Word: chested
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...trick are you trying to play? Your only way out is to bow your head in submission. Otherwise you will suffer.'' She shook her fist in front of my nose and spat on the floor. Another young man used a stick to smash the mirror hanging over the blackwood chest facing the front door. He tore the mirror's carved frame off its hook and hurled it against the banister. On the hook, he hung a small blackboard with a quotation from Mao: ''When the enemies with guns are annihilated, the enemies without guns still remain.'' The Red Guards read...
...caught his leg just as he raised his foot to crush the next cup. He toppled, and we fell in a heap together. The boy regained his feet and kicked me right in my chest. I cried out in pain. The others gathered around us, shouting at me angrily for interfering in their revolutionary activities. One of the teachers said to me, ''What do you think you are doing? Are you trying to protect your possessions?'' ''No, no, you can do whatever you like with my things. But you mustn't break these porcelain treasures. They are old and valuable...
...below freezing, but inside the air is thick and pungent with the heavy scent of perspiration. A small microphone is turned on, and a middle-aged man with a face creased with grief began chanting a mournful dirge. The penitents, sitting in rough circles, begin to pound their chests in a powerful rhythm amplified by a hundred chest cavities. Deep and as resonant as a heartbeat, the sound gradually changes tenor as thin cotton shirts split with the force of repeated blows and palms slap bare skin. Men wail...
...chanting grows more frenzied, and as the seated men raise their voices to join in with shouts of "Ya Hussein!" (Oh Hussein!) and "Islam Zindabad!" (Long Live Islam!), a few move to the middle of the circles, chain flails gripped in both hands. The chest pounding grows stronger, quicker and louder. Following the rhythm, the men in the middle crouch down, spring from the ground and use the full force of acceleration to slam the flails down on their exposed backs. Bruises bloom, dark and malevolent, but their faces register no pain, only grief, or an almost otherworldly conviction...
...girl named Laketa wrote her name. On a hot July night last year, Laketa awaited her turn in a double-Dutch jump-rope game on the walkway of her building. Suddenly, the taunting chants of warring gangs filled the air, and gunfire broke out. A bullet pierced Laketa's chest, and she fell to the pavement. She died on the hospital operating table. Laketa was nine years...