Carolyn Huane
21 February 2016
Authors
This story ends with a girl whose hair is too long for her liking. Seven new songs, unwashed swimmers, and a pair of luggage tags for the flight home tomorrow. She has a lump in her throat that’s been there for two months. Everything’s tasted bitter since September.
In the inevitable encore, BØRNS apologises for his bad manners. “I’m sorry. I didn’t wish you sweet dreams…” And promptly launches into Sweet Dreams. I buy a t-shirt. Sweet Dreams Tour 2018.
A poem written about Carolyn Huane.
Graphics
For the last six breakfasts, Annina has eaten bread with jam—a meal that tastes the same everywhere in the world— but today she can’t see either ingredient. The man behind her gives her an impatient nudge and Annina reaches for a strange yellow fruit at the edge of a platter. She tears the banana away from its identical siblings and holds it limply in her hand. It’s crescent-shaped with rubbery skin, like nothing she’s ever seen before. In her impoverished village, where a single orange is a recurring Christmas gift, tropical fruits are beyond a novelty; they’re nonexistent.
name winds more surely than children
or virtues of the land
‘Mercy’
and sea
‘Patience’
“Br-brain of hers. She lu-lusts after me, lu-lusts after the unknown, the unreal, the deviant older woman. She’s stuck here in her job, in this town, but now she’s stuck here with—”
At one point your landlord, if that’s what they’re called here, asked where you were from and you had to say that you honestly could not remember but it must not have been good because otherwise you wouldn’t have had such a strong desire to leave.
strange land where meat regrets the eater &
it’s a rare strength indeed
ain’t sweetened by a drop of honey
He was wearing a coat of leaves, the body and genitals covered in poultice. I’ve always known when mirrors lie. His face, though, was my dad’s fly lure, tremoring over a lake body, my gums reddening when I brushed too deliberately, the desire to chew with my mouth open, the wasps I’d seen fumigated by mum in our roof, their nest like a football. I gazed hungrily as he pointed to a mound of earth on my left—his right—nails bark-splintered.
Now his finger itches
to hatch from its enclosure
of moulting skin, inch up
beyond the down lights
to the paper-thin sky,
gossiping stars circling
I have only good intentions to tell
they shoot their way off into the abyss
all is bliss. all is well.
As Adventure Time enters its final season, Emma Michelle reflects on cartoons and relationships
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“Which school are you from?” Peter asked. “Fitzroy High School,” I responded naively. “Oh, never heard of it,” he said, drawling, “I’m from Scotch College. It was nice to meet you but I have to go.”
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