Creaky Hammock Issue #1 by creaky hammock literary zine

creaky hammock issue #1 spring/summer 2015

creaky hammock creakyhammock.tumblr.com creakyhammock@gmail.com

table of contents

letter from the editor– 4 I AM AFRAID OF MY LIFE by Julia Alexander– 5 seven months I will never be able to forget (but that’s probably ok) by Julia Alexander– 6 This Machine Kills by Mike Roach– 8 Needle in a Needlestack by Mike Roach– 9

#Poem by Taylor Page Gibbons– 10

Growing Pains by Sophie McAteer– 11 Hold On ‘Til Dawn by Kevan Henshaw– Witness by Charlie Johnson– Framed by Sarah-Rose Mutch– Loss by Justine Stella– The Taste of Cigarettes by Shannon O’Reilly– Golden Bella by Cassie Axon–

12 14 17 19 24 26

Unidentified Flying Object by Emily Dunbar– 31

Clarissa by Breanna Zampaglione– 33

Pizza Parlor by Tess Walsh– 35 about the contributors–

Dearest Readers, The collection of work you are about to read is one that honored to have curated. When I first started the Creaky blog and began accepting submissions, I could never have pated the quantity or quality of writing and photography would receive.

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Let me introduce myself – my name is Serena, and I’m a 17 year old high school student from Kentucky. I started Creaky Hammock hoping to learn something. It is worth noting that I have in fact learned multiple things, like that Google Drive is a lifesaver, and that young artists are hungry – hungry to create, to collaborate, and to make their voices heard. I feel so privileged to have been entrusted with the work of these young artists and writers. Editing this first issue was tough, and I’m grateful to all of those who have worked with me and been patient as I felt my way through the dark. I think that this issue I do say so myself. I’m these nifty little mags It’s been a pleasure to like to thank everybody possible.

is the start of something beautiful, if hoping to be able to put another one of together before the end of the year. be a part of this chaos, and I would who made the Spring/Summer 2015 issue

To create is godly, and to create collaboratively – that’s divinity in its most powerful form. Thanks for reading, and stay godly.

- Your beaming editor, Serena Devi

I AM AFRAID OF MY LIFE by Julia Alexander have you ever held a secret so deep within you that you feel like you are betraying someone just by thinking of it? have you ever smelled your lovers hair and wished that you could just fucking die already? you should just fucking end it because there will never be another thing as big as this. there will never be another thing as important as this moment. have you ever choked on your own throat when someone puts their arms around you? have you ever rejected another body so violently that you shake from his touch for no apparent reason? have you ever felt like you are drowning in skin, like this body is not yours like the whole world is watching as you let yourself dissolve?

seven months i will never be able to forget (but that’s probably ok) by Julia Alexander January: stumbling on my own and realizing i could do something by myself without it being pathetic. building myself a life that no one could ever take away. falling into a new normal. February: finding comfort in bodies i am unfamiliar with. finding out that being choked has a lot more to do with a lack of trust than a lack of air. and i really liked it March: loving you was an itch i could not scratch no matter how many sets of fingernails dug into my spine. April: crying in your arms please please May: learning that sometimes the body does not understand. some transplant patients reject perfectly healthy organs for no reason at all. learning that even the skin is an organ. rejecting the skin. rejecting his skin. 6

June: holding on even when it felt useless. even when i wanted to let go more than anything. looking up at the humming wires looking over at you sprawled out on the hood of your parents’ car. i knew that i spent all this time hurting for some reason. there was a reason for all of this. this was the reason i was waiting for. July: breathing into your mouth please, please. and after all of this chipping away I finally got back yes. yes. yes.

This Machine Kills by Mike Roach Forever picked a beautiful hill to die on Buzzards circle the sunlight in anticipation Waiting, salivating over someone else’s prey Remember tomorrow like it happened yesterday And never present the gift of present tense Innocence, in a sense Bloody fingerprints on the piano keys I pieced myself back together with pieces of you But I took nothing you’ll miss and I promise to Return it all when I come back from the point of no return You’re sentimentally insane about watching me burn You’re the one who tied me to the stake But I was able to walk away so Don’t give it another thought and Forget yourself in something eternal so you’ll never be forgotten Open the box and put on the pawn shop diamond ring Hope my neck doesn’t break so you can watch me swing

Needle in a Needlestack by Mike Roach Liver decaying, salvation fading, they drag me to the guillotine Souvenir transcripts of the trial from the printing press death machine And in my passing, the man says, “Good luck, but… Dead stars are only ever so pretty in the dark. Who do you think you are?” “I am nobody. How do you intend to kill a man with no body?” “You’ll pay with your head for what you did. And we’ll all breathe easy when your breathing ends.” His laugh is mad and he’s made As I moan like a sinner on Revival Day He cremated me and he’s compensated With $6 in quarters taken from the coin-operated stockade in town square Grey clouds gather and rain on the solar-powered electric chair

#Poem by Taylor Page Gibbons #Social media is my life because #I care more about what people think about me than how I see myself #I show my intense needs of attention through tags and what’s on my mind posts #I liked and reblogged your pictures please talk to me #Does this make me selfie #Autocorrect I meant selfish #Why is my phone light yelling at me through my blankets to stay awake/stay popular/stay awake/stay liked/stay awake #It’s been three days and I’m dead inside from trying to please strangers in my laptop and I didn’t know how bad I looked until my screen died and I saw my reflection so I put my computer charger back in as I plugged myself back into a virtual reality #This is where tumblr quotes define me but I’m the definition of a useless member of society #Try hard blogger #Addicted to my wifi loving when my screen lights up like it’s my nicotine #Posting what I think in all caps then #Ignore me #I put lol after depressing replies so I don’t sound as sad as I really am but that was my hidden cry for attention #Ironic because no one likes an attention seeker in a social media centered society #I want to die #suicide #trigger warning #Don’t mind me I’m just kidding #Too late my mouse cable is strangling me so I can’t get away #This is not how mouse traps should work #I’d ask for help but all anyone would here is click click click #Also really unhappy that my life isn’t as wonderful as they make theirs look #My cappuccino got 23 likes though #Thank god someone sees me #My eyes are the instagram and I’m capturing my life that everyone likes but no one loves #At least my internet history remembers me #Why are memes okay but not me #Don’t reassure me otherwise because I heard it through the vine #I don’t run on electricity but I’m still shocked over content #Got milk ads turned to #got nudes #they both seem to come from cows anyways #Nsfw used to be porn but now it’s bloodied arms and skeleton girls #People only care when you’re dying anyways #This is why I have so many followers because #Social media is destroying my life

Growing Pains by Sophie McAteer Like a flower in its first Spring he dyed the water she drank and her petals came out blue, like his eyes. Blue is not her colour.

Hold On 'Til Dawn by Kevan Henshaw I see a sunrise creeping the horizon, A ray of light on an endless blue. The night’s been long, but it’s near done, And finally we’ll awaken to a new day. Fear of dark has kept us covered By thick blankets of woven insecurities. We appear warm, but how can we be? In a bed of near loneliness, the shaking walls and howling winds masking the beating of our own empty hearts. Yesterday, a black and white memory, but mostly white with bright skies, for that’s how memories are. We didn’t seem so small then, We were playground kings and princesses, Climbing slides of warm silver ignorance. Make believe ended with our parents calling “Dinner!” A word that meant darkness would inevitably encase us. And soon. As caterpillars can’t be forever, we began to transform Trapped in a cocoon of fast forwarding time. When once we were told we could be anything, We were now to become butterflies. No longer swingset royalty, what would become of us? As the cocoons fell away, and one by one we spread our wings, I was breathless. A magnificent beauty of orange and purple and yellow, My reflection showed that I too had been remade, But not as great… I just blended in. The crickets of envious green, taunted us, And my averageness spared me. But I saw my winged friends break, as if captured in nets of despair. They no longer saw a spectrum in the morning dew, How could something so beautiful feel so ugly inside? Ugliness is contagious, 12

From the crickets to the butterfly, To the lion who lost her cub, To the little girl who lost her innocence when her babysitter took it home with his forty bucks. To the teenage boy who lost his father when he said “You’re no son of mine.” We all struggle with that ugliness as it whips at our windows and frightens us to pull those blankets up over our heads. And the most miserable part is that some of us are too scared to ever look again, slipping into a noose tied tight to the slide of black and white memories. But for those of us that are still here, For those that are still refusing to come when “Dinner!” is called, I see a sunrise creeping the horizon. The crickets will retreat because butterflies own the day, The night has been long, but it is replaced with a sun, Whose rays exploded the averageness I saw into something extraordinary, reflecting our beauty in a way we have never seen it and reminding us that we can be anything. And when we meet the new caterpillars, We absolutely must tell them to hold on through the night for they too will see their beauty in the morning light, As no two butterflies are the same.

