By Josh Craven
Michael winced at the ragged, bloody knuckles on his throbbing right fist. He’d felt something in his hand snap, and now he couldn’t bend his ring finger or quivering pinky. He wadded up his left hand and smacked her again, tasting the coppery spray that landed on his lips when Lucy’s nose went sideways.
“Michael! I said take out the trash, you worthless pencil-dick!”
Her voice snatched him from his daydream.
“Yes, dear,” he said, leaping from his recliner.
“And why the hell are you looking at me that way, you fat slob?”
He just smiled and balled up his fist.
wow,this is an uncomfortably powerful image (meaning that you wrote it very, very well)
Thank you so much Christina. I think you may have offered me the perfect compliment for this piece.
Great story–visual writing–and a fun read
Much appreciated, James. Thank you for reading it.