By Cath Barton
The storms had not cleared the air. Half-asleep, I walked slowly through the town dragging my feet, my nostrils assailed at street corners by wafts of dampness. The dogs were barking up on the hill but the streets of the town were empty. There was a half-eaten tray of chips in the gutter, the oily paper flapping like a dying bird, ketchup smeared across it like a bloodstain.
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