by Luanne F. Oleas
In the year of lost imagination, magnolias forgot to bloom, Congress taxed the wind, and America’s last fiction publisher closed. When the janitor locked the doors on the final day, Vartan Blazer watched from across the street with a bottle in a brown bag. His sheep dog, Ranger, lay by his side, paws crosses, muzzle down.
Two hours later, the young man left the cement bench. Ranger trotted by his side, a walking bag of rags with no eyes and a black nose. Vartan wandered through New York City’s gray streets in his orange trench coat. The wind stole his yellow fedora, sending it higher than the diesel-streaked skyscrapers that pierced the charcoal sky.
Snow hid in his dark, spongy curls and the pockets of his green jeans, soaking through his sandals to his red and purple socks.
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