Witness by Charlie Johnson

The deceleration of the train pushed me into the shoulder of the person next to me. He didn't seem to mind, though. The same thing had happened every couple of minutes as we travelled around the Yamanote line. The doors opened and more people shuffled onto the already cramped train. We collectively drew a breath as the doors closed with a chime and the carriage lurched, starting the game of human dominoes again. After a few mumbled apologies everyone found their own space and began pulling out phones, books and other time wasting devices. I had an mp3 player but didn't reach for it. I found the flashing neon and Tokyo nightlife outside fascinating. Bright lights, shifting crowds and a myriad of symbols that were still unknown to me. Even from my position in the very middle of the car I had a clear view through the window. In Australia I was only an average height, with many of my friends towering over me but here I was a clear head taller than the standard businessman. As a result, whenever I scanned the train's interior, a sea of black hairdos greeted me. Something else that set me apart was my dress. No suit or tie to be seen. In my jeans and hooded jumper I looked more like a drug dealer than an exchange student. The neon outside stopped whizzing by and the doors opened again. People were pushed out of the train by those exiting and the territory wars started again. This time a new player entered the fray. Many of the evening commuters stopped what they were doing and made room for the giant in the doorway. He walked over to a seat and an elderly woman moved over in order to accommodate his bulk. The doors began to close and some patrons rushed out onto the platform. This gave me enough room to finally sit down. The only seat left was the one directly opposite the man who was the source of apprehension. Suddenly everyone around me became unusually interested in the floor or ceiling. Being a foreigner I had no reason to adhere to any ancient codes so I turned my gaze to the man across the aisle from me. He was tall for a Japanese person. His legs were stretched out, one shiny leather shoe casually sitting atop the other. A fine pin-striped trouser ran up his legs only to be cut off by another black piece of leather. The belt had a big silver buckle indicating his love of American style and obvious affluence. A manly odour wafted over to me as the air conditioner swung around. It was the smell of tanned cow hide and heady aftershave. A potent mix of spice and muskiness devoured all other pleasant scents with gusto. Something hit my eye like a bright shard of ice and I blinked instinctively. The light had refracted from the great sapphire ring on his middle finger. His hands were heavily laden with other jewels but this gem dwarfed all the others. Slithering out of the collar of his Armani jacket was a tattoo. The jade green viper was bearing its fangs as if to strike with the head positioned just below the man's ear. Only a fine stubble covered his rather plain head. It was then that our eyes met. His almond shaped eyes were trying their best to appear menacing. I was transfixed. I wanted to look away; to submit and hand him victory, but I couldn't. We kept staring, each gauging the others reaction. Eventually the suited man gave a half smile which seemed to say you've got real balls kid. I'll leave you alone this time. With that he stood up and moved to one of the sets of doors. Static cut through the air around me followed by a disinterested voice saying something I couldn't understand. The only word I gleaned was 'Akihabara' which I guessed to be the next station. 14

The wheels of the train locked as it squealed to a jarring halt. Everyone was thrown forwards and despite the accumulated bruises there were still no complaints forthcoming. The Japanese way of politely tolerating discomfort amazed me. The lumbering figure ducked through the doors as they sprung open. A moment later I was on the platform and surrounded by people. The crowd eddied and swirled around me like the ocean around a bollard. The sheer number of people was enough to momentarily disorientate me. Slowly I scanned the throng in search of my quarry. I wasn't even sure why I was hunting him. Maybe it was the look he gave me on the train. Yes, that was it. He didn't think I was worth his time. 'Gotcha!' I spied the bald head bobbing away towards the ticket gate. Moving quickly, I kept with the flow of people, stepping into each gap as it appeared. Finally I scanned my Suica card and stepped out into Akihabara. I left the safety of the station and walked out into an otaku's dream. It was night time but giant televisions displaying characters with unusually coloured hair lit the streets. High-rise buildings leant over the street like parents protecting a child. The overly cute sound of J-pop's latest triumph, AKB48, assaulted my ears as I moved down the street. The tattooed man split the crowd the way a boat displaces water so that I was able to sneak through his slipstream uninhibited. I passed a ramen shop and my mouth began to water. That changed when a truck rolled past, belching out black smoke, adding to the stench of the city. Soon we began to leave the people dressed in cosplay and maids outfits spruiking for their cafes behind. They were swapped for computer parts and tables with questionable looking mobile phones. There were fewer people at this end of the street so I hung back, pretending to be interested in a second hand stereo system. In my peripherals I saw the bald head duck into a laneway between a pachinko parlour and an arcade. I sauntered over to the corner trying to appear as casual as possible and inched my head around the corner until I had a clear view of the street. The man I was tracking was standing alone under a streetlight. There was not a soul to be seen. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 'Was he anxious?' I thought to myself. Minutes elapsed and the back door to the pachinko parlour opened, flooding the street with light and the continuous rumble of metal balls being dropped into the machines. A smaller man almost jogged over to my target. His uniform neatly clung to his fine build even as he moved. The two of them began to converse. I tried to listen in but the noise from the damn pachinko house drowned out all other sound. The casino worker reached into his red vest and pulled out a wad of money as thick as a small novel. The bejewelled hand of the other guy snatched it and flicked through the pile of notes. He repeated the action several times as if unsure of something. Each time he recounted, the uniformed man became more and more nervous. Fear and the desire to stay calm were in conflict, resulting in a twisted, off putting smile. He flinched as the larger man tucked the money into his inner breast pocket. There was no weapon when the hand emerged and the casino worker let out a sigh of relief. With a pat on the back and a nervous laugh, the two men exchanged greetings appropriate for the evening and wished each other well. The smaller man bowed several times as he backed away towards the door. As he was reaching for the handle something struck his shoulder, forcing him into the door. He looked down and saw the hole in his shirt, bloody and ragged. Before he could examine the wound, both of his knees exploded and his legs buckled under 15

his own weight. From my position on the corner I saw the suited giant pull the pistol from the holster under his jacket and attach the silencer. I watched as this seemingly innocent man was brutally subdued. I watched as each shot found its mark, painting the human canvas with his own gore. I watched because I couldn't hear the shots over the clamour of the gamers den. I watched as the final bullet was lodged in the victim's skull. His muscles contracted before going limp; highlighting the loss of life. The tattooed man strolled over to the corpse and admired his handy work. He slipped on a leather glove and delicately placed a business card in the breast pocket of the cadaver. After tucking his shirt back into his trousers and straightening his tie, he strode back towards the main street. As his Italian shoes clacked along the road our eyes met for the second time that evening.

Framed by Sarah-Rose Mutch

I was very excited when my Master told me “I’ve got a big job for you today.” I never had big jobs; I only did little things around there. Master cleaned and prepared me. He was wearing gloves that day, the texture smoother than his usual rough sandpaper skin. He smiled at me as he applied the finishing touches, but it was a vacant, empty smile. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed and his tongue slid around his lips. Master stroked my side and moved me into darkness. “I need to keep you hidden for now,” he explained. I waited in anticipation.

Folks still say that Masters house is one of the finest in Louisiana, even after his father had built it twenty years ago, in 1820. I can still recall hearing Master’s footsteps making dull thumps on the wooden floors as we moved through the hallways. I cannot remember a time when I couldn’t recognise those heavy footsteps, or a time when I didn’t know Master. He was a fine man, always kept us clean and working hard. He enjoyed impressing people and hosting great gatherings. People once came from all over to delight in his food and hospitality. I had made many friends during my time with him, most gone now, too old and ‘dull’ as Master would say. I am pretty old now too. I thought the Master would’ve been done with me, but I guess I must be special to him.

