I put the lid on a short story yesterday which, among other things, involved a girl watching her father crush an old man's throat with his booted foot. Needless to say, the father didn't know his daughter was watching. Yes, it was rather a dark little tale.
Currently, I'm revising my not-so-top-secret novella, and I've decided I need more fistfights. At least one more, to get the action rolling.
Maybe the hint of one is enough:
“Amanda.” The woman’s blue eyes burned into Isherwood’s gaze. She had a fire inside, blue like ice but sharp as a barber’s razor—he could see the cutting blade in that glare. “Amanda Reaver.”
Lawton pulled on his chin. “Jesus. You’re Reaver’s—”
“And he’s in the stockade for—”
“Decking me in public?” She pointed to her bruised eye. “That’d be the one.”
Nobody ever said Abraham Reaver was a nice man.