imageronin avatar


His opponent falls to earth, mind disconnected from reality.

One punch, honed through the repetition of knuckle upon canvas. A dedication to pugilism that had eroded the nervous boy he once was, creating a golem whose fists crafted oblivion.

His name would ring out on those moments of victory, hands slapping his back, drinks thrust into his hand. In those early days, of punch bags and skipping ropes he would dream of such moments. Standing in the ring, a belt around his waist.


He retreats to the bar, downing his pint, rubbing bruised knuckles.

Waiting for his next bout.

3 comments add one below

  • avatar

    Horrorshow about 7 years ago

    I got a lot out of this. Thanks, imageronin.

  • avatar

    imageronin about 7 years ago

    thanks Horrorshow, appreciate your reading the piece and the comment, really enjoyed Seventy Pence ... best IR

  • avatar

    Horrorshow about 7 years ago

    Thanks, IR! Seventy Pence is my first effort here. I really look forward to reading more of your work.

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