I sit and watch the murky waters of the River Clyde slide by, polluted and dark. The wind whistles down the river under the Kingston Bridge, the traffic overhead relentlessly gridlocked. A runner passes by along the new walkway, struggling against the strong breeze.
Across the water another monstrosity of 1960’s architecture is being torn down. The scars of modernity that ruined the classic Georgian and Victorian city gradually disappearing, to be replaced by faceless glass and metal boxes.
I look along at the Broomielaw, once the heart of the world-renowned ship building industrial city, now rebranded as the International Financial District. The glass offices filled with the well off and middle class from the suburbs. With the end of the heavy industry came the end of Glasgow’s character. The hard-working, steel-faced, tough streets, now sanitised to fit in with the modern world, hiding the areas of abject poverty, sectarian hatred and failing health that remain.
I hunch my shoulders and walk into the headwind. All the familiar landmarks remain among the shifting cityscape. There is little to love in a dying city fallen from grace and power, but my whole life is here. No mean city. My city.
Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction. Write a story of around 200 words based on the photo prompt given (above). For more details visit HERE.
To view more stories based on this week’s prompt, click HERE.
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