Felicity Lacey (writer), Joe Murray (writer), Mark Yin (writer), Vanessa Lee (writer), Geraldine Loh (graphics)
<p>by Vanessa Lee January, February pressed their lips to my neck, leaving sunburn and blisters behind. They apologised, of course, and laid our heads in their laps. We dreamt like it was January 1st of summers past, fireworks dancing in our eyes. When the rain came, I danced alone on the baked earth of my […]</p>
by Vanessa Lee
January, February pressed their lips to my neck, leaving sunburn and blisters behind. They apologised, of course, and laid our heads in their laps. We dreamt like it was January 1st of summers past, fireworks dancing in our eyes.
When the rain came, I danced alone on the baked earth of my backyard; my New Year’s wish come true. Should I tell you about the song I heard on the radio too? The one my neighbour played again and again for an hour and then two more?
I wanted this moment to last again and again like fireworks at midnight.
by Mark Yin
Summer, 2010
Katy Perry graced the radio.
Do you know that there’s
The country was only a little bit on fire.
Still a chance for you
You and I walked out of those school gates
Cause there’s a spark in you
hand in hand and I swear
I could have exploded.
by Felicity Lacey
Fire Flowers
Strike a match and hold it close. Feel its gentle heat for a brief moment, then—consume its flame. Tattered threads ignite. Flares take flight. Incinerate what’s behind. Savour the split-second calm before the B O O M. Fire flowers scream at the doors of heaven—pyrotechnic spectacle—a constellation of annihilation and awe. Torpedoes glitter and glide; am I soaring across the skies or am I just crashing spectacularly? Descending like woozy stars falling out of orbit, tiny missiles are headed straight for hearts. Are you ready for the final act? It’s just a firecracker exploding un-sensationally into smoke and dust.
by Joe Murray
Staccato pops of celebration and the whimpering of a wretched beast ravage my peaceful slumber. I crawl from the covers and check the date, in case it might offer my neighbours pre-emptive vindication. I endure their revelries on nights of international festivity, but tonight remains an utterly ordinary Tuesday. Time to go to war. I don my slippers and my dressing gown, comfort the trembling ball of fur hiding beneath the couch and brave the midnight chill. Insomnia and love give my battle cry enough power to split the heavens.
“STOP THOSE BLOODY FIREWORKS, MY POOR DOG IS SCARED SHITLESS!”