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Weekly Contest #227
March 8th, 1939 - Leon Zabielski In a barrage of overlapping limbs, I snatch my coat, counter the coat rack arcing down towards my head, and swing open the apartment door. Warm air squeezes past me, inexplicably desperate to leave the wood-paneled cocoon where I’d much rather stay. I’ve not even left and I’m sweating through the first of many wool layers. I make a mental note: Don’t rush in the winter. I function better in the milder months, I think, and at milder paces too. Warsaw sometimes offered the first, but never the latter. I couldn...
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