Free Poison Flowers by Nat Burns

unkempt school of karate had proven unacceptable. The art of karate was not her discipline, anyway. A more likely candidate had been a small t’ai chi ch’uan school, but she decided t’ai chi, the art of moving meditation, would have to wait until she mastered the highest taekwondo belt.
    Master Wood’s, it seemed, was the only studio which adhered to the same martial art philosophy she did. She saw martial art training as a way of life, a path of self-improvement that must, pretty much, be traveled alone. Tournament competition was fine for some if that was what their own personal path encompassed, but it was not her way. She preferred the path of solitude, of quiet accomplishment under a master’s tutelage. Trophies meant nothing to her, and every studio she had entered thus far had displayed trophies indicating competition as a measure of their worth.
    Why couldn’t Master Wood be more agreeable? Obviously she and Marya held to the same philosophy. The framed pictures in Dorry’s lobby had portrayed that same private path of personal growth that Marya believed in. Why did Dorry have to hate her so? She wondered about this hatred, especially as it related to her status as a master. Shouldn’t Dorry be past that type of tawdry emotion? Deep inside she recognized the fact that masters were as human as their students, but shouldn’t someone who had trained so long and hard that she had won a black belt of rank many times over be able to set aside her feelings and train her with equanimity?
    Her outlook brightened suddenly. Of course she should! This was not her problem to deal with; this was something that Dorry needed to work through. Marya knew then that the right thing to do was to return to Master Wood’s
dojang
and work as hard as possible following her own path. Dorry would come to see her as an ally eventually—because she would prove herself to her.
    Full of new purpose, she decided to turn around and go home. As she pulled to one side, her eye was caught by a large window advertisement featuring a
dobok
-wearing taekwondo artist executing a high sidekick. The neon sign above the building read
Barnes Taekwondo
in tall red letters. Seeing no trophies in the window, she decided to stop one last time.
    A smiling man with a blond crew cut and wearing a white taekwondo tunic greeted her just inside the door.
    “Can I help you, miss?” His tone was polite, but somehow she sensed sarcasm beneath his politeness.
    “Yes, I’m interested in training in taekwondo. What type of programs do you offer?”
    “How old is your son?” he asked, eyes examining her curiously.
    “Oh, I don’t have a son. This is for me.”
    He paused a long moment.
    “Well, we have a six-week sign-up session just starting. It’s a hundred forty-nine dollars to join. Then if you want tournament training, sparring, like that, it’s an added sixty and you have to buy all your own gear.”
    “I’m not interested in sparring,” she said when a lull fell in his dialogue.
    He smiled widely, “I didn’t think so, but I’m supposed to tell that to everyone, even the women who come in. I suppose you’ll want to try the class for a week or so before you decide whether you want to sign up for the long course, right?”
    His patronizing smirk was getting under her skin in a major way, and she could feel her cursed Irish temper getting the better of her.
    “Look here, you cretin,” she said in a low voice, her tone steely but still under control. “I wouldn’t take your blasted class if you were the last school in a nuclear holocaust world. Your attitude toward women is appalling.”
    Her voice had risen against her will, and an older man, a master wearing a dark blue
dobok
, appeared in the
dojang
entryway. He studied the situation for a moment, then spoke, his voice commanding. “Thomas, what is going on here?”
    Thomas bowed his head and gestured respectfully to the master. “The lady is seeking instruction, sir!”
    The master’s