(no subject)
Title: [Initiation]
Status: [Applicant]
Summary: [Opening chapter of a novel in progress]
Genre: [Hybrid of literary fiction and YA]
Word Count: [965]
Lemme get one thing straight. Holding your breath and closing your eyes doesn't even come close to preparing you to take your first chop in a wrestling ring. I'm not sure where I got the idea to try it, it wasn't something I was told. I just remember standing in the center of the mat, small and vulnerable before Denny Doyle. I couldn't stop staring at his wide-fingered, callused hands; I imagined what they were about to do to me, and I racked my brain for the best way to minimize their impact.
He'd already spent about two hours running me and the four guys in the class through a series of grueling drills. Push-ups, crunches, jumping jacks, and squats until our faces were burning and our muscles went limp. We got a short water break, and then it was right back to work-running the ropes on wobbly legs, taking bumps until our upper backs and shoulders were pink from continuous impact.
Three of the guys quit after that…one staggered to the warehouse entrance to puke, another collapsed into a folding chair facing the ring, and the last limped out the door, muttering about how if he wanted to be tortured he’d go home to his wife.
In any other situation, I might have taken my sore limbs and saturated clothing as a cue to exit as well, but I was so amazed that I outlasted all those guys. I guess I wanted to prove it wasn’t a fluke. Push myself and prove I could withstand a full session.
Besides that, my best friend Tim, the last man standing, was looking on from the opposite end of the ring. His fists were raised to chest height, set to thrust triumphantly in the air, as if my success against Denny was a foregone conclusion.
"You're doin great, Jul!" he said. "I know you can finish this!" The warmth in his voice numbed my aches and pains, diminished lingering doubts about what I was doing. I told myself I'd come too far, that Tim believed in me way too much to disappoint him. I ignored my screaming muscles, and straightened up to meet Denny’s intense gaze.
"Let’s get this over with." I said.
Denny raised his eyebrows at my stiff posture - shoulders back, chin forward. I held the pose, trying to look as serious and determined as a British royal guard.
I guess my façade was pretty transparent, because Denny shook his head and burst into laughter. “This ain’t the military,” he said, and then looked over his shoulder at Tim. “She always this stiff?”
Tim shrugged. “She was fine when she practiced with me.” He crossed the creaking ring, grabbed the tops of my arms, and gently shook me left and right. “Re-lax, okay? Believe me, chops are nothing after all that other shit.”
To convince me, he tugged on the collar of his T-shirt, exposing the patch of reddened skin where Denny had just struck him. The outline of a handprint, fingers splayed, was branded across his chest.
I must have winced, because Denny backed off, holding his palms out in front of him. "We can save this for another day if you’re not ready."
The suggestion was tempting, but Denny’s laugher had filled me with indignation. I needed to keep going just because he thought I couldn’t. “I can take it,” I said, hoping I’d cleared the tremble from my voice.
Tim gave me a thumbs up, and Denny took hold of my shoulders to guide me slowly against the nearest turnbuckle. He gave me an earnest smile and a friendly wink that took the edge off his hulking frame.
Don't worry, I'll go easy," he said.
I ignored my quivering stomach, and tilted my head back, bending my knees into a slight squat. The mat groaned and bounced beneath my feet, making me feel off-balance as I arched my back, offering Denny a clear shot at the half-circle of chest not covered by my tank top.
"You gotta brace yourself," Tim shouted. "Grab the ropes."
I leaned back against the ring post, turnbuckle padding against my spine, and raised my arms to grip the highest strand of duct-tape-wrapped elevator cable on each side.
Denny moved in, blocking my view of everything else. I wondered if he could smell the fear in my sweat. Then I remembered the guy slumped in the chair outside the ring, and the guy spewing his guts on the pavement and I realized I seemed pretty badass in comparison. I just needed to survive this final challenge to convince Denny I was worth his time, to show that I wasn't Tim's rat. I tried to keep this in mind as Denny shifted his weight, raising his arm above his head, and hauling back to gain momentum. When his hand started moving toward me, I scrunched my eyelids, filled my lungs with air, and squeezed the ropes on each side for dear life. I heard the scrape of metal on concrete as the guy in the chair leaned forward, and felt a faint breeze as Denny's hand flew past my face, landing hard and heavy on my sternum. I expected a hard slap, maybe a sharp sting, but it was more like someone had pierced my flesh and squeezed my lungs into a ball of putty.
I gasped, trying to recover the lost air and then lowered my eyes to my chest, marveling at the swelling patch of red. I could sense Denny observing my reaction. He was critiquing my response, gauging whether I'd be tough enough to handle that on a regular basis. I blinked back involuntary tears and rubbed my inflamed skin, taking deep, measured breaths that I hoped didn't show how much I wanted to collapse.
