Remember that picture adage?

Our writing exorcisms at work this morning turned up a particularly interesting result. My mind is squirrely and probably works too hard on all the wrong things, but my bent is clearly fiction. Sometimes it's not a bad thing to have worlds inside your head, I suppose.

Prompt: Write 145 words using the picture below as inspiration.

The neighborhood was old – older than my Pappaw’s Pappaw. Buildings had cracked and broken, been repaired; and the repairs had broken. The people who lived there had grown to be like their houses, their cars, the neighborhood itself: they were grained and lined and worn around the edges, but sturdy, lasting. Spider-webbed window panes were washed weekly, no paper bits lined the gutters, no leaves rotted on the sidewalks. The old neighbors lived on the blurred verge of the past, when things were slower, quieter. TV’s shone dimly through hand-tatted lace curtains, flowered aprons polished old speckly silver spoons. They stood in the gentle golden sunshine and stirred the dust on their stoops, calling to each other in voices that creaked with use. Their ancestors carved out this close, concrete haven two lifetimes before and now it was theirs – to maintain, with tender, curatorial pride.