Astoria Blvd to Manhattan

Here I attempt to write a story before entering the tunnel:

There was quiet, and then there was quiet. He knew something was not right by the way even the wind ceased to whisper, sucked away by some unseen force lurking in the darkness. He shifted uneasily in his seat, moving his weight from one ass cheek to the other, alternating as soon as one became numb. His shoes had been discarded after so many days of trudging along the creek bed. They had become hopelessly soaked and caked with mud, and he had placed them neatly on a rock when he decided they were more hindrance than help. Now, as he rocked in his seat and strained to hear anything, he nervously dug his toes deep into the soil.

Tunnel not quite approaching; I’ve bored myself.

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For the Intermittent Writer


Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

The Wink

This Week in Kink

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