Start Fiction:
Work always wore on Glen. Thirty years of hard labor, straight out of high school, did more than wear down his body. Having a few beers after work at Stu's, the local bar, helped soothed his aching bones. At least that is what he told himself.
Verging on fifty, Glen was still a bachelor living in the same one bedroom apartment in the building next to Stu's over Furlong's Furniture; the same apartment he moved in to the day he turned eight-teen.
Glen had rarely traveled, or spent much time outside of the surrounding communities. He was the extreme definition of a local.
Now, he wasn't a bum or a charity case by any means. Not only had Glen lived in the same apartment for thirty years, he worked for the same company, attended the same church and participated in the same social events as well.
He was well liked, even respected. Glen was a reliable worker, he rarely spoke a harsh word towards any one and was always asked to cook for the local fund raisers.
However, here he sat, again. Still drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, sitting on the same bar stool, listening to the same complaints about life from the various patrons of the day, watching the minutes click by on the Hamm's clock.
Glen longed for something different, but he felt if he hadn't done something about it by now, he probably never would.
Little did he know, he wouldn't have to do anything besides be in the right place at the wrong time. And the wrong time was fast approaching.
End Fiction.
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