RangerWickett
Legend
Here. A story.
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Just frustrating
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RangerWickett
Legend
And the text, for those who don't want to click the file:
On the last day of the Georgia Renaissance Festival, she and I sit in line, waiting to duel.
She has this grin on her face that looks like she’s either hiding intense anger, or eagerly awaiting the chance to beat the crap out of me with a saber. It’s actually quite endearing.
“So what’s on your mind?” I ask her.
She tightens her grin, shakes her head, and says, “I’m not talking.”
The lady who took our tickets for the game smiles at us. “You’re better let her win. Or at least buy the after-duel beer.”
I look at my opponent, my ex-girlfriend. She shrugs and says back to the lady, “That’s not going to work, because I’m under twenty one.”
“That’s why the loser has to buy the beer,” I say.
She glares at me.
“Move up,” says one of the people managing the little fencing booth. “Take a seat on the bench. It’s hot, so squeeze in there and give everyone a chance to sit down.”
I take a seat. She sits next to me, about as close as she can to look like she’s squeezing in, without touching me.
“You look eager,” I say.
She spares me a momentary look to express how she would appreciate me shutting up. “I am. I’m looking forward to this.”
The wait is longer than I expected. The people in front of us include a little kid who flailed at a pirate to the applause of the crowd, and then two friends who flailed with even less skill than the kid. At the sidelines, the rest of our group watches and waits for our fight. We’ve been irritating them for the past few days, verbally poking at each other and making social gatherings awkward. I think they’re expecting one of us to get beaten severely, which will serve as punishment. They probably expect me to be the injured party – the fight will be like some sort of Jedi versus Sith Duel of Fates, dramatic, pitting the skilled warrior with fencing experience against the emotional and violent scorned woman.
She, of course, was the one who broke up with me.
I shift uncomfortably, and the man next to me moves up to fence. On my other side, she stands and puts on the fencing vest. I realize I still think she’s pretty; it’s been a month, and all I want is to get any loving or hating emotions out from between the two of us so we can just go back to being friends. I know I could look at her for as long as I want and she’ll never notice, because she’s looking as away from me as possible. I’m only here so she can take another small bit of revenge against me.
They suit me up as another duel goes on only a few feet away. The vest is slick with a day or more’s worth of sweat, and the glove is worse, but the mask is strangely sweet-scented, the only thing they clean. It’s been a year since I fenced and I shake out my arms and legs, hoping to get my muscles ready. From watching their pirate-costumed referee, I know they’re running it vaguely like saber, but with no right of way. I can’t slight them for it. It’s hot as hell out here, hotter still in a bulky vest and helmet, and whatever finishes the fights fastest is best.
My skill against her anger. That’s what our friends are expecting. It’s what I’m expecting. I cannot decide if I should let her win by fighting poorly, or if I should do my best, trying somehow to defeat her and prove the rightness of my position by skill at arms. It’s a reasonably stupid idea for a Renaissance Festival. I won’t let her win easily, I decide, but I’ll feel better if she defeats me on her own.
“Come on,” says the referee, waving us over for the duel. “Hand me your ticket. Alright, now do you know the rules?”
I tune out the instructions, instead trying to stretch my muscles and get ready for a fight. The ground is covered with soggy woodchips, and there’s no line. I’m slightly downhill of her. I stand firmly, then shift to the balls of my feet. They hand me the saber, and I grin. I’ve wanted to fence for a year, and I’ll take the opportunity gladly, regardless of who I’m fighting.
She takes a few practice swings and backs away, standing too straight. I get into the proper stance and hold the saber in defensive position. The referee looks to her, then to me.
“Ready? Fence.”
I lunge at her, going for a thrust to her chest. She flicks her sword enough to deflect my attack, then chops at my stomach. I barely feel it through the vest, but I pull back and let the referee give her a point. Our friends cheer from the sidelines.
“One, zero. Ready? Fence.”
