Last time I posted this, someone said it's too descriptive. I'd like more opinions. Please do tell my about the writing style, mistakes and opinions on how to make it better.
She whirled the metal as swiftly as she could, till it became a blur of white and blue. Years of dedicated training had brought her here- a moment she had waited for with keen anticipation. Her heart pounded with a mixture of fear and excitement. She tried to hold on to the twirling “baton” pausing a moment later.
‘No! You do not stop so abruptly! You make yourself vulnerable for attack. Pick up your sword and try again!’ ordered her coach, his voice lined with authority.
Grumbling inwardly, she picked up the sword hesitantly and launched into mirroring her master’s mesmerising movements. She patiently fed the sword energy to sustain itself. After a few initial twirls- she struck gold again. The sword swirled freely above her head; pivot like between her softly gripped fingers. Relief washed over her. This time, she employed the assail stance; the sword angled for attack along her left thigh. Her arms were heavy as lead and with herculean effort, she lifted them.
Block. Slash. Jab. Defend. Crouch. Parry. Her sword cut through air like a whip. Finally she had comprehended this move; the very move that had captivated her; enrobed with perplexity and mystical feelings that had gravitated her to Swordsmanship.
Living in 2047, learning Self-Defence was futile. But for her, swordsmanship was a calling, a part of her soul that continued to blaze more radiantly over the years. From the moment she saw the cryptic movements of her master at the tender age of 5, her heart beat furiously and continued to do so for Swordsmanship.
‘Our One-on-One sessions are quite useful aren’t they?’ claimed her master, his tanned face bent slightly towards the left shoulder and his weightless body tensed and rigid like a panther, ready to pounce.
‘I’m not afraid of loneliness. I honestly think work done alone is more efficient than work done with the jibber-jabber of people.’ She replied with a frown, unsuccessful in biting back her viciousness.
Her master paused for a moment.
‘I was like you. Aggressive. Ambitious. Focused. I didn’t allow “friends” to oppress me; rather I took to them only when it was absolutely required. I’m glad you chose Swordsmanship. Youngsters prefer guns over tradition.’
Saying so, her master walked out, his feet gracefully sliding across the cushioned floor.
She slid to her knees and sat down opposite to the window from where she could appreciate the grandiose view of The Asian City.
His words gave her something to ponder over. The air was heavy with questions when she chose swordsmanship- something that requires years of perfection as compared to mechanised options. People had speculated when the sword had been chosen over the tantalising option of pistols, automatics and machine guns; an option that exercised only one finger and required minimal work.
Reya, like all the citizens of “Pangaea” knew nothing significant about the race she belonged to. Classification based on race was prohibited, a rather wise law; but one couldn’t help but wonder. Did her ancestral roots somehow propagate her towards the raw power of swords? She’d never know.
Scanning the ancient clock with her languid eyes; which hung heavily on the frail wooden walls of her training room, she realised she had overshot the stipulated time for training. Cursing herself, she hastily picked up her scanty belongings which were scattered all over the place. She removed her backpack which floated aimlessly over the Levitator and clumsily ran across the room and towards the door. The patter of her feet was muffled by the revelling padded floors and her lustrous black locks played to the tune of the pleasurable winds, which softly blew through the French windows.
Outside the room, she hurriedly straightened her stray wisps of hair and slipped on her sneakers. She stuffed her books into her bag and pranced across the spacious lobby to reach the grand steps; 54 in number; to commemorate the unification of Asia. Constructed of marble, these stairs were not meant to be run on- Reya did not care. She slipped and slid across them dangerously, raising eyebrows and bemused expressions from onlookers.
She landed on the lobby of the 44th floor and without a second glance she ran inside the golden elevator with opened doors, painstakingly dragging her bulky bag and sword. But the doors refused to close, sensing the presence of another being nearing it. Annoyed and breathless after her long sprint, Reya tried to concentrate on her goal. ‘Basement!’ she commanded the elevator. She heard the tap of shoes against the floor and before she realised, she was face to face with a man desperately trying to beat the closing doors.
