Your hands are violent verbs that strip my dignity. Your mouth spews appalling adjectives that shroud me in shame. Your eyes are knife-like nouns that wordlessly wound me.
For so long, you have dangled your modifier for countless feminine cohorts; you cannot remember their proper names. Your own personal pronouns of pleasure, they come and go like perilous floodwaters.
When you tire of their metaphorical affections, you return to your superlative wife. You drown me in your hyperbolic drivel, and the cycle repeats.
Except this time. No longer your weak dependent clause, I declare my independence and rewrite my etymology.
Taking a one-time break from my month-long creep-fest, I wrote this not so creepy 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a story based on the photo in a 100 words or less. I tried to steer away from the flood/disaster theme and do something a little different.