A woman’s voice interrupted my thoughts and made Master stop walking. “Oh, hey honey. What are you doing? I thought you were working out in the farm today?” She is Master’s wife. He shuffles closer to her, still keeping me concealed from her view, “No. Got other plans.” “What plans? Are you going into town? Can I join you?” Master does not reply to her for some time. Instead he moves around the room. I hear the clink of ice dropping into glass. “Must you drink that vile stuff? Its only midday.” I do not know what she is talking about until I smell the familiar spicy aroma of the liquid that usually gets served around at Master’s gatherings. “I have been hearing things.” “What things, darling?” More silence. Master moves over to a seat, which makes me worry that I will hurt him as he pushes me against his leg, “Agatha, do you know James Malcolm?” Master’s wife, or Agatha as he calls her, does not respond for quite some time, “Is he the one… that… lives down near the Miller’s farm? Isn’t he the old man?” “Yes, but not the old man, his son.” Master shifts in his seat, causing me to accidentally slip into his skin. He stifles a sharp intake of breath, trying not to alert Agatha. “Oh yes, I know him, he went to your last party, we only spoke once. Sturdy fellow, are you thinking of hiring him to help here?” Master is silent, but I hear the blunt thud of glass meeting wood as he puts his drink down.

“Would you like another?” Agatha asks. Master grunts his approval and I hear the footsteps of Agatha. He stands and slides me out of my hiding place. I am revealed to the world that I had so far been hidden from. A small lounging area. Agatha is over in the corner with her backed turned, preparing Master’s drink. Master gets up from his seat and takes me over to Agatha, she is just about to turn and give Master his drink when he shoves me inside her. She screams as I tear at her flesh. I am covered in her blood. He pulls me out, and leans over to whisper in Agatha’s ear, “I know what you did with him, and I do not want whores tainting my home.” He shoves me in again. This time I scrape bone and tear muscles. Over and over again he does this. I get dirtier and dirtier. One final attack, I go right through to her heart. A sudden breath. She is still. Master glances at me and smiles that familiar distant smile. He runs his tongue along my sharp side, tasting Agatha. He hides me again, but this time in a hole in the ground of James Malcolm’s land.

Loss by Justine Stella

Trust, honesty, knowledge and truth. These are vital to me. I hate being lied to and I hate not knowing what’s going on. I hate the tightness in my chest that comes from questioning things. It’s frustrating when someone argues with me and debates with me about something that I remember. I can’t stand it when someone tells me that something didn’t happen the way that I remember it. I know that everyone has their own truth of an experience, but I don’t like knowing that perhaps my own memory has betrayed me; that perhaps I can’t trust what I know. This hasn’t always bothered me so much. It’s always disappointing when friends lie, but I’d always been able to trust what I know and experience. Until I couldn’t.

***

Nan was waiting for me when I got home. She’d been crying. My younger sister was curled up on a chair, hugging her knees, staring blankly. “Honey, sit down. I need to tell you something,” Nan wrapped her arms around me. She was warm. She smelled of flour. Mum was gone.

***

Bad news is often the kind of thing that you wish was a lie. You see it everywhere, like when students beg for the teacher to claim their test scores aren’t true, and where movie characters beg for others to declare that the tragedy was all a joke. We can’t always accept bad news. But usually we’re grateful that someone has told us the truth, as sometimes there’s nothing worse than not knowing.

***

I played the song “10,000 Miles” for her. This song is at the beginning of the movie Fly Away Home and this was always our favourite movie. So this song just felt right. But as I listened, the lyrics started melting together, like candle wax. My head was fuzzy. People were talking about her in past tense. “Mandy was so brave.” Past tense. As the funeral progressed, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think. Everything that used to hold me together was gone. It felt like I was the one melting, with nothing holding me together. I started losing feeling in my body, I was going numb. I couldn’t even feel my heart beating in my chest, there was nothing there. Nothing except a hole. 19

***

Holes make sense. If you take something away, you are left with a hole. I understand this. Holes are honest, and you can work with them, you can fill them up, or soften the edges. Holes can’t lie. They just tell the truth of a loss. And this truth is important.

***

My sister and I each took one of Mum’s big t-shirts to sleep in. They smelled like her. Like safety and laughter. I woke up and I could smell her around me. But when I went into the kitchen Nan was there, not Mum. The next day the t-shirts smelled like us. Like emptiness and silence. Nan looked after us and kept her hands moving. Because when they weren’t, she couldn’t stop them from shaking. But Nan couldn’t stay here forever. I was eighteen, I could look after us. I think it was hurting Nan to be here, where Mum lived. So I did what I hated; I lied. “You should go back home, we’ll be fine,” I reassured her.

***

Lies can be useful. I understand why people use them. I even tried to fill the hole with little lies. You’ll be okay, I told myself. It’ll stop hurting soon. But lies have no substance, no density. So filling the hole of her absence with lies was dangerous. The hole consumed them, fed off them. Every time I told myself that I was okay, the hole inside me got deeper and darker. Being lied to by someone else is awful, but lying to yourself is dangerous.

***

Uni was scary, but also liberating. No one knew. In our first class my new friend Dave made my surname into the chant, “Stelllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” and made it a habit to steal my pen every now and then. In revenge I snatched his phone and then he pushed my books onto the floor. I was normal. But I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I warn him that I’m damaged, that it’s only been two months? He deserves to know what he’s getting himself into. I didn’t want to say it, though. Every time I said it out loud, it hurt more. My chest stung and I started shaking. So I didn’t tell him. After class we went and got lunch and Dave mocked my height. I think I welcomed his teasing; it gave me something else to focus on. ***

Grief is universal. But everyone has different truths when it comes to loss; you just have to find yours. 20

The books all say that it’s okay to go backwards. Everyone goes through waves of missing someone, and then waves of anger or guilt. These feelings don’t have to make sense and this is normal. However, knowing that this is a universal truth doesn’t always help. Not when you tell someone that you’ve lost her and they get that look on their face: pity mixed with apprehension. It’s like they know getting into a friendship with you won’t be easy. But at least you can trust this universal truth of grief.

***

Everyone was already at the restaurant when my sister and I arrived. Nan was hanging a “Happy Birthday” banner on the edge of the table and smiled when she saw us. My little cousins came running over and Milly, the youngest, took my hand, steering me to my seat. “Wanna hear the best joke? What did one farmer say to the other farmer?” “What?” I asked, offering her a smile. “How’s your farm?” Our whole table was full of giggles. Except for the empty chair. It was okay to laugh, it was healthy. But it felt wrong, because Mum would have liked that joke. She would have been in that chair laughing with us. And now we can never share it with her. We can’t share anything with her ever again.

***

Sometimes going backwards feels like all of your progress forwards has been a lie. But I really think that you can still value the steps you made to go forwards. You can still trust in what you did. And it’s important to trust yourself and your actions. Because if you can’t, then what can you trust?

***

Our tutor handed back our marked assignments and then dismissed us. But I couldn’t move after looking at my mark; I got 80%! I actually did well! I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Mum. Oh. My pride dissolved, falling piece by piece into the hole as I left the classroom. My hands were shaking when I tried to unlock my car door. I dropped my keys but I couldn’t reach them. I couldn’t see. The hole dragged me down. ***

Forgetting about bad news for a moment is almost worse than hearing it for the first time. Because when you remember and realisation dawns, it stabs you. The pain is fresh again. It’s like you’ve knocked a scab and opened the wound again. Every time you forget and then remember, it’s like someone has knocked you down. 21

And that person is you. Usually forgetting something for a moment doesn’t cause any pain, but when it does, it’s like you’ve betrayed yourself. It’s like your memory is against you. You should remember the bad things that have happened so you don’t have to experience the pain of forgetting and then realising all over again. How many times can this happen before you can’t trust yourself?

***

I couldn’t hold the lighter steady and the flame flickered out. My eyes grew hot as I tried again and finally the candle was lit. “Well,” my sister murmured, “it’s been a whole year, Mum, and I miss you so much. I just wish…” “Me too,” I whispered and wrapped my arms around her. When we pulled apart I said, “I’m gunna put the song on,” and my sister nodded. I pressed play on Windows Media Player and the first notes of “10,000 Miles” reached us. The patterns in Windows Media Player began. Hearts and stars danced around each other in swirls of yellow and purple; Mum’s favourite colours. When the lyrics began softly, “Fare thee well”, large silhouettes of birds flew along the screen; birds had been Mum’s favourite animal. I’d never seen birds in the patterns on Windows Media Player before. And in that moment I felt her; Mum was there with us. I laughed. My chest felt lighter. And for once, laughing didn’t rub against the hole. I think the edges of the hole weren’t quite so sharp, like they had been softened just a tiny bit, enough for me to maybe be okay.

