Punching Bag Book Novels & Stories

It was a warning. "Prove it." I looked at the punching bag. Then at him. My hands trembled, but I stepped forward. I raised my fist, remembering the way Ronan had shown the fighters in the courtyard—pivot your hips, drive through the shoulder, let your bones follow the momentum. I swung. My knuckles connected with the leather. A sharp crack. Pain exploded up my arm, but the bag swung violently, leaving a faint dent in the heavy surface. I gasped, clutching my hand. It was red and raw.

Selma grinned. She led us over to the back where several large punching bags were hung. She picked up the gloves that laid next to the bags and handed each of us a pair. And for the next half hour… we all punched and kicked and tackled the bags. I noticed as I was throwing punches .. one right after another … I could feel some of that aggression leave my body. I could feel some of the depressive state I’d been in lift. I slowly started to feel better … pulling my own self out of my funk.

Speed in my arms. Lily's eyes flicker from the normal forest green to that of Azura's. Green glow with specks of gold. The deep rumble of her growl tremored through her mind and into her throat. The design of the punching bag heightened as Azura's eyes matched with hers. Tightly woven fabric. She shifted her foot back to pivot with her hips as she brought her shoulder blade towards the center of her back. The growl reached up to her tongue and seeped through her elongated fangs. As she gritted them together, she thrust her fist forward. There was a flow of wind that pushed against her knuckles before her fist contacted the bag. The bag rippled from the impact and the chain that held it sudde

I might not lose her for that reason, but I'm definitely going to lose her for the other reason, I'm literally counting the fucking hours I have left with her. Pulling the switch down, the lights comes on, and I drop the bag to the floor, pulling off my shirt and my jeans. I get into the loose shorts, letting it hang low on my hips and wrap the fucking black boxing gloves around my knuckles aggressively than necessary. Getting on the ring, I stand before the punching bag and let out a large puff of my breath, letting my fist move against the black bag, and it swings backwards before coming towards me again, but I don't allow it to meet its balance before punching at it again.

The sun hung low in the sky, its golden rays casting long shadows across the field. I walked over to the punching bags that hung from sturdy metal frames, their worn surfaces a testament to the countless strikes they’d endured. Pulling my hair into a ponytail, I tightened the wraps around my hands and took a deep breath. With the first punch, a sense of focus washed over me. My knuckles connected with the bag in a satisfying thud, and I quickly fell into a rhythm. Left jab. Right hook. Followed by a swift uppercut. Each movement felt deliberate, controlled. The bag swung back and forth, and I adjusted my stance to keep my balance, my mind emptying of everything except the task at hand.