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.
Shut-In
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.
Shut-In
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.
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