***

Discovering pieces of the truth is important, like the truth that you will be okay, even if it’s only your truth. Perhaps especially if it’s your truth. And this is the kind of thing, our own truth, that we need to hold onto, particularly when we encounter those moments when our memories don’t match others’ memories of the same event. But then again, how do we know that we can trust our discoveries of our own truth? How can we know that it is our truth? The answer might seem obvious, the fact that we experience the discovery of our truth means that we can trust it. But I’ve come to learn that this is wrong. Sometimes we can’t trust our truth, or the discovery of it. ***

My alarm screeched at me, demanding that I get up. When I finally did shove my blanket away and climb out of bed, something was off; my room looked different. It wasn’t the same as last night. My desk was in the wrong spot and my bookshelf was no longer next to my bed. I was different too. My hair was shorter and I wasn’t as thin. I wasn’t wearing the tracksuit pants and top that I put on last night.

Goosebumps rippled across my skin. What was going on? And then I heard her voice, Mum’s voice. I swear my heart stopped beating. My breath caught in my throat and I choked; it’d been so long since I’d heard her voice. As I listened to Mum’s voice talking, anger flared, what kind of sick joke was this? I stomped to my door and followed the sound of her voice, getting more flustered. The photos on the walls in the hallway were different, and the ones of her that I’d hung up after the funeral were gone. Everything started spinning. My vision was flickering at the edges. I was spiraling again. When I stumbled into the kitchen Mum was waiting for me. She was smiling. My younger sister was curled up on a chair, eating cereal. “Honey, sit down,” Mum said. I couldn’t move. “You need to eat something before school,” she continued. I couldn’t speak. The panic in the air eased, but I felt like I’d been slapped. She wrapped her arms around me. She was warm. She smelled of toast. “You okay?” She whispered and I nodded. Relief flowed over the edges of the hole, smoothing them out until there was no trace left. It was like there had never been a hole; it hadn’t been real. Mum was here.

***

At first, the realisation that it hadn’t been real only brought joy and relief. My mum hadn’t really died; I was so grateful, so happy, so relieved. But weeks later I realised what this meant: I can’t tell the difference between what’s real, and what’s not. I was able to experience a dream so real that I woke up thinking it was part of reality, that it was true. This means that I can’t always trust my experiences, or what I know to be the truth. And what happens when you don’t know what your own truth is? You’re in danger.

The Taste of Cigarettes by Shannon O’Reilly

I could never write you a poem before, I didn’t need to. There you were, milky white, Asleep on my sheets. I had a nook, I fit. Now, You’re a phantom limb. The one I look for when that song plays, Or hey remember how funny that time was… Oh, Wait. All that’s left is the you in my head, Photographs, Words written on a page, Empty space, The coldness of my sheets . Phantom Limb. Your kisses.

They’ve been replaced, With The taste of cigarettes

Golden Bella by Cassandra Emily Axon

Gold. It was all gold. The purest white gold, rusty burnt gold and dark gold, all mixed together. Every strand, gold. They glistened with sunlight and rippled with movement. Each golden strand shaped and shielded strong athletic muscles as they tensed in agitation. Eyes wild with anger and betrayal searched the space around them. Nostrils flared with furious breath. I didn’t notice the smell of dry hay and manure, didn’t notice the heat or the high fences. All I noticed was her; she stole my eyes and forced me to notice every tiny detail. She, a golden flame of fury, didn’t frighten me like she should have. No, she had me so mesmerised I didn’t notice the movement in my own muscles as I walked, didn’t notice the smooth bite of metal as I climbed the fence. I wasn’t afraid as I stood so close her breath warmed my cheeks. I reached towards her face, her muscles relaxed, her eyes stilled. She stared into my eyes with a look no longer of betrayal and anger, but of acceptance, understanding. She lowered her face and pressed her forehead into my hand. Taking a deep breath, I filled my lungs with the dry, musty smell of her coat. Without looking, I allowed the texture of small coarse hair amuse my skin. Allowed my ears to fill with the rhythm of her heavy breath coming and going as I stood still and entranced in the small paddock. She turned her face from my touch and pressed her neck into my hand. I travelled my hand down towards her shoulder and stopped. The feeling changed; the hair was now rough and bumpy. Her body pressed firmly into my hand, urging me on. My eyes opened and I saw that the gold strands were matted with brown healing skin. The beauty was damaged, a mess of thick scars and wounds. This was not what I saw from the other side of the fence. She had been flawless, undamaged. Beautiful. I stepped back and she stepped forward, not allowing me to escape the horror. She trusted me with her secrets, her pain. I didn’t want to know, didn’t want to share. The air sailed from my body, leaving me vacant. The damaged beauty started to fade. No longer was it gold and brown that I saw in front of me. My view transformed into glass, blood and wet road. I could smell the burning fumes; feel the blood and water beneath my fingers. Looking up, there it was my nightmare. My breathing quickened and shortened. I couldn’t move. Frozen, lost and broken in the moment. Fear, it tensed my muscles and turned my skin cold. Panic, it caused spasms and pulses within my muscles. My stomach collapsed inwards and acid seared a track up my throat. I tried to swallow but a stampede attacked my stomach, the acid burnt my mouth and nose as vomit painted the road. I started to shake yet the cold wasn’t felt. The rain had soaked me three times over and yet I didn’t move. I just stared. The car was on its roof, windows cracked and smashed. The side door open but bent. It was through the open doorway that I stared. Red; red everywhere. It didn’t register that the red was my mother’s life force swimming on the wrong side of her body. No, all I thought was red. It was all red. And then it was gold again…It was dirt beneath my feet, hands resting at my 26

sides. There was heat and my skin was dry. I couldn’t welcome this place enough… The shine of her coat flashing in between my blinks … safe … That was when she charged me … nose hitting shoulder … me on my behind … spine vibrating from tailbone to skull. I bounced twice, hair streaming behind me. Shocked I threw my hands up, “What the hell, Golden?” She snorted and stamped her forefeet. Her muscles bunched then lengthened as she turned away from me and become a golden blur as she cantered in a circle. Her mane and tail flared out behind her, almost giving her flight. Her movement was as smooth and wild as the clouds on a windy day. The beautiful side. She skidded to a stop, dirt spitting up around her. Raising her head she whinnied loud and ear-piercing. With a toss of mane and flinching muscle, she ran the other way. Now the damaged side. The scars and wounds pulled and changed like soft clay when stepped on as she rolled into a canter. They didn’t fault or limit her movement. She was amazing, still beautiful. A beauty, she was Bella. I sat smiling at her performance of grace and power. She continued to run laps swapping what side she showed off until I couldn’t even tell the difference. The smile dropped from my face when she stopped dead, turning towards me. Those forefeet stamped and she jumped into powerful movement. Hooves rattled the earth. It took seconds and she was there, on top of me. Stopping lifelessly, one step from crushing my body. Looking up at her chest and neck I spluttered out my breath. She snorted, lowering and shaking her head. Face to face. Small fragile hands pressed to strong rounded jowls. The winded cradled the magnificent. Thin cracked lips touched the beauty’s forehead and yet it was my face that felt the movement of a light kiss. A large hand holding my cheek. Without looking, I knew this room had faded white walls and light brown curtains. I knew without registering to the tears showering my cheeks and the whispered pleads of my father that I was in the room where I had slept and wept and screamed and cursed. Time, slow bleeding time, was passed within this room. I didn’t want this to surface. No, this room, this time, could stay away. Locked and caged. These emotions with it. These emotions were worse than the last. It was easier to be afraid than distraught. Empty. Alone. “Darling? Do you understand?” The tears started to hail, heavy and murderous. Pain escaping and hiding within my hairline. I felt the scream building, so desperately wanting to let go. Open the locked door on my lungs and scream until my body fell limp. Let go of this pain but key didn’t fit the lock and the scream stayed captive within the breathy prison. “That my mother is dead.” Grey haired and wilted, my father sat back sharply. “We’re not speaking of that.” “Her.” “Do you understand what is wrong with you?” The prison door burst open, no key needed but it was no scream that bubbled forth. A sick squealing laugh surged and body-slammed my father into guilt. His brain ticking, already thinking. Poor dear, she is broken. Damaged. 27

