It’s a pleasant neighbourhood despite being close to the prison. From our rooms we spend hours gazing at the ebb and flow of the tide. Children play safely on the beach.
Behind the houses runs the alley. The floor is cobbled, smoothed by centuries of workers’ metal-studded boots and steel-banded cart wheels.
You can tell the time by the slow movement of the shadows on the pristine whitewashed walls.
Some mornings we hear prisoners being marched down the pathway to the execution block; the sound of gunfire snakes past the houses.
The facing windows are bricked up.
No flowers grow.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge found here. Go meet the others.