Known as “Bill Kill,” he left a wake of welterweights in bodybags up and down the east coast. If William could get past Henry Burns, a highly touted warrior from the west side, he would earn both praise and a long desired contract from The Big Show, the globe’s leading MMA promotion.
The pair met in the middle; each intent on punishing the other.
In a wild scramble, Burns wound up mounted above William, and the California native wasted no time in mining his skull for gold, dropping heavy, concussive elbows.
When one of the blunt force strikes removed William’s eyebrow like a slice of watermelon, the cage side physician stopped the bout, leading Burns toward the sport’s glitz and glamour and William back to the drawing board.
The butterflies in Tyler’s stomach bounced around like heated molecules. After a handful of fights, he thought he had a handle on his nerves, but a belt on the line and a huge opportunity for his career injected some self doubt.
“Breathe and visualize,” Tyler’s teammate repeated, and a few butterflies began flying in formation.
Tyler didn’t worry about the peanuts the promoter called “cash” or about his head being bashed in; instead, he believed he could do something great in the sport, and a loss would stall everything.
An official poked their head into Tyler’s dressing room, “You’re up!”
Travis had just earned a unanimous decision victory over a tough, undefeated Hawaiian. Undefeated himself, he had yet to experience judges’ scorecards. The cards tonight read: 30-27, 30-27, and 30-26. Absolute dominance before his hometown’s loyal, supportive fanbase.
By the look on Travis’s face, one would have surmised he had lost.
“Great fight, Trav..,” a member of the media began, wanting to capture the winner’s reflection following the fifteen-minute, back-and-forth war.
Travis interrupted, “That was abysmal. I don’t get paid by the minute. I don’t give a fuck what any judges think,” and then stormed off.
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.”