It’s been heavier,' she said.
'In winter. Once.'
'Not this heavy,' I said. Out in the street the drains had filled and were vomiting filthy water up and over the gutters. The front yard was nothing but mud and leaves.
'Last time it was this bad it flooded the river,' she said. 'I saw a tram floating in the street.'
'I wasn’t there,' I said.
Rain ran down the glass, leaving dirty black trails. It was growing heavier. It was one forty-three, and there was no sign of the sun.black rain
He stayed off work for the rest of the week. By Friday, his wife could no longer disguise her alarm.
He could keep nothing down, and had trouble getting anything in. Spoonfuls of soup were sour in his mouth, and he had to spit them back into the bowl. He choked on more generous fare. He kept secret from his wife the strange protrusion he could feel in the centre of his gut, an oval of hard, obdurate matter, like a thickened column of muscle. Taking it in both hands, he could move the growth, or the swelling, whatever it was, first from one side then to the other before it met any internal resistance.regression
In some versions, the dead bodies become a kind of reef. Life accretes. Swallows and wind-lost moths harbour in the folds of their bodies, building nests of stolen tobacco and pubic hair. Slow-flying pelicans graze the sluggish currents, mouths wide and filtering, gripping slippery sparrows from oozing vapour, slow and graceful as whales. Albatrosses, wingspans of fifteen feet or more. Lammergeyer that blot the sun, feathers smooth as polished brass.the wood of suicides