I beat her blade and chop for her shoulder. She thrusts out her sword and stabs me in my shoulder. The canvas bag of a vest I’m wearing again dulls the impact. The referee gives us each a point, obviously ignoring right of way rules. I grumble at myself, knowing I should have been able to get a hit in without jumping into her sword. I mentally blame the woodchips for ruining my footwork.
“Two, one. Ready? Fence.”
I lunge at her, going for a downward chop onto the head. She does a distance parry – a reasonable reaction even a non-fencer should use – then pokes me in the stomach. I try to parry her thrust, but I’m holding the sword wrong for saber and I end up just going for a late chop to her hip. The judge takes a little while to figure out what happened, but he lazily gives her a point, then says he might have given me a point too.
“No, he doesn’t need another point,” she says. “He’s already got more practice at this than me. Don’t give him any help.”
“Alright,” the judge says. “Three, one. Ready?”
A scene from The Thirteenth Warrior flashes through my mind, where a powerful Norse warrior lulls his Roman opponent into a false sense of security during a duel, feigning exhaustion and incompetence until at the last moment he casually dodges a blow and beheads his opponent. I can do that, I realize.
“Fence!”
I shift to epee style, ignoring the blade’s edge now and focusing on the point. It’s a more defensive technique. She takes a step forward and swings at me. I try to do a circular parry and stab her, but the saber’s handle isn’t the pistol grip I’m used to, so my parry is sloppy and she’s able to make another swing at me. A quick straight parry gets me the distance I need, and then I extend the sword’s point to her.
She bats at my blade and I disengage and lunge. She also lunges, and I momentarily panic, knowing the judge will give her a point even though I have right of way. I awkwardly parry downward and to the right, pushing her sword out of the way down at my leg. If this were epee I’d go for a thrust at her knee, but I’ve got to go for above her waist, so from the low downward parry I make a backhanded chop at her belly. She just swings up and gets me on the bottom of my right wrist. I hit her in the stomach, and judge calls a halt.
If this were Star Wars, I’d have lost a hand. Our friends are cheering even more, since this last bout actually lasted more than two seconds. We each get a point, and I want to curse about how poorly I’m doing. I’m also afraid that the vest is blocking too much of the impact, so she won’t be satisfied with hitting me. I expected to be hurt by her, and it’s frustrating me that she’s not living up to her duty.
“Okay guys. It’s, what, four, two?”
“You having fun?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she giggles. I don’t know how, but she still manages to sound angry.
“Four, two. Ready, fence!”
Saber hasn’t worked for me, and the grip is wrong for epee, so I consider using foil techniques. The blade’s a little too stiff, but foil looks flashiest. I can make a quick lunge, then step back to parry her riposte, then make another lunge and go through the cycle again until she’s gotten into a pattern. Then I can put her blade in opposition, step in close, and take advantage of these crazy faux-saber rules to disembowel her samurai-style.
I lunge. She holds out her sword, not parrying like I expected. I stab myself in the neck with her blade.
We both get a point. She wins, five to three.
She takes off her helmet, and I can see her grin again. Sweating and happy, she flashes a smile to our friends.
“Good bout,” the referee says. “Shake hands.”
I still have my helmet on, and I wave for her attention.
“What?” she asks.
I tap myself on my forehead with my sword.
“Oh,” she says. She shrugs and salutes by tapping her sword to her forehead.
“No,” I say. “Hit me in the head.”
She laughs, irritated at me, and lightly thwacks me in the face. Finally, one of her attacks actually hurts. It feels good.
We both take off the vests and gloves, and hand over our swords. She’s beautiful again. Our friends congratulate her and they leave. I follow a few steps behind, rushing to catch up. The first person I reach smiles at me and shakes his head, amused.
“The woodchips,” I say, “threw off my footwork.”
“We were expecting more of a show, honestly,” he says. “You were supposed to be better than that. I guess anger won after all, huh?”
I shrug angrily. I turn to her and ask, "Wanna try it again?"
She reads my double meaning and gives her deepest answer ever: "No."
