Wednesday, April 20, 2011

The Writers Corner: Aleksandr Voinov's Untouchable

Welcome to another installment of ...*dramatic pause*...The Writer's Corner.

I'm kinda liking this corner.  Yes indeedy.  I think we'll do this more.  It can be my special little corner to share special things you may not know about yet.  Could be a new author to introduce you to, like Vivien Weaver, or Rhianon Etzweiler, OR... it could be something uber cool and unpublished from an author you have heard about, like the uber cool nugget I get to share this week.

Does that even make sense?  I should read that again... ack, whatever.  You get my drift.  The Amara's Place Writers Corner for special coolness.  Yeah, that works.

Anyway, moving on...

Last time in the Writers Corner I had Vivien Weaver's special excerpt to share.  This time... Aleksandr Voinov and a uber cool nuggy from a book he's working on.

How much does that rock.  Rocks, rocks TOOUUGH (<---sings that part)

Oookey dokey, get ahold of yourself.  *deep breath* 'k.  Better.

One of the things I just love about Aleksandr Voinov, aside from his books, is that he lets me do things like this.  He shares these little nuggets of what he's working on, and I, silly little blog girl, get to post them.

I think that's awesome.

I have several of these to share, but today, eenie meanie minie mo, I pick... this one.  It's from one of his current works in progress, Untouchable.  It's the story of a slave boxer named Brooklyn, set in the alternate universe Rachel Haimowitz created for Anchored.  I've been given the privilege of reading some about Brooklyn, and gotta say... love him.  And of course loving him like I do, I want to share him.

So. May I present... Brooklyn.

You may remember his hotness from when I posted him a week or two ago...*pets the pic*... Mmmm, still yummy...*wipes drool*... damn, don't you just want to lick him or something...uh... *clears throat*...yeah... aaanyway... 

Now that I have shared with you his hottness, I give you a bit of his story.

Untouchable by Aleksandr Voinov, a work in progress...


The enemy was swaying on his feet, too tired to lift his hands, but Brooklyn kept pushing him into a corner. Six rounds in, he was tired and yet buzzing high on adrenaline and sheer, uncontrollable rage, delivering low punches into the enemy’ sides, the solid resistance of the enemy like a wall he wanted to tear down with his bare hands. 

The enemy squirmed under the onslaught, rounded his back and stumbled back, but there were only the ropes, and beyond it, the baying mob. Brooklyn kept punching, hitting, then noticed that the enemy had lowered his guards to protect himself from the attack. He responded to the weakness the only way that made sense to his adrenaline-dazed brain. He took a half step back and delivered a straight punch with the right and a cross with the left. Like in slow motion, the power from that cross tore the man’s head to the side, Brooklyn saw a flash of the yellow mouth guard, and then the man went down like struck by lightning. 

No, not yet.

Before anybody could interfere, Brooklyn caught him him by the throat, pushed him up against the ropes and kept punching him. The rage knew no bounds, burning in his veins, turning the exhaustion to ashes, droning out the shouts from the mob. The enemy opened his arms, to try and grasp the ropes, but for a moment he was spread open in a T. Unguarded, unprotected, throat bared, head rolling back. 

Unconscious, dead, or simply KO, that strange stage when every ounce of strength and endurance had been beaten from his body, leaving only leaden indifference – or a readiness to die, Brooklyn thought.

And it was a mercy to be killed on his feet, in the ring.

Somebody grabbed his left, and Brooklyn snarled around the plastic in his mouth, freed himself with a shrug. He noticed how the first few lines in the audience were on their feet. Jeering, applauding, or just shouting, he didn’t notice the differences through the haze, strained to finish his enemy off, there on the ropes, ready to go. Ready for redemption. 

Suddenly there were three more men in the ring. Invaded the space he’d been owning just a moment ago. One pushed between him and his enemy, who now crumbled in the corner, ignored, while the three were circling him, tonfa sticks ready. Brooklyn knew he could take on, but not three. Fuck. Now it was him who was still on his feet, and the impulse to lift his hands and fight was very nearly overwhelming. 

Fuck them for challenging him in the ring. He wanted nothing more than to fight and took a grim satisfaction at the way the eyes of one of the guards widened. They knew. 

His ring. His space. His fucking time. 

The end of the tonfa tapped him lightly in the knee, hard enough to hurt, but not enough to send him sprawling. We could have, that said. Give up.

Brooklyn cast another glance at the enemy. Done. Over. He looked at the guards, knew two of them would be on him if he attacked their comrade. He turned again, gaze sharpening. Applause. Light sparked off diamonds and teeth, expensive women were jeering at him, their companions grinning, faces reddened. A minuscule dog was jipping at the end of its pink leash. Applause. 

How would that look when the guards beat him to a pulp? 

Not good. Instead of lowering his fists, his raised them, high over his head and turned, taking the applause, while the guards stepped smartly back. Not their applause, and the bitches knew it. He almost laughed. 

He hadn’t come so close to laughter in months. It didn’t matter what scum was applauding him, but it mattered that all of them – apart from a few companions, he assumed – were born free and still free. Applauding a slave might be an indulgence, might be, in truth, nothing but scorn, but right now, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t one of them. He’d bet that the women in the audience down there wanted him rather than the suited and tie-wearing sugar daddies at their sides, and the men down there wanted to be him, even if the were pimps and CEOs and celebrities and two-bit VIPs from Big Brother. Right now, they were off their fat asses and applauded him.

A slave.

Fuck them all.

-- Working title: "Untouchable" 

And there you have it.  Brooklyn.

*big smile* Thank you Aleks.

That's all for me, for now.  Oh, wait, no it's not...*whispers*... 18 more days 'til Scorpion.  heehee.  Ok, nowww that all for me.

Hope everyone has a good day.

Later taters!

No comments:

Post a Comment


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...