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Weekly Contest #238
Ten past five and Harry was late. He climbed out of the car and pushed the yellow Pork Pie Trilby hat he’d borrowed onto his head. While the hat and his shoes, Oxblood Brothel Creepers apparently, went out in the sixties, he didn’t care. He slid the car keys into the pocket of his loose-fitting blue-jeans, their cuffs rolled up, and set off at a run down the sidewalk. Ahead and atop a freestanding sign, large golden letters declared the offices of Phoenix Studios. The sign read, “A Streetcar Named Desire auditions today…” but he ...
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