From Issue 11: Sackville Street

David Halliday It is the quiet that wakes me. I rise with the sense that something unplaceable has changed. Unsure of the time, I peek under the curtains. Morning sun glints white off pre-Federation chimneys and corrugated iron roofs. The rain is gone. For weeks, the entire sky was liquid and glassy. During the perpetual downpour, sheets of water had whipped my eyes raw, shuddered window-panes and hacked at trees and flower gardens. As a series of cold fronts, it was dubbed by the papers as the ‘Antarctic Vortex’. Even if you could stand the rain, the cold would prowl…

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