Shoulder Blades Uneven Novels & Stories

They played for a bit she sighed dreamily as the Carson, Matthew, and Chuck took off their shirts, a few minutes later Leon, John, William and Blake followed suit, and she couldn't help but smile as she noticed that Carson and Blake had similar eagle’s tattoos on their left shoulders. But she also noticed the black jaguar that ran mid-back on Blake and the lion on Carson.

Leaving a fine scratch over one shoulder. Her shimmering gold hair had worked loose from the plait circling her crown and was now wild around her shoulders and waving along her flushed face in a feral tangle. The torn shoulder of the dress had caused one side of her bodice to dip enough it nearly exposed one ample breast. The pink crest nearly slipped over the bit of lace adorning it. The falling fabric left a fine dusting of freckles along the upper mound clearly visible. And he knew that deep in that hollow there was one soft pink mole. Every bit as delicate as the rest of her.

His broad shoulders seemed sculpted to perfection, tapering into a lean, defined torso that radiated strength. Each muscle was etched with precision, from the ridges of his abs to the hard lines of his obliques. His chest was smooth, with a subtle sheen that caught the light, making his skin appear like polished marble. The veins on his arms stood out slightly, adding to the air of dominance he carried effortlessly. His biceps flexed with the slightest movement, showcasing his physical prowess. A faint scar trailed along his left side, hinting at a story he had never shared.

She taps my right shoulder blade. “Personally, I think over your spine would look best,” she continues. “The scars here are redder, and they’d symbolise the flames better. And the shape of the bird will sit really elegantly spanning that area, we could even finish the tips of the wings on your scapulars, which would add a nice touch and some movement… but—” She trails off, giving me room to decide. “But what?” I ask her. “But it’s more painful to work over the spine. The shoulder would be more comfortable.”

And that is to face my own pain and fix it. Taking a deep breath, I use my right hand to feel the area around my shoulder. Something is not in place, alright. But apart from the sting and the tenderness beginning to transpire, it's nothing serious. So in one go, I push against my shoulder, popping it back into place.

day with Delia. "You're hitting it like it owes you money, Alexa," I said, leaning against the door-frame with a towel draped over my shoulder. "But you're dropping your left shoulder. One smart counter-punch from a man like Moretti’s hitters, and you’re looking at a wired jaw." She stopped mid-swing, chest heaving. She didn't look at me. She just stared at the bag. "My jaw is fine, Uncle. My left shoulder is just stiff from the shrapnel."

Tying my hair in a ponytail, I headed to the bathroom to wash up but the moment I saw my reflection on the mirror, my feet were rooted on the floor, and my eyes were glued on the dark marks on my right shoulder blade. No, no, how could these marks be here? To get a closer look and to make sure that I was not imagining things, I stepped closer to the mirror. The black marks seemed to resemble tiny veins branching out. It seemed to have started behind my neck and it stopped right on the middle of my shoulder. Could it be poison from the scratch I got yesterday? But if it was poison, I should have at least felt something was wrong in my body but I felt completely normal.

He watched me with the complete attention that made my wolf howl in pleasure. When I finished he was quiet for a moment. "You lead with your right shoulder," he said. "Every time” "I know," I said, breathing heavily. He narrowed his eyes at me. "Then why haven't you fixed it?" "Because fixing it is less useful than leaving it," I said. "If an opponent sees it often enough they start to read it. They commit to defending the right side. And then I go left." He looked at me "Show me." So I showed him.

"I want to be clear about that." I look at him. "I know," I say. He nods. He walks to the door. Stops. "Brek says your left side is open," he says. "In the forms. You favor your right and you drop your left shoulder when you transition." He doesn't turn around. "Fix it before the challenge." He leaves. The door closes. Not all the way — the east training room door never closes all the way, the frame is warped same as the window, same building, same bad construction, same three years of me noting it and filing it under: irrelevant.