“Yes, I am without a mother.” “Your brain is injured from the crash. Do you remember the crash, baby?” Do I remember? Maybe he doesn’t understand the injury. Memory is tucked away safely from the toxic area. Memory was saved. No black spots, no brain scars. Memory survived it all. “Goodnight, Dad.” He stood, feet heavy and muddled as he left his seat on the bed. “See you soon, little darling.” And all I wanted to say was, I wish you wouldn’t. Body sinking into the bed. Eyes closing, pain numbing but not retreating. The dry heat swarmed back around me, harsh and unwanted. I didn’t want to open my eyes, didn’t want to see the golden beauty. My golden Bella. No, I wanted to go back to the start of today and not glide helplessly into this painful paddock. Hands locked in tight balls mimicked the movement of her hooves and rattled the earth. Bella tore her forefeet from the earth. Head held high, mane soaring out around her and neighed. It was a sound that would crack every window in its range. Break every heart that heard. Hands of tight balls stilled, breath relaxed. Eyes saw this crazed glory and were comforted. Bella expressed what I felt. She was proud to feel what she felt. Glad to show it. They weren’t stolen emotions or mimicked. She knew how I felt. She shared it. She owned it and was beautiful for it. Locked away from everything and everyone, Bella roamed. Strong and dazzling, judged because of her armour made of scars. Banished and abandoned because someone chose to see her pain as weakness. Her damage as broken, useless. Useless. I tensed, lips smothered each other and nostrils broadened. I could feel my anger boiling, my frame the kettle, my anger the water captured within. Useless, the word leaped around my brain. I knew this word well. It was a curse to feel. My eyelids slammed shut. Sun stung my skin. I peeled them back open suddenly and glared. Calm blank face, white coat and black pants. This woman sat straight backed, chest puffed and when she smiled it wasn’t a smile at all. It sagged to one side without happiness. Her voice was worse, like grating carrots. Quiet but raspy. “Now, it’s time for your assessment.” Body slouching and sagging into the chair, clothes rippled from being over-worn. Face dropping with boredom. Thin bitten fingernails eating the skin from my palms. Tummy made of lightning and thunder. “I need to write for my mother’s funeral.” Standing, she marched over and looked down at me, expressionless. “Your health needs to be checked.” The lightning cracked, slitting my stomach and freeing the thunder that shook my body. Skin ripping as the finger nails bit deeper. Chest expanded. “I want to write.” “Are you having trouble with it?” Arrgh… stupid, stupid.

Eyes spinning like inside a washing machine. “Did you hear what I said?” That pathetic smile. Removing the hair from in front of my ears I mocked, “Ears… crystal.” Crossing her arms, she tapped her booted foot. As if I am meant to care, I dare her to kick. This bum is staying seated or exiting out that door. Door… My chair shrieks, sliding backwards. Climbing from the chair, I see the ending of this moment right there, a brown and cream painted door. Floating… half way. Lock down, long skinny fingers wrap over my shoulder. “You need …” The sun flashed in out, in out. Bella sat crouched beside me, nibbling my fingers. I felt the dirt beneath my back and legs yet still imagined I was floating. The air wrapping around my body like a warm blanket, clasping me tight as it whistled in tune to Bella’s voice. Safe. Bella flopped flat onto her side, hooves tucked in, neck stretched and face relaxed. Rolling in, I placed my head below hers on her neck, inserting myself in the space between her shoulder and head. Trailing my fingertips over the thin start of scars, like paper cuts. Close together, sometimes connecting, sometimes a touch apart. She lay exposed, trusting. Sharing and like leaves in a storm, our surrounding shivered into her nightmare. Dark from being locked in, not from it being night. No light. Not a sliver. The tremor of fear. Light whinnies of panic. The whiff of sweat and piss, it all suffocated and drowned me. I, an outsider, felt it all. Went to bed with it. Bella was feral with fear. Eyes twitching this way and that, hooves stomping trying to break out, head lashing up and down as tiny sobs fled from her mouth. All the small movements and sounds were intensified by the echoes from the walls. Pounding back at her, feeding the panic. Pushing, pressing at her. The snap of leather slitting flesh. The stillness of shock. The whip cut through the air with a crack, more painful than a punch. Louder than the snap of bone. The shuffle of hooves backing up. Blood stung my eyes and nose as I watched. Crack. Again. And again. Silence… Legs letting go, the dropping of mass, the sound of exhaustion. The empty smack of giving up. The silence whispered into the sound of her panting, sobbing and then evening out. Light exploded around me as her body became full beneath mine once again. I tightened my hold, knotting my fingers through her wiry, white gold strands. Bella didn’t flinch or stir. We laid together, protected in each other’s pain, as if laying together with our scars on display for the other; they evaporated like rain in the sun. Her bass line beat a steady thump. I felt it beneath my hand and face, heard it pumping out its beat. Life, this paddock would smother. Music that would be made mute. Hovering from my dint in the dry earth, with a weightless body I sailed to our metal exit. Dropping the latch, the gate collided with its sister in prison making and with both feet on the outside I whistled low. Bella stood with lazy grace; she made sure that those heavy hooves left their mark. Half sun’s singed saying good riddance. As she reached the gate, one knee touched down. Bella lowered her height and I slid onto her back. Her mane squeezed between my fingers, body beneath my legs. There was no walk or jog; we went from still to hooves furiously escaping this land. Muscles moving 29

viscously. The air dashed my hair from my face, massaged my skin and pulled my arms out like wings. We flew far and fast, air rushing around us, into us and from us. The sun lit us up and we became a flame, shining our gold along our way. My hands touched everything and let it all go, her body felt it all and her relief was shown, a heavy sigh and a little groan. Eyelids tumbled shut with a pat not a punch, ears echoed like sea shells, mouth flashed teeth like a man with a badge and Bella soared with wings as pure as a white swan. The clouds opened their gate to the sun and fingers of mighty light made all they touched shimmer. Everything was glazed in different shades of gold, like a sunset as it paints the sky and all I could think was, it’s all gold. It all faded out, I could feel everything melt and emotions ran like hot chocolate. Smooth, delicious and warming entirety all they touched. My cocoon of gold swung and rocked me in a rhythm. I let it all go. Everything I felt vanished, strode free. A silenced beep, a blast of empty air and it was all left. Gone. Distant.

Unidentified Flying Object by Emily Dunbar

A sharp knock at the door resounded through the small apartment. With a heavy sigh, Buzz lifted himself from his worn khaki chair, placing his yellowing copy of Alien Planet on the lamp table. His scuffed, heavy brown boots dragged along the hardwood floor as he made his way to the door. “Mr Aldrin, I presume?” A stony-faced woman stood in the doorway; her shoulder length glossy black hair sat perfectly, not a single strand out of place. She raised a perfectly shaped brow at him. “Yes, please come in.” Buzz stepped to the side, motioning for her to enter. “Thank you,” she smiled a brilliant white smile in his direction as she made her way into the apartment. Buzz hadn’t noticed the man that was following a step behind her; his wide burly shoulders crowded the doorway as he entered the apartment. The stranger pushed his glasses up his straight nose and smiled at Buzz. “Can I get you a drink Miss…?” Buzz asked as they walked them across to the seating area. “Lane, and I’d love a glass of water,” she smiled as she took her seat on the well-worn, comfortable couch. “Well, Miss Lane, what can I do for you today?” Buzz asked as he poured his guests each a glass of water from the tap in the adjoined kitchen. “My partner Mr Kent and I are reporting from the Daily Planet, we have been sent to interview you about your possible UFO sighting while on your last spaceflight,” Lois replied, placing her tape recorder on the chestnut coffee table in front of her. “What do you want to know?” Buzz sighed. He was sick of these bloody reporters, he’d already told them everything he saw. He passed the pair their drinks and landed heavily into his chair, making it groan and complain under his weight. Lois pressed the button on her tape recorder, the black ribbon beginning to spin behind the glass. “Would you tell us what you witnessed please, Mr Aldrin.” Buzz leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and blew out a drawn out breath. “Well,” he began, “There’s nothing I can really tell you that I haven’t already said. On our return to earth I saw a blurred figure fly past one of the windows of the ship. That is all I saw - no green Martians, no aliens with multiple limbs and no robot space-men. I’m sorry, Miss Lane, but that’s as interesting as it gets.” “Do you remember what colour the creature was?” Lois leaned forward, eyeing Buzz closely. Buzz thought about this question, bouncing the heel of one of his boots persistently against the floor. “I think it was red and blue,” he scratched his receding hairline. “I’m not one hundred per cent sure.” A coughing and spluttering Mr Kent interrupted his train of thought, choking on the water he’d been sipping. Lois turned and glared at her partner, “Drink it, don’t choke on it,” she snapped.

