In Emu Creek

S. K. Nicholas

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In Emu Creek, a green bottle of wine is passed back and forth between two sets of blistered hands. In the sweet liquid contained within the cold, labeless glass, the reflection of countless stars can be seen as clearly as they appear in the sky above. Below, cigarettes squirm in fingers belonging to bodies that never used to be here as the rocks surrounding bounce around the sounds of words that carry drunken meaning. There’s a little music, too, from a phone that’s got less than ten percent battery. The music isn’t quite the symphony one imagines accompanying a supernova or the memory of a first kiss, but in this moment, it’s enough. In this giddy light, the inner hills and lakes that travel from heart to tongue are just what it takes for us to shed these stupid skins of ours. There are no emus here. The moon shows…

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Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

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