Zena's entry: Braving the balcony on a bright winter’s morning, I see cars, trams, commuters swathed in coats and hats patterning the street. Opposite, an elderly woman sweeps yesterday’s snow from her balcony to the pavement far below, not looking to see who might be passing. Her avalanche fills the gap left by the baker who's cleared a space outside his shop. By mid-morning people are already hurrying home with bags full of shopping. As the temperature drops, the bakery door shuts and a restaurant closes. Gulls wheel overhead in thermals of exhaust fumes, heedless of the tension in the air. Trees, frozen sentinels of the street, seem braced, ready. In the south the sky darkens. Women clear their balconies of empty flowerpots, take in airers of crisp washing. Light dims as snow falls gently, deceiving, tyres on the wet road a constant whoosh. Here comes Ben off the Botnang tram, briefcase in hand, dandruff snow on his black overcoat. I wave from the balcony and let him in. He’s mottle-cheeked from the hot stairwell and the climb up eight flights. We eat lunch as the sky thickens. White clouds swirl beneath the black above, threatening in their very colours, gulls long gone. We go to the balcony to see the storm coming but it’s already arrived. Before we can shut the door a wind rushes through taking everything moveable with it. The trees bend double, the weight of wind and gusting snow pushing them down and down. Umbrellas outside the restaurant skate the ground, chairs become tumbleweed. The bakery fades. Inside the balcony door, snow lies melting where we were too late to keep it out. Lightning flashes, the air bangs and vibrates. Nothing exists now except us and the shrieking white banshee outside. Geoff's entry: My daughter’s dog, Sophie, frantically scratched the door, yelping. An icy blast swept through the house as I flung the door open and barged my way into the blizzard. Sophie was scampering across the ice-covered snow towards the woods. Ramming a woollen hat over my ears, I screamed “Katie!”, but the rasping wind drowned out her name. The savage air seemed to freeze my eyes as I scrambled desperately up a slippery bank, battered by hailstones. At the top, Sophie stood strong, staring back towards me, before lurching off through the leafless, jagged trees. The accusation in her face was haunting. My nose and fingers were already numb. The raw gale lashed my face and balked my progress, as if to prevent me discovering the grim truth ahead. Groaning trees defied the wind, but suddenly a huge branch snapped and crashed down, burying Sophie in front of me. Seemingly orchestrated by a merciful hand, the brutal weather promptly died, leaving an eerie silence broken only by the frenzied thumping of my heart. Miraculously, Sophie skipped from the carnage, scrutinized me and raced on. Katie would be so proud of this fearlessly loyal creature. Emerging from the wood, I looked out across the frozen lake, my breath clouding the air. The sky had been grey all day, but now a blood red sun was disappearing below the horizon, bathing the lake in a transcendent glow. Sophie stood fifteen yards out, imploring me to approach. My spirit sank. I edged onto the ice which sighed and creaked. As I reached Sophie she whimpered, pawing the ice. I brushed the loose snow aside. There, clearly visible below the surface, was Katie’s beautiful young face, her eyes glaring in terror, her fingertips stuck against the ice. This time my scream ruptured the landscape. Christine's entry: It’s time. The bay calls me. For over seventy years I’ve lived by the rhythm of the tides. The arthritis is painful, but I’ve never yet missed the lobster pots. There’s a purple cloudbank, powerful, dangerous and magnificent, rolling in from the west. My father thrived on extreme weather. ‘That’s when you know you’re alive,’ he said. His spirit died when ill-health confined him to the cottage. I set my course and stride towards the centre of the universe. I’m buffeted by aggressive bursts of wind spiked with icy sleet – alone – with the immense expanse of sand around me and the infinite sky above me. My father told me of the newly-weds, driving home across the bay after the wedding ceremony in their horse-drawn carriage, while a fiddler walked alongside playing his merry tunes. Caught in a storm the moving sands buried them all – except the fiddler. Even now, centuries later, the fiddler still plays on when danger haunts the bay. I work efficiently round the lobster pots, filling my basket despite attacks from the freezing wind. I laugh in its face and throw some heavy punches at it. But a sharp twinge of pain makes me stumble and it’s hard to get up again. Turning my back on the blustery weather I head homeward. I stop and listen to the trill of a curlew’s song. Its swift three-time beat sounds like a polka. Indeed it is a polka – the one I danced at my wedding. My feet pick up the rhythm and the wind holds me in its embrace while I dance, as nimbly as I did then. Faster and faster I whirl, following the fiddler’s joyful tune. Without missing a single beat, I dance into the purple velvet of the sky and the soft sands of the bay.