Series featuring one hundred word extracts focused on atmosphere.
Grass ran through the streets, wild and free. Even the dumps seemed verdant, the earth swallowing up rubbish with nary a sigh or complaint. A perfect city, they said; a place where everyone could start anew.
I chuckled, taking a puff of smoke. And another. And another.
Grass didn’t stop the guns, or the gallows, or the big wigs way up high. It didn’t stop the girls being forced onto street corners, selling their bodies in a dying market.
And it didn’t stop me, standing there on that rooftop, sucking in that deathly fog and thinking…
There’s no turning back.