by Henry Vauban
The tiny room smells like cigarettes and closed windows. It is morning and Jason is sitting bleary-eyed at his computer. He fills the coffee mug he drank tequila out of the night before with piss warm beer. Cigarette ash falls on his boxer shorts. Today he will stare at the screen and wait for something to happen. Nothing will.
Henry Vauban lives in the Black Forest. His work has appeared in Dogzplot and is forthcoming in Necessary Fiction. He edits Vauban Inc. and encourages you to submit your work there.