My mind screams stories in slight bits

This maybe didn't intend to be a Fiction in 58. The interesting thing was to write what I had thought about in the dark, see if I could whittle it down.

Warm air swirls in his flat, smells of fryer grease, stale sweat. He’s in stained boxers, socks where the elastic quit, disgruntled.
There’s a table, cluttered with paper, typewriter, jelly jar of gin. The clack of keys never stops.
A knock at the door, the Korean grocery downstairs, delivers dinner.
Rumor to legend; he’s left alone. To stew.


Daily Panic said...

This makes me think of a country songwriter who just got the short straw and all he can do is give up and write.

quin browne said...

your visuals remain perfect.

Anonymous said...

I like this a lot- a poetic prose glimpse. Coarse visuals jump out at me. I can hear this scene from your excellent word choices. That humor/satire/reality at the end "to stew" caps off the night better than a swig of whiskey.