At the Slaver's Association   The Fire This Time   At the Realm of Thorns   Dragonfly   Firefly   At the MorCon   Stumbling Blocks   At the ABYSS   Mook Jong Bright-eyed Fancy,  hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her  pictured urn Thoughts that breathe  and words that burn. (Thomas Gray.  The Progress of Poesy.  III. 3, Line 2.) HOME

Mook Jong. "Before I studied the art, a punch to me was just a punch, a kick was just a kick. After I'd studied the art, a punch was no longer a punch, a kick was no longer a kick. Now that I understand the art, a punch is just a punch, a kick is just a kick." ~ Bruce Lee, The Tao of Jeet Kune Do Deep below the earth, in the honeycomb of chambers that rests closer to Satan's bosom than it does to Mother Nature's, she has claimed a single small room, adjacent to her own living quarters, for the nurture of her art, and the refinement of her deadly skill. The room is almost void of decoration, merely an irregular circle capped by a domed ceiling, lit by the eerie phosphorence of the walls. Residing at one end is the room's only furnishing - what would appear to be a rough-hewn tree trunk, reduced to some five feet tall and spiked with several stubby, conical branches. The protrusions strike out from odd angles and intervals - two near the beveled top, where a man's arms might be, a single bar at the center, where his reach might fall at rest, and two closer to the bottom, where he might stretch in a kick. In the center of the floor, Schönen tosses aside a snowy white towel, letting it fall carelessly and carry with it a layer of the light sheen of perspiration glossing her arms and dotting her brow. Silently, softly, she inhales, and the brand on her chest rises in defiant pride beneath the neckline of a simple cotton tank top. Charcoal fleece swims around her slender legs, as she plants her feet side by side in a stance of loose, coiled readiness. Focus, she tells herself, and in the background of her consciousness, a chorus of breezy flutes tenders the song of early morning sunrise as she takes the first step forward, bringing her right foot to cross ahead of her left, turning her torso into perfect alignment, and bringing her fists together at the center of her chest. With deliberate pacing, she advances on her left foot, swinging her torso in slow motion to the other direction and straightening her elbows, to thrust those arms out before her, and the eerie trill of a snake charmer's pipe winds across the back of her mind. A step back, and her hands drop to her waist, then swing inward, up across her chest, and back out, the palms unfolding in silent offering. She steps back once more, her right foot falling into place beside the left, and draws her elbows back, balling her hands to fists and resting them at waist level. The distant chime of sleigh bells mingles with the imagined scent of jasmine, as her arms fall in elegant torpor to her sides, open palms turned inward to hover beside her thighs. Another cleansing breath, and that left foot eases forward again, pivoting her body in fluid time with the rise of her sinewy arms and the crossing of wrists over her bosom. Drawing those hands apart, she curls them into loose fists and brings the left up to her shoulder, the right allowed to hang at her hip. With a sudden burst of speed from the coiled spring of her restraint, her right leg snaps out at the air, then returns just as quickly to place, no warning sign of shifting balance ever having given itself away. Hauntingly slow, she steps out on her left foot, drawing her hands diagonally across each other to switch their positions, and the rhythmic clinking of the coin belt on a temple dancer's hips joins the phantom melody. Her left leg strikes out, again with no warning, and immediately drops back to carry her around in a clockwise turn. Her hands shift in concert to cross over her chest, and as she winds to face forward once more, she stretches her right arm in a sort of salute. This odd ballet, this meditative procession, has brought her to the doorstep of the wooden practice dummy, and suddenly, the resounding echo of a single drum beat carries her right hand across, to chop at the upper left bar. That arm curls back, and the left crosses over, to strike at the upper right pole. Another throb of the taiko, and like clockworks in motion, her right elbow swings to the middle bar, then her forearm flips up, the back of her hand thumping against the inside of the upper right. Without skipping a beat, her left elbow is at the center, then up to the inside of the left bar, as her loosely cupped right fist thrusts forward, to deliver a blow to the dummy's midsection. Again to the left, then to the right, the progression of speed slow enough that nothing is lost of her precision. Left elbow, left bar, right elbow, right bar, and a second ritual drum joins the first in a thunderous roll as her left fist crunches against the center of the dummy. Right, left, faster and faster, elbow, bar, elbow, bar, punch, like an automaton pushed into high gear, as the passion of taiko drums and the clicking of bamboo rods one against the other takes measure of the staccato beating of her own heart. Left, right, elbow, bar, and the percussion orchestra rises to crescendo after crescendo of infernal rhythm, and a score of tribal dancers heave and groan across the landscape of her mind's eye. Faster and faster, until her arms are a blur of motion, and finally, with a heaving breath, she shifts back onto her left leg, thrusting up with her right to land a precise kick to the practice dummy's trunk. She freezes there, holding her leg in place. The dummy never moves, never even trembles with the blow. A set of finger cymbals crashes. And then the room... and her mind... fall silent.