A red-faced Kent continued to cough, cupping his hand over his mouth as he tried to clear his throat. “Did either Mr Armstrong or your other companion see this figure?” Lois spoke over her partners struggle for breath. “Nope,” Buzz said, slumping back into his chair, “They think I’m crazy too.” Lois smiled tightly. “No one thinks you’re crazy Mr Aldrin.” “Could have fooled me,” Buzz muttered under his breath. “Is there anything else of significance we could report on?” Lois looked down, tugging at a loose thread on her grey pencil skirt. “Anything at all?” “All I remember,” Buzz sighed, “Was that it was fast! Faster than a speeding bullet!” “Are you sure it wasn’t a bird? Or a plane?” “I was two hundred and forty thousand miles into space, what do you think?” he scoffed, leaning back in his chair. Buzz shook his head. “I can’t give you any more than that Miss Lane, I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time.” He lifted himself from his seat and motioned his hand toward the door. Lois tucked her tape recorder back into her black purse and clicked the clasp. She rose from the couch and Mr Kent followed her silently to the door. “Thank you for your help, Mr Aldrin.” “Miss Lane.” Buzz nodded and shook her hand. He turned to the soundless man standing behind her and presented his hand to him, “Mr Kent.” The man’s grip was tight, almost painful. “Goodbye Mr Aldrin.” Lois smiled and turned. They walked down the corridor toward the building’s stairwell. Buzz waved two fingers as a simple salute and closed the door.

Clarissa by Breanna Zampaglione

Despite the sun, they were dressed in black from head to toe. Their eyes never met one another, hidden behind tinted glasses, and it was exactly how Clarissa liked the city. Clarissa walked out of the train station into the pouring rain, cursing herself for forgetting her umbrella yet again. She observed this as she stepped outside the train station, and was at once six and holding her mother’s hand, twelve and giggling with school friends, 18 and in love. Now, three worlds away from where she had been, at last she could relax and lose herself. She thrust her hands into her pockets, pulling her coat closed tighter around herself, and moved with the sea of running water, filled with people clambering to reach their destinations. She ignored the buzzing phone in her pocket, and instead concentrated her hearing on the staccato rhythm of her shoes on the concrete, the occasional grasp of a beat playing from a set of headphones that drew her into a different persona. Her shoulders straightened and chin lifted as she moved through the people, ducking, weaving, sidestepping in a ballroom dance without a partner, and letting the glittering applause wash over her. It was during this applause that her mind to drift to Daniel, sitting at the poolside with his feet lazily dangling into the water. “What do you want to do with your life?” “Hmm?” Clarissa peered up from underneath her oversized sunhat, half-asleep under the gentle lull of sunshine. “When you finish your course. What do you want to do?” “I don’t know.” Daniel was silent. “Will you still want me?” She hadn’t answered then and she couldn’t answer now, even if Daniel wanted to hear her words. So she waltzed around a handholding couple and a busker on the streets and turned into The Last Place on Earth. When she reached the café, she ducked inside, shedding her outer layers and taking up position behind the counter. Clarissa collected her apron from it’s hook and tied it around her waist in a practised motion, already beginning to take orders before she had even made it to the register itself. As always the scent coffee overwhelmed the senses as soon as the doors were opened, and after collecting her drink, Clarissa moved to her seat in the tucked away corner. Sally would often be waiting for her, her chunky headphones causing her glasses to perch crooked on her nose and staring at her computer with an immense focus or distaste. Her laptop bore the scars of multiple incidents, many of which Clarissa had witnessed, the most recent resulting in a stripe of red tape that ran down one side of the screen to hide the cracks. Sally was sitting in the corner of the café, her usual position, with her glasses sitting on top of her head as she read her book, making little notes on the side of the pages and her lips moving slowly and without sound as she flicked through the pages. “I can’t afford a new one,” Sally muttered as she watched Clarissa carefully keep the 33

tape in alignment before she stuck it down. “Bloody hate being on scholarship.” “Why don’t you use the money for repairs?” “Because buying you coffee after you fix it is cheaper.” “That’s debatable.” The friends laughed, and now Clarissa was reaching their table and Sally was not there. But she still sat down and pulled out her notebook and charcoal pencils, her fingers twitching with anticipation as the shapes formed in her mind and translated into a strange language to be deciphered on the page. Slowly, unhurried, she created the alternate dimension of her alter ego, picking up from the last threads of life. Clarissa wondered, as she cleaned cups and steamed milk, what she would do if she were free of work. Would she be like Sally, always studying and reading as though her life depended on it more than air? She liked to think that her days would be spent wandering the city, finding her way into tiny art galleries where she would converse with the artist about their latest collection or discovering parks filled with people who all had their stories to tell. Sometimes Clarissa wondered if she could be one of those people with a story to tell. Her tattoo itched, and Clarissa paused to rub her wrist over the inked sparrow. It’s blue wings fluttered and soon there was a group of birds flying past the window, their chirps disappearing into the world of sound around them. And yet, they were happy even when their voices were not heard, and so Clarissa tried to be like a bird, for just a moment. “You’re staring again,” Daniel whispered as he leaned in underneath her hat, a grin on his face. She blushed and pretended to swat him away. “What were you thinking?” “Everything,” she replied, because it was the truth. She could never seem to untangle the mess of her thoughts. “You’re beautiful.” The next time Clarissa glanced over to Sally, she was no longer alone, for Daniel had joined her. He had pulled a chair alongside hers, and there they sat, whispering to one another, as their knees and hips and elbows touched together gently and Sally’s hair fell forwards in a curtain, partially blocking them from view until Daniel’s hand lifted to gently tuck the golden strands behind her ear. Clarissa looked away. Finished with her coffee and her sketches, Clarissa packed up her things and re-emerged into the bustling streets. Traffic and pedestrians had increased, leaving no room for her waltz through the crowds. So she walked and stumbled and ambled her way through, checking her phone and responding to any messages that she had missed. Her finger hovered over the call button beside Daniel’s name and she stopped still in the street as she stared indecisively at it. “You’re beautiful.” “Will you still want me?” When she finished her shift, the café was not yet closed, and so Sally and Daniel were still within the shop when she had to walk past the window beside them. They were like magnets, pulling each other closer, and Clarissa’s eyes were pulled towards them no matter how many times she dragged them away. It was only once she had passed the street corner and pushed herself into the rain-dodging crowd heading for the station that she allowed herself to breathe properly again. Clarissa pressed ‘call’. 34

Pizza Parlor by Tess Walsh

It was the Thursday before Homecoming when Joely walked into Old School Pizza and made Caiden’s heart turn upside down. You know, again. He didn’t see her at first because the Lysol under the counter ran out and he had to go down to the basement for more. When he resurfaced, crawling up from the underground treasure trove of chemicals both industrial and recreational, she was sitting on a barstool with her elbows on the counter like she was army crawling, jockeying for space. Caiden stopped with his steel toes on the last condemning step, felt himself grow heavy again as if those steel toes had turned to lead. Joely had always thought the idea of steel toed shoes was funny. “What good are toes in the long run, anyhow?” She’d asked with a cheap bank lollipop in her mouth. “You can use them as fingers if you practice,” Caiden’d answered, watching the way her mouth pursed around a lollipop, watching the way she watched the lake water lick up sunscreen and spilled beer from the sand. She’d glanced over at him with those gigantic eyes, a freshwater mix of green and granite that made Joely appear supernatural, as if one day she had crawled out of the mysterious depths of this very lake and was in constant danger of slipping back to her mermaid origins. “I never will. And stop staring.” That had been Before. This was Now. It was the Thursday before Homecoming, the trees were dying, Caiden’s mother was dying and Joely had her elbows on the counter of Old School Pizza. Caiden put down the Lysol, rubbed his hands on his jeans and said, “Hey Joely.” She looked up at him with those impossible eyes, a hint of a smile touching the corners of her mouth before flitting away, parceled off to a happier occasion than this. “Hey, Caiden.” Her elbows were still on the counter, as if she were prepared for a fight, and she kept touching her lips with her first two fingers. Checking them for bruises. “Can I get you anything?” “A root beer float.” It was only when Joely started chewing on the ragged cuff of the sweatshirt she was wearing that Caiden realized it was his—the lacrosse one from sophomore year that never fit anyway. He’d lent it to her during an April thunderstorm. She’d kept it to smell him before she went to bed. She looked much better in it than he did. Caiden almost poured the damn Lysol into the blender, so distracted by the weight of Joely’s presence. It was so immense it threw off his sense of balance and better judgment. The guys at school thought she looked like a doll all grown up because she came with long eyelashes and matching accessories, but Caiden knew better, and he might have been the only one. Joely wasn’t a doll because one did not play with her. “How’s your mother?” she asked as he set the glass down in front of her. She studied the 35

