Louis Hartzog
Stories (1/0)
The Mailbox Memoirs
I. Wednesday, February 24th 2021 1200 Westmoreland Avenue, Apartment A I would like to write myself out of poverty. To create stories so profound they move the masses to empty the shelves and bleed the e-commerce giants. Stand back and watch my bank account double and triple overnight. Who can imagine that sort of direct deposit? I know I can’t. And I am finding myself again sitting at my desk and longing for that which I don’t have. A better life, more money, a nicer place, and an easier job. Yet I am cursed with the dream and not the reality. The never ending chase for some semblance of an existence. The bottles of beer on my coffee table have now transitioned to empty bottles of gin, and the consistent stain on my breath and clothes reeks of disappointment and failure. Worst of all, my eyes always seem to be bloodshot when I look in the mirror.
By Louis Hartzog3 years ago in Criminal