The Pub Alleyway

I found myself in the back parking lot of what some could call a pub, weaving through rows of cars and avoiding influenced drivers before slipping into an alley. Immediately, I took notice of how different the alley was in the evening rather than the morning, when I usually used it as a shortcut. It was dark, dismal, and bleak, save for a few shining lampposts in the distance. Colored decorations hung from the establishments still open late. The night was peaceful compared to the morning hustle and I wanted to do nothing more than run right through the street forever.   

But heavy winds that stampeded at me with a raging roar and I no longer observed the glittering lamp lights. I grasped my cufflinks as I clenched my jaw tightly. The wind was suffocating, mocking me with resounding sarcasm and taunting the howling, abandoned beer bottles. The gravel was kicked up recently, weaving between cigarette butts. Fierce slaps whipped my hair, directing my attention to long forgotten stains on the brick walls. The rusted fire escape hung ominously above, seeming to sneer at me,

“Where do you think you’re going?” My numb fingers glazed the chipped wall as I crunched forward, turning from the city sidewalk to the scenery ahead, where one could see the mountains sing in the vast plains of the world. The sun was setting, a passionate back splash to the rolling hills and newly vacant buildings. But I only spared it a glance before I braced myself, on guard, as I turned the corner.







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