The school bus halts at my stop. My cul-de-sac still out of view, I continue forward, listening to the satisfying crunch of leaves under my feet, trying to forget the day I just had.
Every day, we walk through the streets of New York. We are all caught up with our own lives and do not take the time to really look at what is going on around us.
In all my years of writing, this is what I’ve been told about short stories: They are about one thing, they are less complex than novels, and they are more of a precursor than a respected medium.
