The Bird

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He looked at the typewriter and the pages stacked next to it. Was it possible that he had written such awful stuff? He thought he could create something beautiful, something smart, something that would shine.

He read a few more lines and sighed again. He thought that if he came across his own work in a bookstore he would throw it down and say, "I don't know why anyone would bother writing such garbage."

He slept for a few hours and left the apartment, walking through the beaten down neighborhood where he lived. He bought sandwich fixings and another case of beer, and when he got home he called around to see if any of his friends wanted to come over for a drink. They didn't. They said they were busy, but he knew they were tired of his routines, his drunken arrogance, his violent temper, his weeping depression. He drank the case of beer alone, threw up a few times and fell asleep on the balcony. The next morning he tore the pages out of typewriter and tried to start fresh. "The girl was beautiful, and she loved me," he started, but he couldn't think of what to say next. Page One The Bird, Page Two Page Three Page Four