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Weekly Contest #91
The library was cool and smelled like the soothing mix of old books, new magazines, and half-decent coffee – a stark contrast to the mixture of sweat, cheap aftershave and fried food that filled the streets with the carnival in town. Reynold Powell, a short, stocky gentleman with a slight widow’s peak, sat down heavily in one of the lime-green, partly plasticised chairs, backed by a thin-topped desk. He leaned back, took in a deep breath of filtered air, and relaxed for a moment. Powell hated crowds, loud noises, and anythi...
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