Neither flinches, but in a day or two the smell is worse and the leaves themselves have turned to bramble. The roots gnarl, sprouting thorns and ugly claws. The beautiful bell flower remains. The city is putrid with its perfume. Its ovary thickens and reddens and soon a fruit is forming.
People are afraid to go out of doors.
My father dies. My mother becomes a sky worshipper. The fruit ripens, drops and rots. This web page has been developed through the auspices of RMIT University, Melbourne, Australia.