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Listeners' Fantasies |
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Chalk Dust
by Vicky S
 When Stephen Chalkman called on Brenda in search of revenge, he might have been in for a big surprise, according to this contribution to the Fantasy Archers topic of .
Brenda pushed her hair back from her face and yawned. Her back ached slightly. Even for someone used to the rigours of mental and physical training, such intensive studying was demanding.
She switched off the desk lamp then stood and coaxed her body into a series of advanced 'burghavana' snake back stretches, feeling the tension from inaction ease from her toned muscles as they passed through the pain barrier and responded to the restorative 'youtwo', life energy, now running freely through her body .
Then from outside the window she heard a sound. A footstep on the gravel pathway. Hesitant, as though someone was trying to approach silently. A man's step. Not her father, or Roy. Not a footstep she recognised. But it was familiar, familiar in a way that triggered an automatic 'sausija' or trembling mountain, alert.
Her head turned sharply, all senses sharp. She pushed her breathing into 'shuli', sleeping dragon mode, aware of the instantaneous increase of oxygen surging through her body. Cat-like she moved towards the sitting room door, her feet so sure and light it was as though she floated. As she passed the table she twisted her long silken hair into a tight warrior's knot on the top of her head, securing it with a length of baler twine . Her eyes narrowed as her concentration and focus reached the level of 'peggoi' or hunting shark.
She flipped off her light house slippers, pushing them out of the way under the sofa. Her strong feet with their clean square-cut nails flexed as they made contact with the cool floor and she felt the power of 'poolaguns', earth strength, rise through her thighs and up her spine.
She lengthened her spine and retied the silver fabric of her 'typoi' or resting robe more firmly around her waist. Her hands, with their rough veining of long-healed scars and old injuries, rested at her sides as her training or 'enclavia' demanded, her right hand curved into 'laikei'- the lethal waiting peacock's wing.
She stood behind the front door. Waiting. Silent. Prepared.
And the door bell rang.
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