The Winding Street


There is a street that cannot be found on any map, wandering and slithering like a serpent through the undergrowth. Old brick and peeling plaster slink from one corner of the city to the other. Even in midsummer, there is a heavy grey fog, thick as soup, and even in midday, the crescent moon hangs in the sky.

And at the top of flickering lampposts, stars twinkle, bound in glass and iron. Long ago, an old woman reached into night and plucked them down like flowers from a meadow.

Now they light her street, long after she is gone.

Word Count: 99

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Sandra Cook for providing the prompt photo!

22 thoughts on “The Winding Street

Add yours

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Blog at

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: