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AP— Sphere of Irony won three Grammy Awards last night including one for Song of the Year with their hit, Utah, You’re My Home. When asked which band member has a fondness for the state in the title of the song, front man Adam Reynolds only said, “Who needs a reason? What’s not to like about Utah?”
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Thanks for reading Resist: Sphere of Irony 3. I hope you enjoyed it!
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Continue to read an excerpt from book 1 in the Famous Series- Relatively Famous.
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The sudden screech of tires to my left makes me reflexively turn my head toward the sound, so when my foot hits a patch of ice on the sidewalk, I don’t see it coming.
“Ooof!”
I hit the ground, hard, and my right arm takes the brunt of the impact. Ow.
“Are you alright?”
A kind, well-dressed older man is walking around a black sedan to crouch beside me, his breath puffing out in soft wisps from the bitter cold.
“I don’t know.” I lift my arm and see that my long sleeved thermal jacket is ripped open. Blood is already dripping from a two inch gash showing through the brand new hole.
“Oh my.” He holds out a hand with a smile on his kind face. “Here, let’s clean you up.” The man helps me to my feet and leads me to a battered metal door that says GYM across it in red lettering.
Everything I was taught about strangers as a child comes rushing back. I don’t know this man and this place looks a little rougher than I’m accustomed to. Digging in my pocket, I pull a napkin and show it to him.
“No worries. I’m okay. I can just use this.”
He chuckles at my sad attempt to refuse his kindness and gracefully plucks the napkin from my hand.
“Miss, you have blood running down your arm and dripping onto the sidewalk. What kind of man would I be if I let you leave in this condition? Come on. I know for a fact they have a first aid kit inside and can get you fixed up quick.” He holds up his hands to show he means no harm. “I promise.”
My initial hesitation evaporates with this compassionate man’s words. For some reason, he makes me feel safe in a fatherly way. A way I haven’t felt in a long time.
“Okay, I guess I do need a little help.”
He opens the door and as I pass through he grins, the fine lines around his eyes scrunching up into the grey hair on his temples. “I’m Bruce by the way.”
He’s so genuine, I can’t help but give him a small smile back. “Sydney. Nice to meet you Bruce. Thanks for taking pity on me and my clumsiness. I’m usually much better at staying upright.”
“It happens to the best of us,” he chuckles.
Once inside, I take in my surroundings. Surprised, I glance back over at Bruce. I’m finding it hard to believe that a guy like Bruce, in his dress pants and impeccably pressed shirt, frequents this gym. For one thing, it smells awful, like old sweat socks and industrial strength cleaner. Second, it’s quite obvious that this isn’t the type of gym that people use to stay in shape.
Taking in the huge room, I quickly notice that I’m the only female in this place. Not very comforting.
The remaining ten or so people I can see are half-naked men grappling or punching bags or beating each other up with their fists like the two guys in the huge center ring.
Mixed martial arts training, that’s what they do here according to the UFC banner that spans the back of the room, covering up the dreary, chipped cinderblocks that make up the walls.
“Damien!” Bruce calls out, waving someone over.
