Control

Joseph sat entranced in the cartoons. Rain beat on the window, and only the neon white lightning and deep shaking thunder could compete with the brightness and loudness of the tube.

Michael swaggered into the room, grabbed the remote and clicked. The room reverberated with the buzz of the stands and the commentators thick voices. Joseph whined, and when that did not work, he reached for the remote and tried to yank it out of his older brother's palm. Wrestling ensued.

Crisp ice chips clicked against the glass.

Their mother rushed into the room.
"Boys! The remote, now!" She snapped.