How To Crack Your Shoulder Blade By Yourself Novels & Stories

That is why it works. It moves to intercept the clean throw that is not coming. The ugly throw takes it through the inside of the thigh. I move. Low. No flare. No grand burn. Just knees, hips, knife. My shoulder hits the first clone under the ribs. It is heavier than me and wrong under the skin. I drive the Phantom Blade into the tendon above its knee and twist. It does not scream. It drops. Sarah rips free with blood on her mouth that is not hers.

The kind that doesn’t come in a first-name-basis and safe-word crash course. “Once you lock this side,” Graham continues, looping around her torso with a practiced flick of his wrist, “you’ll want to create counterbalance here—” he pauses, looking over his shoulder at the audience, “—assuming your partner doesn’t wriggle too much.” A few chuckles ripple through the crowd. Even his demo partner smiles, shoulders relaxing. Someone up front raises a hand. "What if the bottom has a shoulder injury? Can you modify?"

When he finally did, I blacked out. My thumbs, ankles, and shoulders were all dislocated. So, I slipped my hands out of the cuffs and popped my thumbs back. Then I got to work on my ankles that were also chained to the wall. Once those were out, I worked on my shoulders, I didn’t need them to be dislocated but they were. So, I quickly popped them back into place.

Acting on pure, survival instinct, I slammed my boot onto the asphalt, using my own leg as a brutal brake while violently throwing the handlebars to the right. I twisted my body in mid-air, deliberately positioning myself beneath her, throwing my left shoulder down to take the full force of the impact as the motorcycle slid across the wet gravel. Craaaash! The metal frame scraped against the stones with a deafening, sparking screech before coming to a violent halt. The weight of the bike slammed directly into my left shoulder and arm, grinding my skin through the leather jacket against the jagged rocks. A sharp, blinding white-hot pain exploded in my shoulder, stealing the air right out of m

I ask. “You have to arc the energy back down your arm. Think of it like driving a car. If you turn the corner but it’s not tight enough, you’ll hit a curb. That was your shoulder lighting on fire. If you turn too tightly, you’ll also hit a curb, or in this instance, your underarm or chest would have lit on fire. It takes practice to arc the energy in just the right motion to go back down your arm. Try again,” she says. “You’re doing very well,” Ajax encourages.

“I I I I don’t think it’s very high sir” He cocks his head to the side and studies me “well we’re gonna have to fix that today then won’t we, take a deep breath in” by the time I breathe in he’s positioned himself with one hand on the rib and the other on my back. *Crack crack crick crack* “ahhhh ahhhhh ahhhhhhh oh my Gods! Agghhhh ahhhhh you’re killing me!” “will you hold still, one wrong move and you can make me puncture an organ or damage your spine or both! I’m almost done” * crack, crick, crack, crack* I cry out again and begin sweating profusely and I feel like I’m about to pass out.

The movement exposes my shoulder and he takes it, locking down and wrenching. I pivot with the torque, spin us again, and slam my elbow back into his ribs—once, twice—measured, precise. He grunts, grip tightening instead of loosening. Stubborn bastard! I drop my weight and catch his wrist, twisting hard and turning into him in one fluid motion. My forearm slides up under his, locking at the joint, shoulder braced to his chest. Now it’s my leverage. I press. He resists, muscles corded, feet planted wide. His free hand grips my forearm, trying to pry it loose.

That arrogance, he wore it like armor was exactly what got him in trouble. The hold he had on my arm was iron-quick and old-trained, the kind of grip born from practice and resentment. I felt the twist, felt the pressure, and then made a decision I’d made a thousand times in other rooms, other fights: I popped my shoulder out on purpose. Pain flared hot and immediate, then there was the strange, freeing looseness as the joint slipped out of place. I worked my hand until it was flexible, breath tight in my chest, and then pushed.

She was sharp, unyielding, like a blade unsheathed. The cane swung down again, and Harvey's eyes immediately widened as he subconsciously stopped breathing. "You'll only hurt your own hand if you use the cane like that," Finnegan's calm and instructive voice came from behind Elara. He stepped forward, and his large, calloused hand covered the back of hers, enclosing it completely. "Use your upper arm. Rotate from the elbow. Open your scapula. Let the power come from your waist—bring it down like this."

I hate myself. Grinding my teeth, I climbed off the floor. The back of my head throbbed as I moved but I dragged my way over to the door and managed to press my cheek on the cold metal, halting my breaths to focus on listening for any sounds. After seconds of unnerving silence, I twisted on my feet and raised my left shoulder before slamming into it as hard as I could.