Sunday Snippet: Poetry in Motion

Howdy,

Remember when I said I was ready to start marking the death toll on Sons of Anarchy? Totally didn't know it would include so many. Will have to wait until next week's post to note the number, if that's even possible. I admire Kurt Sutter's willingness to make a bold choice and stand by it. He always claims his show doesn't flinch from showing the ugly side of things and honestly, I'm thrilled to see what happens when something the club is involved in bites them on the ass. Hopefully I've made my thoughts clear without giving away too many details. J

Strike Back is almost halfway through its run and my head sorta spins with everything going on. It's one of the things I love about watching. Stonebridge better catch a break soon and he needs to figure out what the hell he got into when he slashed his arm open. Something tells me that seemingly small injury will end up being the key to everything about whatever attack is being planned.

GAH! My shows are eating up too much of my brain. LOL

Moving on…

Tonight's post is from Poetry in Motion. I'm not sure if this will end up as a short story or novella, but I love how it started. A single random scene where description sort of became the main character. Right, that probably doesn't make sense, but Reagan pretty much needed me to write it and get it on the page. J

Here's the tagline:

Ian Flannigan, a talented athlete, wants to take the crown on the planetary Sky Dawg circuit. But when he inadvertently causes the death of a competitor, he has to decide if he can keep it together enough to win, which won't be easy with the coach's daughter constantly pushing for him to lose control.

And a sneaky peek…

The quick punch-jab-shuffle rhythm coming from across the gym drew her attention. Reagan loved a good bout. She finished up her workout and made her way over. The sparring session would be fun to watch. Whoever had the ring—they weren’t holding back.

Approaching the squared off area, her breath hitched… her pulse leapt… hell, her heart skipped a beat when she discovered who wore the gloves today.

Ian.

With the old man—who held his own—not that she expected less from the elder Ramsey. She’d spent hours listening to him talk about impromptu matches aboard the freighter he and Sal Moreno used to haul for. Her dad had chops.

But Ian?

Ian fought by the numbers. Technically. Mechanically. No heart. No heat. Hence the reason the old man usually won.

Except now?

Form and function met passionate intensity.

The bunch and flex of muscle under his skin with each jab—

—the measured shuffle of his feet keeping time with a rhythmic cadence—

—accented by the rapid-fire thud of leather hitting skin when his gloves found their mark—

—all mixed up with the staccato breath sounds with each connection made or absorbed.

He’s poetry in motion. She watched Ian move through the sparring match with her father, thinking Ian had finally found the way to let go.

Nothing wasted. Ian gave his all. Every movement fluid, Ian fought with controlled precision tempered by instinctive reaction. Slowly and methodically, he chipped away at Ramsey's defenses, making surprise moves that caught her father off guard. Intuitively, he blocked and made shots he’d never been able to pull off before.

Ian finally sparred the way he should in the ring, the way he rode when it didn't matter, when he hopped on a sked for the sheer joy of riding. Holding nothing back. Using pure instinct. Going full out until the old man—winded and worn out—stopped the bout.

Magnificent.

Not that she’d ever tell Ian. Once had been enough.

But damn. He'd become a pleasure to watch.

Reagan melted back into the shadows and left unnoticed.

Or so she thought.

Yep. Ian is as hyper-aware of her as she is of him. Seriously, this one is so much fun to write. J

That's it for this week. Catch everyone on the flip.

ML Skye