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Weekly Contest #348
The man in front of me in line for the clairvoyant coughs three times, deep and rattling coughs that shake his whole frame, his knees bobbing like loose springs. His cap, a faded military green, dangles precariously from his hanging head. His 5 o’clock shadow feels more like a midnight one, and his shirt stretches across flabby, sagging shoulders. I feel inclined to hate him. The houses just outside the carnival sit squatting on the pavement, almost black in the setting sun. I prefer them this way. At least now the beige drywalls and bumpy b...
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