10 Sentences
I have to preface this post with "I am a jackass." I was surfing blogs and came across one that challenged readers to write a story in 10 sentences. So I accepted the challenge, but forgot where to give credit. So I am a jackass. But here is my attempt at a story in ten sentences.
"According to the NYC census bureau there are 4,134,613 women in NYC alone" Vladislav thought as he crossed 85th street, a lovely gazelle like girl with an ass grazing ruffled skirt walking the other way. He watched a group of young men, who clearly shared the shame oral surgeon hustle by on their way to some bar, some game, some several hours glued to beer and quickly forgotten passes. "They might think some of those women are for them," he thought looking down, showing his submission to their alpha dog barking laughs, "but they are all mine for what right thinking woman would give herself to the likes of such illiterate troglodytes? Such a violation of the natural order can not be countenanced."
He had accumulated through the years a memory for poems and plays, snippets of letters (from the Marquis de Sade to his first wife) , and historic rumors (Queen Margot was a nymphomaniac, Robespierre slept with a copy of Rousseau's On the Origins of Civil Society under his pillow, Ibsen wrote with a picture of the delusional Strindberg on his desk), and he knew how to talk about such things in a way that allowed him to flaunt the purr of his Russian accent.
And he had a tan.
A girl, his intended victim, the first woman he was willing to think of as worthy of the effort of a pass, sat on her cement front stoop her fingers curled around a highlighter and a pen reading "The Birth of Tragedy" by Friedrich Nietzsche. He began his famous shy intellectual looking out from under his shaggy brown hair shuffle.
As he approached the stoop, about to open with some amusing chastisement about how lovely young ladies shouldn't be wasting time reading the rantings of deceased syphilitic philosophers on such a summer night with the trees in bloom and a light breeze in the air, a young man with a backwards baseball cap, his plaid boxers peaking above his low hanging jeans, raised the girl to her feet and kissed her.
As the two kissed on the front stoop, text discarded, the soft cover beginning to warp from misuse, Vladislav continued towards the six train trying to distract himself from the disconsolate thought of going home to an apartment furnished only with a futon and back rent notices by remembering the Latin name for the genus and phyla of each tree on the block .

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