Carl watched with interest as the guy, Marcus, moved. Taking a quick cross step to his left he kept square with Marcus so that he was always in front of Carl. Neither stepped forward, nor back keeping the distance a nice 10 feet. Close enough to attack but not without danger when one had to cross the distance, allowing a defense to be enabled. Raising his hands, Carl took a striking stance, right-handed lead and the left lower covering his mid-section. Right foot at the two o’clock position, the left at 8 o’clock, weight evenly distributed on the balls of his feet with his knees bent slightly. “Alright Marcus…I’m Carl.”
The writer who cares more about words than about characters, action, setting, and atmosphere is unlikely to create a vivid and continuous dream; he gets in his own way too much; in his poetic drunkenness, he can't tell the cart- and its cargo- from the horse.
-John Gardner
"Grieve not, wise warrior. It is better
to avenge one's friend than mourn too much.
Each of us must one day reach the end
Of worldly life, let him who can win
glory before he dies: that lives on
after him, when he lifeless lies."
Marcus stood still. In defense stance. Marcus and Carl looked at each other eyes eyes deep. Marcus changed his smile to a smirk. Macu's focusing on Carl's experssion, and stance. Then, with a quick breath. He ran the short distance between them. Trying to strike the first hit. By throwing his right arm, and fist to Carl's left cheek.Granting to himself Marcus. Wanting to make this first strike count. And hurt as much as possible. Granting to himself.
Carl caught the change from the smile to cheese anime style smirk and knew an attack was coming. 10-feet, called the kill zone by some, a dangerous place for the inexperienced. Marcus apparently charged forward like a bull in a china shop, throwing a right. Taking an inside pivot, Carl’s feet slid along the grass, the left out and up into the 10 o’clock position as he turned, the right staying planted so he now was oblique to Marcus' hurling right arm. Dropping into a lower stance he launched a quick right jab at the exposed right side and ribs of Marcus, the blow should land just above the oblique muscles where if it connected would break the floating rib. The left hand popping up to protect his head as he executed the move.
The writer who cares more about words than about characters, action, setting, and atmosphere is unlikely to create a vivid and continuous dream; he gets in his own way too much; in his poetic drunkenness, he can't tell the cart- and its cargo- from the horse.
-John Gardner
"Grieve not, wise warrior. It is better
to avenge one's friend than mourn too much.
Each of us must one day reach the end
Of worldly life, let him who can win
glory before he dies: that lives on
after him, when he lifeless lies."
Since there seems to be no further activity I will close this.
The writer who cares more about words than about characters, action, setting, and atmosphere is unlikely to create a vivid and continuous dream; he gets in his own way too much; in his poetic drunkenness, he can't tell the cart- and its cargo- from the horse.
-John Gardner
"Grieve not, wise warrior. It is better
to avenge one's friend than mourn too much.
Each of us must one day reach the end
Of worldly life, let him who can win
glory before he dies: that lives on
after him, when he lifeless lies."
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