Slow Motion Sword Dancing

The shovel was laid into his hands, cherry red against his pallid skin. Grasping the handle, something was different. He glanced at the handle that fitted so well into his hand and noticed there was something crudely scratched into the plastic. He squinted his eyes and leaned closer to the handle until he could read: I'M SORRY. Then he saw it, the glint of steel in the white light of the sun. Scramble. Dodge. Pause. Breathe. Fall. Scramble. Dodge. The Arab turned, slowly, like weights were pulling on his limbs. As he turned, he saw the war cry escape from the Arab's mouth, but it sounded like a moan, long and echoing, for time had slowed. The hands of the clock were being pushed against their natural motions. Counter clockwise.

"Tick. Tock. Stop the clock." the Arab sang, "Rid. Rid. Be rid of the kid."

The boy's body convulsed in shivers. He hit the ground and sent sand, grey and sparkling, spraying into the sky where it hung, like stars. The kid rolled to his right, covering himself in the diamond powder sand, letting it stick to his skin and ran. Shink. The sword hit the sand. The Arab watched sadly as the boy scrambled away. His task was incomplete.