Tank Man

• Ryan Kloner, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2021

My long luscious hair strides through the air as my legs allow me to boost myself off the fence and smoothly spring into the air gracefully as if I am jumping over the moon. Beautiful flowers appear all around me in all sorts of colours, shapes and sizes. I close my eyes as if I am in a fairytale. Though this imaginary world is soon to diminish. I am greeted back to the miserable city of Beijing in a tick. Dark clouds, packed Tiananmen Square, the metallic smell of gunpowder. I remember what I am here to accomplish. Dull green tanks occupy all my eyesight as I dig my destroyed gumboots in the gravel floor, remaining stationary. I tilt my head up. Much to everyone’s shock, I stand directly in front of the petrifyingly-200-times-my-size armoured machinery. The green dinosaurs’ feet start to provide the ground turbulence. It not only enhances my bodys’ instability, but also blasts my ears out. It moves left. I block its pathway. It moves right. I block its pathway. I could play this game for hours and it feels like I do. Suddenly, the fear of death, failure and humiliation - it all vanishes. I try to block out all the protesters' shouts coming from my left and squint my eyes possessing a mission. I lock my hand in a claw-like shape. Climb after climb, step after step, my watering eyes try to resist the cold gusts of wind as I look down on all the people. I’ve made it to the top of the tank.

I drop my head through the small intricate opening where the driver must be. I can barely see them. I can’t tell if they can see me either. I whisper “ you’ve got to stop this. This isn’t creating peace, only further conflict.” Before I get any confirmation of the driver hearing me, I am already getting electrically-shocked by my fuzzy pants as I slide down the tank like I’m a six year old on a slippery dip. Before I can do anything more, I broadly open my chest and take in the thrilling roar of the crowd. Even people on nearby apartment balconies are contributing their ‘yahoos’.

Before I can even think of what to do next, an old-looking cyclist and three men are progressing my way. They have come to support me - at least that’s what I thought. I can barely hear the cyclist over the blaring bell he is ringing and the rustle of his wheels scraping against the gravel. The three men, you ask. Well, let's just say I find my body being dragged off the rough gravel as my pants scratch open. Am I in trouble? Should I not have done this? I never find out as my childhood karate lessons give me ease of escaping the tight arm lock, and my handily-long legs allow me to sprint. I’m not sure where I’m headed, but I for sure, will never be seen again.