There have been punches that he never saw coming but this right hook glides in like it’s in slo-mo. He pulls his head out of danger and blocks the sequel. The bright metal DING-DING of the bell announces another intermission, a chance to gather his breath, rest his leaden legs and receive cosmetic attention from his corner. A touch up of vaseline here, a swab of cotton wool there, while he’s getting instructions from his trainer. None of it is going in, of course. All of the preparation, rehearsing with stunt doubles, it’s all muscle memory now; he’s being directed by his subconscious so it’s damn lucky he’s a natural fighter and not some phony just playing the part, following a round-by-round choreographed script.
All his life has been leading up to this, his one shot at the title: name in lights, fame and fortune. Images swirl in his battered brain of sparring as a kid with his dad, before things went sour. Violence was always prowling, just off camera, until a parental punchbag scene: a messy backstory in need of an edit.
His flashback is interrupted by Hair and Make-Up: they push his gumshield back in… ‘places, everyone’… and the metal clapper rings out again.
His dodge-weary thighs haul him up from his stool for the final round. He’s gone the distance, it’s do or die. His gaze pans, locks on his opponent and he pulls everything into focus for the big finale.
Then the twist: a blockbuster smashes into his face delivering flashes of light and dark as he jellies into a corrective stagger. Punch-drunk on a cocktail of jabs served by leather-fettled fists, the contender’s performance has fallen from Fresh, lurching towards Rotten.
He doesn’t see the upper cut that brings down the curtain.
Fade to black.
I’m very pleased to have scored a third place with this piece in the Fosseway Writers Flash Fiction competition on the theme of “The Bell”. Huge thanks to Anne Howkins for her work with the group on nailing a good flash story.
Leave a comment