By Hunter Potts
Numbers oozed from the clock’s miniscule grip, 1’s and 2’s slipping between the fingers of time. His hand slammed down in an adamant thump. The desk spoke well of it, squeaks and cracks emanating the omnipresent mouths. Please sir, may I have a sip of water? My mind raced. Who would win?
Photograph by Emily McCormick
HOWLER LIT 