I think I've mentioned somewhere on here that I used to be part of a sword fighting club back in the day. Well, once many years ago, I took a creative nonfiction writing class in which I wrote about it. That particular assignment called for anonymity. After the critiques were done, we had the option to claim our works. To the shock of many of my classmates, the following story was indeed not written by a dude.
Warmongers
We were mighty. We were a band of warmongers, at times forty
strong, battling to the death with swords of PVC pipe, padding, and duct
tape. We were the UCA sword-fighting
club, and our battleground was Old Main.
Our founding father and great
leader was Steven. With a sharp eye and
careful hand, he fashioned weapons for those of us that recently joined the
ranks. With the help of the veterans such
as Cyrus and Matt, he kept us in line and trained us in the laws so we didn’t
get thrown off campus. Our rules were
simple; lose both arms, you’re dead.
Stabbed in the stomach, chest, or back?
Dead. No head shots, no boob
shots on girls, and no hits below the belt.
Honor was key; it was important to admit your death, lest you were
called to an honor duel and miserably defeated before onlookers.
There were many battles to be
fought. One-on-one combat reigned when
our numbers were low, but the best times were when we had at least fifteen
people. Splitting into two or three
groups, we would plunge into a game of capture the king. Our castles; Old Main, Irby, and Harrin. The goal; to kill the king of the other two
armies before they killed yours. One
fine moment in this pseudo-warfare was when Cyrus’ entire party had been massacred
and he was left to defend himself from the onslaught of eight bloodthirsty
enemies. They were no match for
him. Using his quick wits and the soggy
environment of Old Main Circle, he defeated each of his opponents by standing
in a large water puddle. He taught us
newcomers an important lesson; wear old shoes.
As time passed, we learned other
techniques for gaining an advantage on the battlefield. Many female warriors had discovered that the
power of seduction had its place here, too.
A skimpy sports bra added maneuverability and distracted a challenger of
the opposite sex. A fallen tank top
strap would successfully stun a fighter long enough to slay them. One woman’s tactic was enough to make men
flee when she picked up a sword. She was
known as Nutcracker.
One the other side, the guys
created other strategies to get the upper hand.
For instance, one man became an assassin. Short and quick, he could slip up behind an
opponent easily and lay his blade across their back before they had a chance to
turn around. Others leaped bushes and
even climbed walls to gain the high ground.
All were brilliant strategies though sometimes they fell short upon
execution. Occasionally a foot would
snag in a bush, or a newcomer would try to lunge forward on one foot and
consequentially fall on his face. One
experienced swordsman bounded backwards off a wall–and into a brick casing
around a basement window of Old Main, which in turn called out the Three
Forces; police, fire, and ambulance. He
was not seriously injured but, alas, regulations must be followed.
The elder fighters made us
rookies look even more awkward and clumsy than we already were. Cyrus moved like a cat, and Nathan could kill
you in a move. They and the other veterans
had honed their battle skills long before in the club’s beginnings in Toad Suck
Park. It was amazing to watch two of
them sparring against one another.
And then tragedy struck. As with many powerful armies of the past, we
fell with the loss of our leader.
Graduation had come to take Steven from our ranks and cast him to the
world of careers. On were passed the
bags of swords; the official swords and the white, double-padded rookie swords,
and handed down was the book with our laws, names, and sword fees. As graduation whisked away our founder, our
elders were carried off by evil forces like jobs, Tai Chi, feuds, and the
looser laws of the newly created Hendrix club.
Those of us left carried on awhile longer, but the spirit had died. Our numbers decreased as one by one, we
sacrificed our war-hungry natures for schoolwork, anime clubs, and personal
relationships. Gradually, the swords
fell into disrepair, for there was no craftsman with the knowledge to repad
them. Soon after, even the most
determined of us fell to the traps of the world, and the fights ceased as he
was shipped off to perform his military duties.
The swords were lost somewhere in an art major’s apartment, and the
fights were all but forgotten.
****
It has been a few years since a battle was waged
on the steps of Old Main, and my cluster of swords gathers dust in my
closet. There are a few former members
left on campus, but we’ve drifted apart and no one has time to cross
swords. Still, I hear tales that a few
of the old ones continue to fight in Laurel Park. One day, maybe I’ll get the urge to lift my
blade and challenge them once again.
Until then, every time I pass Old Main and look up at its brick porch
and concrete steps, I will smile and remember the bouts I won and the many
deaths I died, and I will relish every moment that I was a warmonger.
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