Astoria Blvd to Manhattan

Here I try to write a short story before I enter the tunnel:

All she wanted was ketamine. Never mind that she wasn’t in pain, nor the fact that it was hardly addictive. She had first experienced it after a car accident, its effects dampened by the excruciating pain she had experienced at the time. Yet there was a hint of something else, a pleasurable journey that she believed she could control.

Whoa. Much failure.

Astoria-Ditmars Blvd to Manhattan

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

A storm-front could be seen racing towards the harbor that morning, the dark expanse laden with rain and punctuated with intermittent flashing. Joel studied the clouds only briefly, then turned again to his duties on the dock. His father’s small fishing company had weathered storms like the one that approached now, but only barely. Securing the boats, a meager fleet of three, would only do so much against hurricane strength winds and waves. Joel knew that the best his father could hope for was the fleet being dashed against the docks, not sunk underneath.

Tunnel approaching.

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.

36 Ave to Manhattan

Short story before I hit the tunnel:

He was abused. A poor boy with nothing to his name but a rotten banana and the clothes he wore. His flatmates had asked him—well, flatmates only because they allowed him to stay in their home indefinitely—but in any case, his flatmates asked him constantly why he never did anything with that banana. It’d been healthy once, flush and firm, ripe and ready. Yes. It had been healthy once. He could have made good use of it before it turned foul and mushy. Put it in a blender, made a smoothie. Stuck it in the oven, baked a pie. Instead he let it flop around in its rotten state. One flatmate suggested he freeze it and throw it at a bum, although this didn’t make much sense to the poor boy. His other flatmates had laughed at the proposal.

Tunnel approaching.


For the Intermittent Writer


Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

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