Status: [Applicant]
Summary: [Opening chapter of a novel in progress]
Genre: [Hybrid of literary fiction and YA]
Word Count: [965]
Lemme get one thing straight. Holding your breath and closing your eyes doesn't even come close to preparing you to take your first chop in a wrestling ring. I'm not sure where I got the idea to try it, it wasn't something I was told. I just remember standing in the center of the mat, small and vulnerable before Denny Doyle. I couldn't stop staring at his wide-fingered, callused hands; I imagined what they were about to do to me, and I racked my brain for the best way to minimize their impact.
He'd already spent about two hours running me and the four guys in the class through a series of grueling drills. Push-ups, crunches, jumping jacks, and squats until our faces were burning and our muscles went limp. We got a short water break, and then it was right back to work-running the ropes on wobbly legs, taking bumps until our upper backs and shoulders were pink from continuous impact.
Three of the guys quit after that…one staggered to the warehouse entrance to puke, another collapsed into a folding chair facing the ring, and the last limped out the door, muttering about how if he wanted to be tortured he’d go home to his wife.
In any other situation, I might have taken my sore limbs and saturated clothing as a cue to exit as well, but I was so amazed that I outlasted all those guys. I guess I wanted to prove it wasn’t a fluke. Push myself and prove I could withstand a full session.
Besides that, my best friend Tim, the last man standing, was looking on from the opposite end of the ring. His fists were raised to chest height, set to thrust triumphantly in the air, as if my success against Denny was a foregone conclusion.
"You're doin great, Jul!" he said. "I know you can finish this!" The warmth in his voice numbed my aches and pains, diminished lingering doubts about what I was doing. I told myself I'd come too far, that Tim believed in me way too much to disappoint him. I ignored my screaming muscles, and straightened up to meet Denny’s intense gaze.
"Let’s get this over with." I said.
Denny raised his eyebrows at my stiff posture - shoulders back, chin forward. I held the pose, trying to look as serious and determined as a British royal guard.
I guess my façade was pretty transparent, because Denny shook his head and burst into laughter. “This ain’t the military,” he said, and then looked over his shoulder at Tim. “She always this stiff?”
Tim shrugged. “She was fine when she practiced with me.” He crossed the creaking ring, grabbed the tops of my arms, and gently shook me left and right. “Re-lax, okay? Believe me, chops are nothing after all that other shit.”
To convince me, he tugged on the collar of his T-shirt, exposing the patch of reddened skin where Denny had just struck him. The outline of a handprint, fingers splayed, was branded across his chest.
I must have winced, because Denny backed off, holding his palms out in front of him. "We can save this for another day if you’re not ready."
The suggestion was tempting, but Denny’s laugher had filled me with indignation. I needed to keep going just because he thought I couldn’t. “I can take it,” I said, hoping I’d cleared the tremble from my voice.
Tim gave me a thumbs up, and Denny took hold of my shoulders to guide me slowly against the nearest turnbuckle. He gave me an earnest smile and a friendly wink that took the edge off his hulking frame.
Don't worry, I'll go easy," he said.
I ignored my quivering stomach, and tilted my head back, bending my knees into a slight squat. The mat groaned and bounced beneath my feet, making me feel off-balance as I arched my back, offering Denny a clear shot at the half-circle of chest not covered by my tank top.
"You gotta brace yourself," Tim shouted. "Grab the ropes."
I leaned back against the ring post, turnbuckle padding against my spine, and raised my arms to grip the highest strand of duct-tape-wrapped elevator cable on each side.
Denny moved in, blocking my view of everything else. I wondered if he could smell the fear in my sweat. Then I remembered the guy slumped in the chair outside the ring, and the guy spewing his guts on the pavement and I realized I seemed pretty badass in comparison. I just needed to survive this final challenge to convince Denny I was worth his time, to show that I wasn't Tim's rat. I tried to keep this in mind as Denny shifted his weight, raising his arm above his head, and hauling back to gain momentum. When his hand started moving toward me, I scrunched my eyelids, filled my lungs with air, and squeezed the ropes on each side for dear life. I heard the scrape of metal on concrete as the guy in the chair leaned forward, and felt a faint breeze as Denny's hand flew past my face, landing hard and heavy on my sternum. I expected a hard slap, maybe a sharp sting, but it was more like someone had pierced my flesh and squeezed my lungs into a ball of putty.
I gasped, trying to recover the lost air and then lowered my eyes to my chest, marveling at the swelling patch of red. I could sense Denny observing my reaction. He was critiquing my response, gauging whether I'd be tough enough to handle that on a regular basis. I blinked back involuntary tears and rubbed my inflamed skin, taking deep, measured breaths that I hoped didn't show how much I wanted to collapse.