She pummels ground with heel and wall with head and breathes tilting mouth pants and, forehead on floor, slobs saliva down cheeks and coughs wet hurt noises.
This female intimacy borne from conflict is truer to life than perfectly manufactured, hyperfictional Victorian romance, and as a result, compels attention despite its lack of focus.
In all my years of writing, this is what I’ve been told about short stories: They are about one thing, they are less complex than novels, and they are more of a precursor than a respected medium.