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Weekly Contest #80
A thick blume of smoke left the old man’s wrinkled face, and he once again took a long drag from the long cigar that hung from his mouth, too old to care about his deteriorating lungs. A myriad of newspaper clippings and word photographs filled the walls. He coughed hard. A weak, wrinkled hand beat his chest as he cleared his throat before he spoke “it never felt like we were making history you know?” his eyes fell before bouncing left and right. He shuddered. It saddened me how weak he seemed, I almost spoke to break the silence as thick as...
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