straw and didn’t look up at him. Caiden felt like a hardboiled egg, the flimsy shell being peeled away in pieces by two pinching fingers. Joely had memorized the maps of his bruises and now she was digging her fingers into the softening parts like she was carving out the soft flesh of an apple using her thumbnail. He couldn’t fault her for it. “She’s okay,” Caiden responded. He picked lint off the dishrag. “The doctors say she’ll probably make it through Christmas.” “That’s good. The carols are her favorite.” “Yeah.” Caiden’s mother had loved—still loved—Joely because she was the first girl Caiden ever dared to bring home. And when Joely walked into what used to be the living room, what was now the waiting-to-die room, the room where life became stale and vulgar, she batted her pine needle eyelashes once, twice, before crossing the room and kissing his mother on the cheek. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. James,” Joely had said, and she’d looked his mother directly in the eyes. She was braver than Caiden; not even he could do that anymore. Joely threw open the windows and made Caiden pick some roses from the angry bush in the backyard and breathed life into the living room and, if Caiden were being honest, the whole house. He’d been using bleach and medicine so long to try to mask the smell of an inevitable future that he’d forgotten how sweet the springtime could be if you let it in through the back door. Joely started dropping by unannounced just to make tea and watch the Game Show Network with Caiden’s mother. It was like she believed that his mother would become stronger through osmosis, as if Joely’s pores leaked youth and vitality and it was simply a matter of time before Caiden’s mother sapped these particles from the dewy air. It was Joely who had broken the news to Caiden’s mother—not so much broke the news as she allowed it to break the both of them—the two most beautiful and coldest things Caiden had ever loved. It was Joely who had cried beside the monster hospital bed, apologizing over and over for Caiden and his actions. Caiden, standing in the doorway, watching the hearts bleed, and Joely, looking up at him with those extraterrestrial eyes, wet and bitter, turning away. That had been the last time he’d seen her. Until now. His heart pumped an awkward rhythm as he waited for her to roll those eyes up at him. “When do you get off?” she asked. “Seven.” “I’ll come back.” “Joely, there’s nobody here. If you want to talk, let’s talk.” Joely put her fists on her temples. “Do you want to talk?” Caiden opened his mouth, but the dozens of words he needed to say clogged his throat, made it hard to breathe, so he just nodded. Joely took her elbows off the counter, dropped her fists onto her thighs. Her movements were always so measured, so careful, like she knew how important and how intimate body 36

language was, like the atoms of stars and the antiquity of human evolution rested heavily in her bones. Caiden had noticed that the first time he saw her, when she had stood in front of his physics class and tucked two curls behind an ear as if it were a confession. She moved as if she were constantly and physically telling secrets. Except at times like this, when she was absolutely still with only her eyes roving. When she was scared and couldn’t bear for her body to tell that secret. Joely let out one of those gasping laughs, ones that attempt to release frustration but only succeed in magnifying it. She licked her lips, looked directly at Caiden for a white hot second. He couldn’t tell who it burned more. It was like stabbing and being stabbed. “I miss you, Caiden,” she said, and she smiled like she was sucking on a lemon, smiled to counteract the liquid quality of her eyes. Too shiny, too hard. He stood there and felt his fingers grow fatter as he rubbed his jaw; fat and bloody and clumsy. Always wrecking things, always poisoning the small amount of normal that had accidentally and blessedly unfurled in his life. He never felt more powerless than when he saw Joely cry. When he made Joely cry. She hadn’t cried on the cold street at two am after the party, when she’d slapped him with a hand made of stone and left pieces of them both all along the gutter. But she’d cried when she’d kissed Caiden’s mother goodbye. Always actions and never words. He was about to extract his response—imissyoutoo—but she looked around and said, “God, some of these relics are from the sixties.” Old School was famous for its sports memorabilia, both local and historical. Jerseys and shoelaces and framed sports pages, vintage letterman jackets, napkin signatures of greats gone by. It was a collaged masterpiece, the organic and evolving collection of Caiden’s boss, an old man with an Auerbach affinity for cigars. Rumor was that Old School’s owner—he called himself Slim Jim, though no one knew if he did so ironically— was immortal because nobody could seem to remember a time without Old School’s familiar scent of nicotine smoke and pizza grease on Main Street. “Word on the street is that the old man’s got Walter Payton’s jock strap in here somewhere,” Caiden added and Joely wrinkled her nose. “Who did you hear that from?” she asked. “Nick?” Nick was Caiden’s half-brother, a twenty-six-year-old firefighter with an appetite for adrenaline and mischief. Caiden’s mother said it was because Nick had never known his father, because at sixteen she’d been foolish and slutty and gotten into backseat-of-a-cartrouble. Caiden said it was because Nick was half an asshole; it was in his paternal genes. Not her fault. Couldn’t be helped. Nick’s rebellion had landed him in juvy a few times. He knew how to pick locks and roll joints, knew how to kiss girls in such a way to soften both their bodies and their morals. They liked to get high while watching Family Guy. Caiden was going to move in with Nick when…when it happened. “Nick,” Caiden confirmed with an abrupt nod. Joely had never much liked his brother. Said Nick was a bad influence. Got into their first nasty fight when Joely picked him up from 37

Nick’s apartment one time and realized he was more baked than most pastries. Joely stirred her root beer float with the straw. She hadn’t taken a sip yet. The ice cream was melting and she looked at it like she’d never seen anything do that before, even though Caiden knew he had performed the same science on the bones around her heart. “Joely,” Caiden allowed himself the luxury of saying her name, the brief, buttery taste of her skin layered on bouncing letters. “Why are you here?” She started chewing on the sleeve of his lacrosse sweatshirt again and scanning the posters on the walls as if hoping one of them would become a black hole. She took a deep breath. “Because I wanted to ask why.” Caiden toyed with the dishrag and scratched at the linoleum, trying to pick apart his brain for a thread that could sew Joely shut again. He knew it wasn’t there. After that party, he’d spent the entire night picking at his insides until he bled memories and self-hatred, puking up acid and regret as he stumbled into Nick’s apartment and opened the fridge as if expecting to find his morality freeze-wrapped there. “You’ve already asked why.” “I know, I know.” She bobbed her head, ducking her eyes down to her fingernails. “I just figured I’d ask again, when things weren’t so…” She bit her lip and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was stupid and it’s over and—Oh my God…” She kept flexing her hands and shaking her head, trying to get up and leave. “You don’t have to—“ “No, really, I’m being stu—“ “Joely.” Saying her name again was like biting an electric wire. She stopped. The way she kept shaking her hands—as if they were submerged in blood or water or love, some unappealing substance—was the only indication her resolve was deteriorating like teeth without milk. Caiden vaulted himself over the counter and sat on one of the stools. Fat, bloody, foolish. Destructive. “I can’t tell you why,” he said, and he had to look up at the ceiling. “I can’t. I don’t know why. Because I was angry, I guess.” Joely crossed her arms and lifted her chin. She had her back to Caiden. Her spine was rigid. He wanted to badly to reach out and feel it relax under his touch, but he knew that would just make it worse. So he said, “I was angry. Nick is the only family I have and you—you acted like he was trash.” “You have your mother.” “What?” Joely turned her head so that the outline of her face stood out against her shoulder. “I said you still have your mother.” Caiden felt his bones sigh in exhaustion. “Yeah, but for how long?” J oely lowered her head again. “I was angry and some of the guys on the team called, said there was a party at a rich bitch’s house over in the Cove. So I went and I got drunk and…” 38

