Fredrick Morgan
Stories (2/0)
Sir
The rain pounded on the melting city, desperately trying to wash the sin out of the trampled streets. My arm extended from the doors of grand central as I felt the drops collect in my embracing palm. My umbrella shot to life, unruffling its vinyl wings and shaking the sleep off its hinges. As I walked down 42nd, my shoes tapped to the rhythm of the storm while my nose was caressed by the smell of the market, fresh loaves of bread lined up to be slit open, and all sorts of cheeses waiting to be poured over the severed bread, delicious murder. My feet suddenly pivoted as I was crossing Lexington. Like a school boy, I eyed the large building that loomed over me, staring down at me, secretive, mysterious, beckoning even. Sedating the fluttering umbrella, I entered the dark lobby. A distant ding rang through the halls as an elevator somewhere opened. The doorman sat at his desk, face silhouetted by the dim lamp that threw itself at him. His eyes were in one place but his mind was definitely in quite another. His throat, an old carburetor, sputtered as he focused his gaze on me. I nearly expected him to mutter “oil can,” but instead in a booming voice that shook his own frame, he said, “Welcome Monsieur, can I be of any assistance today?”
By Fredrick Morgan6 years ago in Filthy
Swipe Right for a Fresh Look
How many times have you found yourself sitting in an office, waiting to be seen by the doctor, or simply at home waiting for your show to come back on, and find yourself swiping through possible contenders for your Saturday night plans?
By Fredrick Morgan6 years ago in Humans