiled about the tip. Like this...He lifts the blade and with it, her arm. I defy you to say that the feeling of a sword in your hand is not a satisfying one.

Woman: I will not presume to say anything of the sort then. For I would not challenge such a mandate and raise your ire. You might have one of your lady friends from a morning class throw down her gauntlet at my feet. And if I am to be deserving of a challenge, I'd prefer to go straight to the source.

A quick flick of her wrist and she has the point pressed to his chest, indenting his fencing jacket.

Man, raising an eyebrow: You have deceived me lady, for you said that you have never held a weapon yet I perceive that you have.

Woman, smiling coyly: Perhaps I have sir. But I did not deceive when I stated that the pen was my weapon of choice. A word of warning that an authoress may only be trusted with dubiety for her business is making up stories.

She returns his weapon to him in the same way it was given to her

Man: Touché, my lady.

Woman: You may however trust when I say that I have enjoyed your company... But here is my brother.

She takes the arm of a younger man, who acknowledges the older man with no small degree of reverence. The pair departs.

Man, quietly, echoing: Touché.

Blast from the Past

Since I seem to be blocked lately, thought I'd pull up an old ghost. This was actually about running, but it's generic enough for this forum I think.

~January 27, 1999 2:10 AM

The pounding. The perfect, patterned pounding.
Rhythm.
And breath. Detached but present; labored but euphoric.
Melody.
The music of the marvelous invention that is the human body.

The subject matter? A goal that grows farther away the more I strive to reach it, but that only makes it more desirable. It is perfection, or rather, the perfect meshing of spirit and body into an orchestral masterpiece. But I did not compose it, nor did any of us. It resides in that great library of the soul that contains the music that controls every aspect of our lives, for each moment is a step to the Dance. We are merely conductors, choosing how to perform each measure.

So I have chosen this song at this moment. And here I am, surrounded on all sides by straining chords of muscle, all warmth and needles, each desiring to move in a different way and direction than I will them. But it propels my spirit forward; with the struggle and excitement of uncertainty , it rages against the cage of the mortal body towards that one goal, common to all my brethren conductors. And if any one of them tells you it is not Perfection, he is lying. For, with the ground at our feet and infinite sky above; with the melody and rhythm of the sport encompassed within the length of our limbs, what else is there to seek, but Perfection.. The overture. The finale.

Just for fun

Saw Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith last night. It was fun. I'm a big fan of any movie where a lot of stuff blows up. But in addition to explosions, this movie happens to have a lot of lightsaber fighting. And I find myself musing...There's a lot of lessons that fencers could learn from this movie. To save you the $8.50, I've compiled the following educational list:

Lessons Fencers Could Learn from Revenge of the Sith

1. Billowy cloaks make any bout look more dramatic.
2. Decapitation may seem like an exciting way to end a bout, but usually it's a decision that'll come back to bite you in the ass.
3. Choosing a Sith Lord as your coach may seem tempting, but it's a slippery slope, my friend.
4. Anger gives you focus and strength. Unfortunately it also leads to the Dark Side. But hey, it's your choice.
5. If you are bouting on a narrow metal pipe hundreds of feet above a of river molten lava...now's a very important time to remember your footwork.
6. If your opponent is a maniacal droid with four blades to your one, defense is a good strategy to start out with.
7. When swinging your weapon around complicated computer consoles in a foreign language, be careful! Random keystrokes often trigger self-destruct sequences.
8. Force Push is an effective way to maintain the proper distance. It's tricky to master though.
9. Yield to the higher ground.
10. Never underestimate a little guy. Especially not a little green one.