Joely turned around with her chin held up like it was on the point of a dagger. “And then that private school bitch started giggling in your ear and you had her on all fours when I walked in and told you we needed to talk.” Caiden closed his eyes. He felt nauseated. He didn’t want to think about that party, the blurry bright shapes and the music he didn’t hear so much as he felt, or the redhead with sloppy kisses. He wasn’t sure how he’d wound up in the dark, violating the sanctuary of someone else’s bed with wasted hormones and saliva acidic with chemicals and artificial watermelon flavoring from her bubblegum. Joely kicked his shoe. “Don’t you do that, Caiden. Don’t you dare. Look at me.” Caiden opened his eyes and there she was, furious and tiny with that lollipop mouth cinched tightly around her teeth. “I trusted you,” Joely said. “I know.” “Was she worth it?” “Who?” Joely raised her eyebrows. “No,” Caiden said. He started to close his eyes again but stopped and peeled them back open, clamped a hand over his mouth in case it tried to betray him. “Well then.” Joely deflated. She’d been expecting more of a fight. She got down off her tip toes, became conscious of how close they were. She took a step back. “I guess… there isn’t anything left to talk about.” Caiden just looked at her, his most effective form of self-harm. She flared her nostrils. The first time they’d slept together was last Halloween. They’d gone to a party together, their first as an official couple, as a convict and a police officer. They sat around a bonfire wrapped up in scratchy wool and goose-pimpled flesh, passing around a bottle of Jack and two Cubans. Zach Reese, the resident junkie who liked to addle his brain chemicals with hard and self-prescribed drugs, told horror stories and the moon pulsed in the sky. Joely had whispered, “Let’s go,” against the hollow of his throat and they’d stumbled into the woods, drunk on each other and the mystery-steeped air. She’d pulled him by the collar and they were laughing, gasping, stitched breaking because they were unable to contain the greed of being young and being in lust. “Are you sure about this?” he’d asked, and she kissed him like she was trying to empty his lungs. “Yes,” she said with her fingernails drawing patterns on his back. And she’d gasped with the moon in both of her eyes, saying his name like she was scared it would break in her mouth. Joely. The same girl in front of him now, holding her hands in loose fists and blinking like it was a physically demanding exercise. “I miss you, too,” he said, dropping his hands to his belt loops. She was so tiny. That night they’d screamed at each other in some quiet Cove neighborhood until the cops came and drunk teenagers applauded them from the lawn, Joely had ended the conversation by slapping him hard enough to sting through the numbed nerves of his face. She spit on his 39

shoe, her huge eyes spooky because they were so damn hollow, rolling around in her dolllike skull with no depth or reason. “Why are you always so surprised,” she’d said, “When your life falls apart? It’s nobody’s fault but your own.” She’d exhaled, thrown her beer bottle into the neighbor’s hedge and walked away without another word. The party guests had clapped for her. Caiden had walked home alone. “I miss you, Joely,” he repeated and got up off the stool. She nodded tightly. “Okay.” He took a step towards her. “My mom misses you too.” Joely jutted out her lower jaw, her signature move. “I can’t forgive you,” she said, her voice too raw to leave room for doubt. Caiden nodded. He rubbed his jaw again. “We were good, though,” Joely said suddenly, letting her arms float up in a display of awkward and endearing femininity. Fluttering. “You and me.” Caiden smiled. “Yeah.” “We were really good.” “Yeah.” Joely pushed two curls behind her ear and looked up at him. She was so tiny, and her eyes were full to bursting of stars and hope and all the things she left on her tongue when he asked her what was wrong. Caiden was aware of his body, but it was not fat or full or destructive. It was an instrument of skin, a mere vessel for greater things. He opened his arms. “Come here,” he said with a tilt of his head, and Joely laughed for one precious second, saturated, and ran into his hug. Joely was crying, Caiden could tell by the way her shoulders tried so hard not to move, but she kept her arms around him and he sighed into her hair. It was over, at last. He could tell by the way her bones were so solid and her fingers were so tight. This wasn’t a hello. It was a goodbye, being salvaged, being fixed. He wanted to hold her because Joely’s body was almost as beautiful as Joely’s soul. He wanted to incase this beauty, her beauty, without damaging it, but he couldn’t. The trust was gone, and that meant everything they’d been was also gone. Not dead or destroyed or meaningless. Just gone. But it was better this way. If it was gone, they—he—couldn’t ruin it more than he already had. It was a damaged and heroic thing and it was finally safe, incased in glass and preserved by this final bittersweet hug, an act of grace so Caiden could live with himself and so Joely could live without him. He kissed her hair before she pulled away, threw the dishrag over his shoulder as she wiped her eyes. She licked her lips before smiling. “Okay then,” she said. She swung her weight onto her toes and then back onto her heels, pulled her hair back with one hand. “Well, I’d better be going.”

She took a few steps towards the door. Caiden hopped back over the counter, started whistling as he hunted for the broom. “Caiden.” He looked up, his lips poised and she looked back, blinking slowly with eyes full of broken clocks. “Good luck at the game,” she said, one hand on the door. “Thanks. See you there?” The final olive branch to rest on the graves of who they once were. Joely smiled and it ached. “Of course.”

about the contributors

Julia Alexander Julia Alexander is a part time poet and a full time cry baby. Her first book of poems The Dirt I Rise From was released by Paint Poetry Press in 2015. Julia also has a full length album of spoken word poetry, Accepting the Facts, and a handful of chapbooks including TO BE A FLY ON THE WALL, and THE BRAKE ISN’T ON YOUR SIDE OF THE CAR. She previously was the founding editor of Insert Lit Mag Here and currently heads Chipped Tooth Press, a writing collective which seeks to instill a love of poetry in even the most relentless naysayers.

Cassie Axon Cassie is a 21yr old from Australia and loves to ditch her uni homework to read or write! and maybe drool over pretty book covers.

Kelly Dixon I am sixteen, almost seventeen and I have always had a love for photography. I've always loved capturing moments a majority of my life and I never fully realized that til I started exploring photography accounts on the internet. In history we were learning about the unsanitary conditions in the tenements and there was one famous muckraker, Jacob Riis, who took photos of the horrible conditions and published the book, How The Other Half Lives which totally shocked the American citizens and got people thinking. Thats what truthfully inspired me to start doing photography because I want to make people think, and maybe a little disturbed.

Emily Dunbar My name is Emily Dunbar. I'm 24 years old from Australia. I'm currently studying a Bachelor of Professional and Creative Writing at Deakin University in Geelong. I have a great passion for writing, and I hope other people enjoy my work.

Taylor Page Gibbons My full name is Taylor Page Gibbons but in spoken word/poetry slams I go by Queen. I'm seventeen and a senior dual enrollment student with Fort Pierce Central High and Indian River State College so I'll be graduating with my AA as I graduate high school. Right now, my high school has a poetry team that will be competing in Louder Than a Bomb this April which we are more than excited about. I've pretty much been writing and

drawing and doing all things artistic before I realized I could talk, but I've been writing poetry seriously for almost two years now.

Kevan Henshaw I live in Nova Scotia, Canada, and I'm 23. I'm going through a strange phase in my life where I feel a sense of responsibility but I still don't feel like an adult. It's like I've always been told to 'grow up' but never got around to it, and now I have all this catching up to do.

Charlie Johnson At the tender age of fifteen, Charlie was thrust into a completely foreign nation and culture. During the following twelve months he spent in Japan, he grew an appreciation for difference and diversity. This is particularly true for world cultures and literature. After returning to his home nation of Australia, Charlie started to write to try and relive some of his many adventures. He is now studying a bachelor of Professional and Creative Writing at Deakin University, Geelong. When not attending class he can be found watching anime, running Dungeons and Dragons games or blogging to thestoryof365 on tumblr.

Sophie McAteer My name is Sophie I'm an Irish 20 year old on exchange in Utrecht and I scribble to make sense of things.

Sarah-Rose Mutch Sarah-Rose Mutch is a Public Relations student at Deakin University in Australia. She loves the quirky and extraordinary, and tries to explore both in her writing. When she graduates she hopes to work with a Not-For-Profit organisation. Previously, Sarah has had a poem published in a University Literary Magazine called Wordly.

Shannon O’Reilly Shannon, 21, Utrecht. Sometimes I like to write things down.

Mike Roach 23 years old (born October 26, 1991). Liberal. Secular Buddhist. Memphis, TN.

Justine Stella Justine studies creative writing at university in Australia. She writes creative non-fiction, usually focusing on how she can learn from her personal experiences, but is no stranger to fiction. Justine wants to be an editor, wishes she had more time to read and her personal motto is “maybe it’s not about the happy ending, maybe it’s about the story.” You can find more of Justine’s previously published works here: http://www.write4fun.net/view-entry/55665, https://blogs.deakin.edu.au/imagine/2013-2 and https:// blogs.deakin.edu.au/imagine/content-2014.

Tess Walsh My name is Tess Walsh and I'm currently in my first year of college. I like thunderstorms, peanut butter, and owls. More information and writing can be found at www.misstesswalsh.wordpress.com

Breanna Zampaglione Breanna Zampaglione is a university student from Australia, currently undertaking studies in Professional and Creative Writing. She writes fiction and poetry, and leans towards fairytales, fantasy and young adult narratives. She is an avid reader who is currently working on collecting and creating her own personal library at home. Breanna also has dreams of becoming an author or editor, wishes she knew fluent French and is a proud Ravenclaw. You can find her at thenerdgirl.tumblr.com or at tuesdayliveshere.wordpress.com

creaky hammock is a teen-run digital lit mag based in kentucky. we accept work from young artists and writers from all over the world. check out our official tumblr: creakyhammock.tumblr.com