Both of Greg’s eyes had become thin slits, and if they shut completely, the doctor would be forced to stop the fight.
Staggering toward his corner, Greg’s coach acted as his guide dog, steering him the remainder of the way and positioning him on the stool. The doctor’s stare locked on Greg, and the decision to allow the fight to continue or not was a back-and-forth tussle of its own.
The doctor told the referee while exiting the cage, “Neither of those eyes can take any more damage.”
Midway through the round, the tunnel shut on Greg’s vision.
Welcome to MMA Storytime’s 100 Word Flash Fiction Challenge!
Each week, writers who choose to participate will be given a prompt and 100 words. Much like two mixed martial artists meeting in the cage: a minimal ruleset can create endless possibility and wild excitement.
Prompted words or themes will be posted each Monday, and writers will have until Sunday evening to share their entry. Once you are done, create a pingback—following the inserted instructions (here)—or add a link to your entry in the comments section.
Write 100 words.
Use the current week’s word or theme prompt.
Create a pingback or add your link in the comments section.
Kenny would always claim: his endurance had no rival.
Whether sparring on the mats, sprinting around the track, or strength training at the gym, the lungs of Kenny’s teammates would burn and their muscles filled with lactic acid, but Kenny continued like the Energizer Bunny.
Kenny’s coach wasn’t concerned about his ability to push an unfathomable pace for three, hard fought rounds, though the championship rounds—four and five—were a different ballgame. With a title fight looming on the horizon, the confidence Kenny possessed in his gas tank was second to none.
Coach attempted to instill the difficulty of competing, if necessary, for two rounds more than usual, “Those extra ten minutes, along with the added pressure, aren’t like anything you’ve dealt with before.”
The bell for the fourth sounded, Kenny struggled more than usual for a deep breath, and a bit of concern formed in the back of his mind about how long it would take until he’d be running on fumes.
“Man, your jab is rubbish,” Coach barked from the corner.
Eight rounds into a ten round sparring session, each of Joey’s sixteen-ounce gloves felt like they’d been dipped in lead, and he struggled keeping his hands close to his chin for defense let alone gain an advantage with any sort of offense.
Between rounds, Coach advised, “Measure your distance with a few stiff jabs, plant your feet, and then bring that right to his chin from the outfield.”
All Joey could muster was the biggest punch he could pull from the energy reserves, which, in reality, couldn’t have popped a grape at this point.
Joey’s sparring partner took advantage of the opening, peppering him with punches until he dropped to the canvas, and Coach was right there to remind him, “Jabs before haymakers, kid.”
“Bait her with feints and uncork that right hand as soon as she bites,” Coach modeled the necessary movements as an example to pair with his words.
Clarissa believed her MMA debut was going better than the panic in Coach’s voice would suggest, but that’s when she realized what was absent—at the most needed moment—from her mindset: violence. Kill or be killed.
Leaving the stool to enter the third, and final, round, Clarissa bit down hard on her mouthpiece, trapping Coach’s advice in her skull and severing the ‘happy-to-be-there’ mentality.
“Lovely execution, Clarissa,” Coach repeated as though he’d been zapped into a state of constant shock after Clarissa knocked her opponent out cold.
The commentators sitting cage side were drawn toward the edge of their seats as Sirens called Odysseus from out at sea.
Hypnotized by the striking clinic on display at the hands of a Brazilian legend in—known simply as “Vibora,” which meant viper in Portuguese—the play-by-play discussion led viewers to believe: the knockout was a forgone conclusion.
In the moment, their analysis didn’t sound home cooking. Human bodies, typically, aren’t supposed to absorb that much punishment, but when you’re a Russian wrestler built like a stack of Legos, it seemed otherwise.
“Vibora” stabbed at his stocky opponent with a combination of two left jabs and an overhand right, punctuated with a tenderizing leg kick.
When the punches missed, the outsider, in one, dynamic motion, snatched the flying leg from the sky, hoisted “Vibora” above his head, smashed him into the canvas, and sent shockwaves through the now silenced arena.
Hundreds stood before the venue’s mouth, pumping signs in the air, screaming for an end to MMA—human cockfighting.
The manner in which these social justice warriors rallied online and postured at anyone trying to cross their fence of fiery flesh, it was unclear whether they were attempting to cancel California’s biggest MMA promotion or start up a new fight league of their own.
A long weekend defending territory, skipping meals in hopes of tipping the scales in their favor, and celebrating victory after affecting attendance.
Too bad the band of misguided protestors never noticed their similarities with MMA.