an excerpt from a past project in process of revising: bukowski's undertow
“You can’t be sitting there and telling me how to write,” red hair, standing, arms outstretched, seemingly confronting the river, yells. “Don’t yell, Joe,” black shirt answers, slouching down into the park bench. “Pish.” Red hair stares into the river, still standing. “Don’t overreact. It was just a... Sign in to see full entry.