Friday Fictioneers, an eclectic mix of creativity that wets the appetite and feeds the soul. A 100 words of fiction to fuel any weary traveler. Follow the link and join the caravan.
In an alleyway of red brick, a single street lamp flickered erratically. The smell of rot and decay so pungent, even the rats held their nose and scurried off.
It was raining. The relentless downpour, powerless to dilute the stench.
Then amidst the deluge, a beacon.
An open shop doorway.
Hints of honey and bees wax teasing the nose. Warmth, settling over shoulders chasing away the chill.
The air singing of bygone days of grandeur and romance, of visitors and expectations. Like catching ghosts off guard, running through the shadows, slipping back into the walls.
Another stitch in time.