She whirled the metal as swiftly as she could, till it became a blur of white and blue. Years of dedicated training had brought her here- a moment she had waited for with keen anticipation. Her heart pounded with a mixture of fear and excitement. She tried to hold on to the twirling “baton” pausing a moment later.
‘No! You do not stop so abruptly! You make yourself vulnerable for attack. Pick up your sword and try again!’ ordered her coach, his voice lined with authority.
Grumbling inwardly, she picked up the sword hesitantly and launched into mirroring her master’s mesmerising movements. She patiently fed the sword energy to sustain itself. After a few initial twirls- she struck gold again. The sword swirled freely above her head; pivot like between her softly gripped fingers. Relief washed over her. This time, she employed the assail stance; the sword angled for attack along her left thigh. Her arms were heavy as lead and with herculean effort, she lifted them.
Block. Slash. Jab. Defend. Crouch. Parry. Her sword cut through air like a whip. Finally she had comprehended this move; the very move that had captivated her; enrobed with perplexity and mystical feelings that had gravitated her to Swordsmanship.
Living in 2047, learning Self-Defence was futile. But for her, swordsmanship was a calling, a part of her soul that continued to blaze more radiantly over the years. From the moment she saw the cryptic movements of her master at the tender age of 5, her heart beat furiously and continued to do so for Swordsmanship.
‘Our One-on-One sessions are quite useful aren’t they?’ claimed her master, his tanned face bent slightly towards the left shoulder and his weightless body tensed and rigid like a panther, ready to pounce.
‘I’m not afraid of loneliness. I honestly think work done alone is more efficient than work done with the jibber-jabber of people.’ She replied with a frown, unsuccessful in biting back her viciousness.
Her master paused for a moment.
‘I was like you. Aggressive. Ambitious. Focused. I didn’t allow “friends” to oppress me; rather I took to them only when it was absolutely required. I’m glad you chose Swordsmanship. Youngsters prefer guns over tradition.’
Saying so, her master walked out, his feet gracefully sliding across the cushioned floor.
She slid to her knees and sat down opposite to the window from where she could appreciate the grandiose view of The Asian City.
His words gave her something to ponder over. The air was heavy with questions when she chose swordsmanship- something that requires years of perfection as compared to mechanised options. People had speculated when the sword had been chosen over the tantalising option of pistols, automatics and machine guns; an option that exercised only one finger and required minimal work.
Reya, like all the citizens of “Pangaea” knew nothing significant about the race she belonged to. Classification based on race was prohibited, a rather wise law; but one couldn’t help but wonder. Did her ancestral roots somehow propagate her towards the raw power of swords? She’d never know.
Scanning the ancient clock with her languid eyes; which hung heavily on the frail wooden walls of her training room, she realised she had overshot the stipulated time for training. Cursing herself, she hastily picked up her scanty belongings which were scattered all over the place. She removed her backpack which floated aimlessly over the Levitator and clumsily ran across the room and towards the door. The patter of her feet was muffled by the revelling padded floors and her lustrous black locks played to the tune of the pleasurable winds, which softly blew through the French windows.
Outside the room, she hurriedly straightened her stray wisps of hair and slipped on her sneakers. She stuffed her books into her bag and pranced across the spacious lobby to reach the grand steps; 54 in number; to commemorate the unification of Asia. Constructed of marble, these stairs were not meant to be run on- Reya did not care. She slipped and slid across them dangerously, raising eyebrows and bemused expressions from onlookers.
She landed on the lobby of the 44th floor and without a second glance she ran inside the golden elevator with opened doors, painstakingly dragging her bulky bag and sword. But the doors refused to close, sensing the presence of another being nearing it. Annoyed and breathless after her long sprint, Reya tried to concentrate on her goal. ‘Basement!’ she commanded the elevator. She heard the tap of shoes against the floor and before she realised, she was face to face with a man desperately trying to beat the closing doors.