Apr 8, 2018
In the dead of night a can clinks along the cobblestones. Chunky
effluent spews into the Mead River, fouling the city's only water
What would the founders of Greymead have thought, seeing the waste, filth, and degradation that now calls itself a city? Is this what their hard labour bought? In the midst of the mire there is a family, their dreams of the future not yet broken by the crushing weight of reality.
They’ve saved and borrowed to buy a tiny single room, a tarpaulin roofed lean-to in SloBlo and want to make it into a home...
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