Honoring The Dead
Blood went everywhere. And I mean everywhere. A swift upward strike to the nose with the heel of your hand will do that.
It was glorious. But then she had to follow it up and by that point the others were on to her yet not moving. So she did what any smart-thinking defender does in a moment like that.
She attacked. She struck at knees, throats, noses, eyes, testicles. She hit and she hit and she hit. She didn’t relent.
Her veracity was their undoing. They never had a chance when they paused in shock at Ella’s first strike. The only rule she fought by was there were no rules. This wasn’t war, there were no Geneva Conventions to constrain her.
This was it. If Ella didn’t end it then it could be the end of her and she didn’t want to take that chance. In movies there’s a eloquence to the fights. They’ve been over choreographed. They’re staged. This wasn’t.
Ella had a conservation of movement seen in the best fighters, but even she over extended herself at times. Kicks followed-through too far. Punches had her reaching. But still she kept up the pace.
The last hit, the one that finished the fight was a jab, of an open plam with fingers bent, to the throat. Ella’s enemy collapsed choking. She was left drenched in sweat and shaking.
Today’s art is courtesy of Nicholas Baum from Newcastle Upon Tyne, UK.