We haven't cleaned the gutters yet. There’s dry scrub sticking out like mossy pubes from a nanna's cossie.
Dry scrub wishing for embers. This valley is a firebowl and we know it but we cook our pork chops and we steam our rice and we watch A Current Affair.
Rob says he would stay and fight. He reckons he could hide under the rock ledge in the basement and the fire would pass him by. I say he's a fool. Anyone knows this house is a matchbox.a movement in a moment
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
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