PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young
‘This is stupid,’ muttered Stacey.
‘Short cut.’ Deb’s voice was slurred with tequila and cigarettes.
Distant street lamps glittered orange and white, silhouetting tower blocks and a squat church spire – a car alarm wailed. The chill island of wasteground felt cut off, adrift from the city. The light from Stacey’s phone turned crisp packets and broken bottles into ghostly flotsam that bobbed close before floating away.
They stumbled on, leaning together, heels sinking in the mud.
‘Still bloody daft – ‘
In the pale circle of light hung slack lips, twin glazed eyes.
‘Debs – ‘
A rustling sound made Stacey turn.