Punching Bag Book Novels & Stories

Alex doesn’t notice them at first. Her world has narrowed to rhythm and impact—breath timed to strike, weight shifting, muscle memory burning clean lines through the fog in her head. The punching bag swings like a pendulum, each return answered with violence precise enough to be almost graceful. Elbow. Knee. Low kick. Her thoughts aren’t words anymore. They’re fragments. Flashes. A hand gripping too tightly. A voice saying half breed. A door that never should have closed. She pivots hard, drives a knee up into the bag with enough force to make the chains shriek in protest. Sweat slicks her skin, soaks the borrowed shirt clinging to her back. Her jaw is locked, teeth grinding just shy of crac

Wilson finally felt satisfied. He faced it with a foot in front and another behind. He was finally going to get serious with the black punching bag. He threw a left-handed jab. His hand was repelled without touching the sandbag. He began to throw straight heavy punches on the sandbag but nothing changed. The result remained the same. His fist did not once touch the sandbag, stopping mere centimeters away from the metallic surface. His punches slowly increased in power and his face got more and more serious until it contorted into a deep, furious frown. *piak* *piak* *piak* *piak*

SHELBURNE, VERMONT Cirilla's point of view Firmly, I adjusted the black boxing bag gloves around my wrists. I get my stance right by standing with my feet shoulder-width apart and my front foot facing the punching bag. I do not hesitate in unloading my punches, making sure I throw powerful and snappy punches at the punching bag. I plant my feet firmly when throwing the punches and when I'm not throwing punches I move around on my toes. My breathing labored. I've been at this for probably an hour or maybe more. I can't exactly tell. Suddenly, I'm getting bored with the exercise. It would have been a little more fun if I was sparring against an opponent. Now that would be entertaining.

Dad’s hands gripped the doorframe. “Ray… Bella…” He lay face down on the floor with his head banging against the floorboards. Another police officer walked over and grabbed his arm. “Sir, please control yourself. Do not interfere with the scene.” Dad shook the officer off. He stood up and turned toward my mother, lunging at her. He raised his arm and slapped Mom across the face. A sharp crack echoed through the living room. Her head lolled to one side and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

Chapter 12 - Annoyance Paige "I can't believe this shit." I hissed, throwing another punch at the punching bag. Sweat had my shirt sticking to me like a second skin. I don't know how much time had passed, but since our unpleasant meeting with Balor and the giant bomb he dropped. I had spent my time in here beating the shit out of this punching bag. If it were a person, they'd be on the floor, nothing but an unconscious, bloodied body.

I punched it and then heard Addy's laugh when it didn't even sway an inch. I eyed it, "What have they filled in it? Concrete?" Still laughing, Addy moved toward her own punching bag. After a few more tries, and sweating beads, the punching bag was still standing stubbornly. Beside me, the coach was advising the other student, "Straighten your punches, focus on your target, and channel all your energy in the punch."

🔷🔷🔷 Dimitri My fists hit the leather bag in a well thought out pattern, right, left, right, right, left, my taped lingers feeling the sting of the punches as I land them. My feet are wide as I shuffle around the bag as if it was an opponent. I don't know how long I've been in the gym; I've spared, lifted weights and even went on a four-mile run with a few of the men.

The punching bag wasn’t the enemy. But it felt like one. Sera’s fists moved like they used to fast, sharp, angry. But today, the bag wasn’t responding the way it should. Because she wasn’t. She missed her mark by two inches. Then overcorrected by seven. And when the final strike came, her foot pivoted wrong. Not clumsy. Deliberate. Like she was aiming for a pressure point that didn’t exist on the bag but did on a person.

I hit the bag. The first punch landed clean and the impact traveled up through my knuckles and wrist and the familiar sting of it cleared something in my head the way it always did. I hit it again. And again. The rhythm built and I let it take over and stopped thinking about messages and doors and ropes held in particular hands and just moved. The bag swung. I followed it.

And then I punch him again, and again, and again. “Need someone to hold that bag for you?” Raptor asks, walking over. I shrug, not sure I trust my voice at the moment. “Here. Use you whole body and put every bit of emotion you’re feeling behind it. Burn yourself out, then we’ll talk,” he says. I look at him, then nod. I begin punching again, the weight of the bag is heavier because Raptor holds it steady. I ignore the pain that shoots up my arms and legs, listening to the advice that Raptor is giving me on how to punch and kick harder.