53-Word Story: Well You Needn’t Cry for the Man at the Water’s Edge

A hopesick phenom knits a needlepoint into a friendly abscess and grasps for ‘Round Midnight. The tar expands and loves his arteries to death. Waiting, he envisages his mother’s stern face, epileptic hammer action, a taped-up Monk fake book. At the water’s edge, a beached Steinway beckons him to wail into its belly.

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