I was in Manhattan visiting a friend and what I saw there was crazy. Just crazy.
There were typewriters, damaged as if thrown from windows; keys bent like arthritic fingers, chewed-on pencils, sans erasers. There were empty coffee cups, spineless thesauruses, and broken whisky bottles.
There were crumpled papers, some blank, some not, piled so high if the wind shifted, I’d have been buried in a pile of frustration. Only living thing on the street was a one-eyed, limping, German Sheppard.
Jimmy’s home was nearby.
A drab apartment in a building of introverts.
One of many on Writer’s Block Lane.
Michael Drezin’s short stories and micro-fiction have been published internationally on the net and in print. Comments invited at NYCTSstories@gmail.com
