"Chiquitolina Ambrosia Teamocil..." That's what the one lying on the nearest bloodied bed thought was said; flat down and not being able to move a muscle; while staring up.
The seven o'clock lazy coastal morning air, had all but given up on life. Having toiled its only apparent remaining purpose, it had been pushing the sticky and humid, low-hanging polluted clouds of burnt coal and wood, further back from the lifeless looking grey residential slums, just over to the foot of Discord mountain, where no decent people had visited for months.
But, for some, it wasn't a choice, it was survival.
Winter definitely didn't arrive and settle to look for friendship. Winter never did. But before the ancient mountain spied down as the initial chill crawled closer; and the unforgiving cold overstayed its welcome, the city had scooped up the last remaining hope for change; and as it goes with hope, G_d it seems, never planted it in long enough rows for all to claim a share.
