Bryce waved the torque wrench, then swung it at the Ford. It bounced off the quarter panel, leaving a dent in the fender he’d spent a week pounding and smoothing to perfection. The vibration ricocheted up his arm. He swung again. And again. The car screamed, pulled at his arms, trying to hold him off, but he couldn’t stop. The frustration had to get out. He hit metal, glass. The door frame, a side mirror, the windshield.
Six Sentence Sunday