The idea behind this small piece was to experiment with fight scene pacing and clear communication of what was happening with the reader. I made sure to keep it limited to a single character and avoided naming any other characters or getting to absorbed in describing characters for the sake of the prompt. The fight mainly focuses on one-on-one, hand-to-hand combat. I’m not sure if my goals were accomplished, but I’m somwhat satisfied with the attempt. I did take the liberty to name the piece, due to the setting it’s based in, for further clarification.
The Fight Club
Flyn panted hard as he jumped back from what would have been a hard punch to the nose. The screams from the arena were hardly noticeable as he remained focused on his opponent in front of him. Zig-zagging back towards him he attempted to take him down with a right hook, only for his fist to meet air. He realized his mistake when he felt the wind leaving his body. Choking he had no time to recover before he was hit again in the jaw. He barely managed to block the next few rounds, each punch felt as if he were being pummeled with stones. It was as if his knuckles were—
Dizzly he glanced at his opponents’ hands. He was wearing gloves with small linings patched with a contrasting fabric above each knuckle, with each likely having small pieces of metal placed beneath it acting like knuckledusters. Wasn’t that cheating? Not that it would matter, it was admittedly very effective. Great.
He side-stepped just in time to avoid another hit and maneuvered around back towards the center of the ring. A few more knocks to the head with those gloves and he might not witness the end of the fight. Wheezing, he blocked another blow and feigned a jab, bringing his knee up instead, he winded his opponent in return, giving him barely enough time to regain his own balance. Having a knuckleduster is only as good as the man wielding it. He had put up quite the fight, but Flyn was faster and didn’t give him time to recuperate. He swiftly tripped his opponent and raced to get on top of him, raining down punch after punch, almost punching the referee trying to part them.
He had won. He blinked dumbly, staring at the cheering crowd as his hand was held high. He smiled apologetically at the ref, who either didn’t care or was used to the fighter’s adrenaline. He considered reporting the gloves, but after seeing the gear of the upcoming fighters he decided to drop it. He didn’t want any unwanted attention, or enemies for that matter. He collected his cash and walked out into the dark silent street above.
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