Life is a bitch, or Life’s bitch?

“I cannot do it.” was his only reply. “I simply cannot do it. I know you have asked me time and time again to move forward with it, but it is utterly impossible.” She looked at him sternly, her arms crossed tightly across her bosom. She was relentless, sometimes shrieking, other times hitting. He had pulled away when possible but it was difficult to escape her ravings. Once again he found himself cowering in the corner as she stood towering over him. He felt helpless, yet he did not cry. He tried to reason with her, as he had done many times before, but it never seemed to work. She would simply lash out at him. It was as if she screamed out, “Emotion, you fool! Emotion! Emotion! Emotion! Nothing but emotion!” A few days ago he had raised his voice and ventured: “But I think there is more to this than just emotion. Will you at least consider the possibility?” Oh, what torrential anger she unleashed on him for his candor. She had wailed and lashed with such ferocity that he nearly fainted through sheer terror. When he came to she had taken a seat across the room, but she was still poised to continue the assault. So he sunk back into the corner and waited, thinking. It seemed as if today would end in very much the same fashion. She was not as vicious yet her cold stare portended a greater fury. So he quieted down and went back to thinking.

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For the Intermittent Writer


Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

The Wink

This Week in Kink

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