tarotea

Worn rubber soles on damp cobblestone make the smallest of sounds, easily dispersed in the drizzling grayness of evening. The shops have closed early. Tourist trinkets of ceramic gnomes and stuffed puffins and mugs with stern Viking faces stare out judgmentally from the dark store front windows. A few streets over are the bars; the red glow of their signs seems tangible in the fog, the low thump of the stereo sounding as though it were coming from many, many miles away. Another world. One could walk into an empty alley and vanish there, like the street cats with the too-knowing eyes.

– From October Writing Prompts