It’s the rasp of wheels on bitumen, the scrape of a carve. It always makes me turn.

‘Can you believe it? What a nuisance.’ Marie sits Grace up on her lap to burp. ‘He’s bound to cause an accident.’ I straighten my smile, turning back to Ben and his small sticky fingers. That was what I was doing, finding a wipe.

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Carve

Eleanor Limprecht

Autumn 2023

Embrace Australia’s finest writers

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Embrace Australia’s finest writers

Fiction

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