A deserted ghost–street sprinkled with broken alcohol bottles and used cigarette butts. A ticking bomb screeched around the corner, leaving burnt rubber and exhaust in it’s’ wake. My ears perked at a neighbour’s radio which was blasting the latest trend of girl bands. It was probably Mr Wilson making his famous chillies and chutneys. Awful stuff, in my opinion, which would clog up our fridge and would only be brought out for my father’s dinner. My nose and stomach withered at the thought.

Stubby fingers with no fingernails cascaded ungracefully from my lap onto the pavement. White scratch marks materialised where flesh and pavement collided. My fingers caressed the footpath distractedly. Small bumps of gravel and dotted shells sat about the concrete. Maybe this street used to be an ocean, I hypothesised.

Possessed smoke wound its way down the rapidly darkening road. Like a session, all the houses began to light up. The smoke smelled like pine and it stung when it came into contact with my eyes. I wiped away the tears with a dirt–crusted hand.

Cold flooded in and saturated every fibre of my being. Goosebumps appeared on my arms and legs and I wondered how it had gotten so cold so fast. The sun was setting over Miss Milord’s brick roof. The bright colours spilled over the skies like overturned paint.

A symphony of crickets started up and I could hear the chatter between my mother and father. The bang of plates and cutlery swan through my house, proving how incredibly thin the walls were. I looked up to the kitchen window and saw the silhouettes of dinner being prepared. The moss, which my father had promised to get rid of, still continued to thrive under the pink windowsill.

I could still smell the smouldering pine. As I breathed in through my nose, I inhaled the darkness, making my lungs and nose tingle.

My stomach snapped at me. I salivated as I imagined Bangers and Mash. A hot steaming plate of food, elbow–to–elbow with the rest of my family as we crammed around our tiny circular table. I abruptly realised how hungry I actually was. Almost hungry enough to eat Mr Wilson’s homemade chutney, I considered with a grin. Almost.