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Weekly Contest #347
“Watch where you’re going, girl!” the man cries as I dart between two of his carts, Irlanian accent heavy, spitting on the ground. I don’t respond. That would take far too much time, which I don’t have. The streets are increibly crowded this morning, packed with people moving their wares like the yelling cart man, or trying to haggle in their stands. It’s a cachophany of noise, smell, and sight. Cobbled white streets and white buildings, filled with brown carts and merchants dressed in equally brown clothes, the aroma of cooking food mixed...
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