Her boots squelched in the damp ground as she stalked her quarry.
There is constant noise here.
It is the last resort of a desperate people, or so the elders would have us believe.
“Oooooh! I want one!” She exclaimed, face pressed against the glass of the shop-front like some bizarre woollen limpet.
Designed by the very man whose fate it was now deciding.
Sunlight streams through broken panes.
“What is it?” He said, for what must have been the hundredth time that afternoon.