By Jacob Magnus
Copyright 2012 Jacob Magnus
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Blood ran down his scalp. He wiped it and tried to rise, but the guard kicked him in the chest, and pressed him into the ground with his boot. Soro struggled under the pressure, and looked for a way out. All he could see was the man’s shadow, a mere silhouette against the brightly lit cherry blossom tree. As he looked up, the guard raised his baton, another shadow against the pink and purple blossom.
The shadowy baton fell, like a fragment of black blossom, rotten before its time, from the radiant tree. Soro watched it fall, seeming as slow and graceful as the blossom, and pictured the moment when it would strike, and raise a red flower from his skull.
The instant seemed to expand, as if a god, in his black humour, wanted him to appreciate the wonder of existence, in the very last moment before it was extinguished. His mind sped free, and sought safety in the past.