Their feet reached the ground. But they were sandwiched between two walls. She told him to scuffle over to his left. The other way was sure to lead to the divide between life and death. The pain in her legs was unbearable. Her right shoe was full of blood and sloshed. They arrived at the wall. There was a hole, they could feel air on their faces.
The children were sandwiched between the floorboards above and the ceiling below. Dust rained on them as Anchorite feet scuffled over them. The elder girl and the brother lay on their stomachs. Their bodies scanning beams. Breathing quietly into the haunted black pitch of this world between. He had dilated terrified eyes which were saucered large behind a dusty mask. He could feel his older sister lying beside him. He reached out and found her hand. She took it and held it. At her head lay the little one balanced long ways on a wooden rib. She was silent. Unconscious. She kissed her head. Silent pecks to remind her why life was worth living. She was shivering, the brother in a tremble and the little one was sunspot hot.
Skyte took his place opposite the journalist. He was eerily serene. He had been explaining the fertility of his cross bred sheep. Fecund was the word he chose to describe them. That there was no need to enforce breeding incentives. They were quite capable of going about it themselves. The ram would never take no for an answer he said with a knowing public servant smile. The baby kisser. He himself had always been celibate. Sexless. Had never harboured any desires in this direction. He observed nature's business. You could say I am anthropologist. Life interests me.
My son was born in the late morning of the 24th July. He came quickly. We were expecting an almighty fight. We had been warned that the first one puts up a struggle and is not so willing to appear. He was eager to live. Rigorous from the outset. I watched as my wife cracked and whipped during the final stages. Possessed. Ancient. He came out of her as if he was shedding a former skin. Life transforms itself in this way. The old making way for the new. The new intercensal of the old.
You scoured the area?
Yes, Legate. Under every nook and cranny.
Skyte's eyes had darkened. Everywhere. You looked everywhere?
For four hours, Legate.
And she has vanished?
Yes.
A child of eight years old. Into thin air?
Wake up! Wake up! Her breath like a fist to the chest. Pupils on. What time? Where? Trash. In her nose. Hands damp. The smell. Shit in her hair. Feet kick. Arms, thighs, hips. The fall. The fall. Eyes wide. Head jerks. Out.
.....
Skyte emerged wholesome. He was refreshed. Coffee'd. As he entered the chamber the seated ten arose and bowed. He swirled in. Robe light at the feet with an angelic whoosh. Soft black velvet slippers gliding without a squeak across the marble floor. Bald heads bowed. Right hand to chest.
Read the full crit here. http://www.flash-bang-movie-reviews.com/kung_fu_flid.html
And here's the trailer again.
I have his shirt from the day he died. Unwashed and stained with his blood. A relic you might say. I remember as a child that I would hang it beside my bed. I would imagine that he was watching me. Always there. Never left my side. My father. It has six holes in it. Only. So six bullets aimed high and wide. Six guns askew of their target. Six men dubious to his crime. Sympathetic to his conscience. His cause. His hope. To me that was hope. Six could not kill him. Six persuaded by his principle. Which in turn precipitated the fall of the regime. His words. His words. Our time.
The patrol was moving slowly from door to door. Figures in gowns halting people as they passed, knocking on doors. Questions, questions, faces dropping to the floor. No eyes connecting. Over the other side of the road a man is stopped. His bag searched. Another patrol man is beckoned over. The man gesticulates. Large theatrics. Antiquarian tragedian. The second patrol man pushes the man to the wall. Others join him. The girl keeps walking. She cannot stop now. The man is brought to his knees. She keeps her eyes ahead. A drone is getting nearer. She can feel its hum. Fanning the back of her head. The man stands up and starts to shout and she just keeps walking. By now a crowd is squinting out of the windows and the man is fenced by a crowd of gowns. He is pushed to the floor and his torso pinned with a boot and the back of his head cracked and his forehead split forward into the pavement. And the girl keeps walking and she has to look, to glance, because to not do so would be unnatural and yet all who walk pass keep their eyes to the ground, to the ground, but stretching to see. The mayhem is to her right and the man is dragged to his feet and bundled into the back of the Vee and the drone hums a monotonous threnody as it goes about its work of Hawking.