On the last day of the Georgia Renaissance Festival, she and I sit in line, waiting to duel.
She has this grin on her face that looks like she’s either hiding intense anger, or eagerly awaiting the chance to beat the crap out of me with a saber. It’s actually quite endearing.
“So what’s on your mind?” I ask her.
She tightens her grin, shakes her head, and says, “I’m not talking.”
The lady who took our tickets for the game smiles at us. “You’re better let her win. Or at least buy the after-duel beer.”
I look at my opponent, my ex-girlfriend. She shrugs and says back to the lady, “That’s not going to work, because I’m under twenty one.”
“That’s why the loser has to buy the beer,” I say.
She glares at me.
“Move up,” says one of the people managing the little fencing booth. “Take a seat on the bench. It’s hot, so squeeze in there and give everyone a chance to sit down.”
I take a seat. She sits next to me, about as close as she can to look like she’s squeezing in, without touching me.
“You look eager,” I say.
She spares me a momentary look to express how she would appreciate me shutting up. “I am. I’m looking forward to this.”
The wait is longer than I expected. The people in front of us include a little kid who flailed at a pirate to the applause of the crowd, and then two friends who flailed with even less skill than the kid. At the sidelines, the rest of our group watches and waits for our fight. We’ve been irritating them for the past few days, verbally poking at each other and making social gatherings awkward. I think they’re expecting one of us to get beaten severely, which will serve as punishment. They probably expect me to be the injured party – the fight will be like some sort of Jedi versus Sith Duel of Fates, dramatic, pitting the skilled warrior with fencing experience against the emotional and violent scorned woman.
She, of course, was the one who broke up with me.
I shift uncomfortably, and the man next to me moves up to fence. On my other side, she stands and puts on the fencing vest. I realize I still think she’s pretty; it’s been a month, and all I want is to get any loving or hating emotions out from between the two of us so we can just go back to being friends. I know I could look at her for as long as I want and she’ll never notice, because she’s looking as away from me as possible. I’m only here so she can take another small bit of revenge against me.
They suit me up as another duel goes on only a few feet away. The vest is slick with a day or more’s worth of sweat, and the glove is worse, but the mask is strangely sweet-scented, the only thing they clean. It’s been a year since I fenced and I shake out my arms and legs, hoping to get my muscles ready. From watching their pirate-costumed referee, I know they’re running it vaguely like saber, but with no right of way. I can’t slight them for it. It’s hot as hell out here, hotter still in a bulky vest and helmet, and whatever finishes the fights fastest is best.
My skill against her anger. That’s what our friends are expecting. It’s what I’m expecting. I cannot decide if I should let her win by fighting poorly, or if I should do my best, trying somehow to defeat her and prove the rightness of my position by skill at arms. It’s a reasonably stupid idea for a Renaissance Festival. I won’t let her win easily, I decide, but I’ll feel better if she defeats me on her own.
“Come on,” says the referee, waving us over for the duel. “Hand me your ticket. Alright, now do you know the rules?”
I tune out the instructions, instead trying to stretch my muscles and get ready for a fight. The ground is covered with soggy woodchips, and there’s no line. I’m slightly downhill of her. I stand firmly, then shift to the balls of my feet. They hand me the saber, and I grin. I’ve wanted to fence for a year, and I’ll take the opportunity gladly, regardless of who I’m fighting.
She takes a few practice swings and backs away, standing too straight. I get into the proper stance and hold the saber in defensive position. The referee looks to her, then to me.
“Ready? Fence.”
I lunge at her, going for a thrust to her chest. She flicks her sword enough to deflect my attack, then chops at my stomach. I barely feel it through the vest, but I pull back and let the referee give her a point. Our friends cheer from the sidelines.
“One, zero. Ready? Fence.”
I beat her blade and chop for her shoulder. She thrusts out her sword and stabs me in my shoulder. The canvas bag of a vest I’m wearing again dulls the impact. The referee gives us each a point, obviously ignoring right of way rules. I grumble at myself, knowing I should have been able to get a hit in without jumping into her sword. I mentally blame the woodchips for ruining my footwork.
“Two, one. Ready? Fence.”
I lunge at her, going for a downward chop onto the head. She does a distance parry – a reasonable reaction even a non-fencer should use – then pokes me in the stomach. I try to parry her thrust, but I’m holding the sword wrong for saber and I end up just going for a late chop to her hip. The judge takes a little while to figure out what happened, but he lazily gives her a point, then says he might have given me a point too.
“No, he doesn’t need another point,” she says. “He’s already got more practice at this than me. Don’t give him any help.”
“Alright,” the judge says. “Three, one. Ready?”
A scene from The Thirteenth Warrior flashes through my mind, where a powerful Norse warrior lulls his Roman opponent into a false sense of security during a duel, feigning exhaustion and incompetence until at the last moment he casually dodges a blow and beheads his opponent. I can do that, I realize.
“Fence!”
I shift to epee style, ignoring the blade’s edge now and focusing on the point. It’s a more defensive technique. She takes a step forward and swings at me. I try to do a circular parry and stab her, but the saber’s handle isn’t the pistol grip I’m used to, so my parry is sloppy and she’s able to make another swing at me. A quick straight parry gets me the distance I need, and then I extend the sword’s point to her.
She bats at my blade and I disengage and lunge. She also lunges, and I momentarily panic, knowing the judge will give her a point even though I have right of way. I awkwardly parry downward and to the right, pushing her sword out of the way down at my leg. If this were epee I’d go for a thrust at her knee, but I’ve got to go for above her waist, so from the low downward parry I make a backhanded chop at her belly. She just swings up and gets me on the bottom of my right wrist. I hit her in the stomach, and judge calls a halt.
If this were Star Wars, I’d have lost a hand. Our friends are cheering even more, since this last bout actually lasted more than two seconds. We each get a point, and I want to curse about how poorly I’m doing. I’m also afraid that the vest is blocking too much of the impact, so she won’t be satisfied with hitting me. I expected to be hurt by her, and it’s frustrating me that she’s not living up to her duty.
“Okay guys. It’s, what, four, two?”
“You having fun?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she giggles. I don’t know how, but she still manages to sound angry.
“Four, two. Ready, fence!”
Saber hasn’t worked for me, and the grip is wrong for epee, so I consider using foil techniques. The blade’s a little too stiff, but foil looks flashiest. I can make a quick lunge, then step back to parry her riposte, then make another lunge and go through the cycle again until she’s gotten into a pattern. Then I can put her blade in opposition, step in close, and take advantage of these crazy faux-saber rules to disembowel her samurai-style.
I lunge. She holds out her sword, not parrying like I expected. I stab myself in the neck with her blade.
We both get a point. She wins, five to three.
She takes off her helmet, and I can see her grin again. Sweating and happy, she flashes a smile to our friends.
“Good bout,” the referee says. “Shake hands.”
I still have my helmet on, and I wave for her attention.
“What?” she asks.
I tap myself on my forehead with my sword.
“Oh,” she says. She shrugs and salutes by tapping her sword to her forehead.
“No,” I say. “Hit me in the head.”
She laughs, irritated at me, and lightly thwacks me in the face. Finally, one of her attacks actually hurts. It feels good.
We both take off the vests and gloves, and hand over our swords. She’s beautiful again. Our friends congratulate her and they leave. I follow a few steps behind, rushing to catch up. The first person I reach smiles at me and shakes his head, amused.
“The woodchips,” I say, “threw off my footwork.”
“We were expecting more of a show, honestly,” he says. “You were supposed to be better than that. I guess anger won after all, huh?”
I shrug angrily. I turn to her and ask, "Wanna try it again?"
She reads my double meaning and gives her deepest answer ever: "No."
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There is passion then there is love both are emotions, one fires the soul, the other makes you silly (pick your synonym). 
Your parting line: Shall we go at it again?
Your parting line: Shall we go at it again?
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