The Collected Accounts of June Bloomer

Across newspapers and television, seventeen year old June Bloomer is being shredded across the country for the cataclysmic events she caused in the quiet town of Johnston's creek. However months after the horror, in that forgettable village, June's only four friends are determined to tell the truth of June from the causalities they received first hand and nothing less.


10. Entry eight:

Aubrie Sommer was gone. That was about the only thing I could pick out from the chaos, and my mind was torn in the dread of the sole beating heart of the teenagers, and the single fast-paced organ of my own defying the sadness and rising above it all. June Bloomer knew I loved her, I was so dazed I forgot to be sad about the gap she’d left in not returning my words. The boys ran out with torches and bright phone lights into the dark, bouncing off the trees like meddling ghosts and shrieks trying to follow the quiet voice that had already disappeared into the woods with no attempt to return. That excruciating scream, like sanding down my ear lobs, had come from a girl who had never spoken beyond the minimum level of decibels.

“Aubrie? AUBRIE!” Eve’s face for once had something displeasing around it; her high cheekbones looked hollow and her large eyes were rimmed with fresh doom. The three remaining sisters stood out among the crowd as though they were glow sticks. She ran around without purpose, treading on dropped cups and food and ssshing the music and guests that seemed to refuse the quiet. People clasped their hands on their heads and desperately tapped Aubrie’s number into their phones, praying she’d pick up and pretend it was some joke. That wasn’t the way Aubrie worked, though. She was a quiet, watchful, impressionable thing that had been trampled on and lost somewhere we couldn’t reach her.

“WHAT DID YOU DO HOLLY?” Eve’s attention turned to Holly, who no longer looked terrifying. She stank of vulnerability for the first time in her life, which like me was unnerving to the people at the party. Even with the music halted, my ears were bursting as they tried to pick up on their conversation through the desperate pleas of the swarm all around me.

“I didn’t mean, I didn’t want, I-” She’d never stuttered before in her life.

“What. Did. You. Do.” Eve was hell-bent on a confession.

“We snuck out to the woods, it was boring here…” Holly pleaded. “I just lost her, I swear.”

“How long has she been missing, Holly?”

“I don’t know, ten minutes ago maybe…we weren’t looking at the time!”

“Holly, I need you to be honest.” Both of their voices were quivering violently as Eve made her way closer to Holly. She dismissed the crowd as she walked with large gestures of their hands and not needing another word half the group was already gone by the time she reached her sister.

“She’s been gone since the start of the party.” Holly gulped. My mind was muddled, why had Holly come up to me? Her sister had been lost in the forest and she never told me. Nevermind me; she hadn’t told a single soul. June had stepped far away from me, as though she wanted to blend into the dim surroundings. What was Holly playing at? She’d even mention Aubrie in conversation… Sweet little Aubrie. She didn’t deserve this. And no one deserved the rest of the Sommers for sisters no matter how beautiful, or enchanting or cool the girls. They weren’t cool anymore; the illusion had snapped. Now they were just a paralysed mass without a fourth limb and dithering in fear. Within minutes the Sommer father had showed up, and with him the majority of the relatively small police force.

“We’ll do a full search of the forest sir come morning.”

“Come morning? She could be frozen solid by then!” Mr Sommer laced his hands were his hair might once have been and gave odd looks to those still circulating the corpse of where the party have been. In truth, I would have moved if my legs weren’t fermenting into the ground. By then June had disappeared into the remains of fog, and the sky seemed to be coming together to change in the way.

They cleared the rest of us off and June searched for a lift with us that even I in my dizzy infatuation could hardly be happy. We waited awkwardly, making a pitiful effort at conversation as the red and blue of police lights struck across our faces and our words never seemed to be able to pass the screams and calling of the lost name. Finally Ky pulled over, ushered us in and as June clambered in first she dropped a note, almost as though purposefully that fell and hit the ground at my feet.

Without thinking I reached down and curled it into a ball in my fist. When I got home, having wished June Bloomer a good night I hastily unscrambled the contents and found beautifully scribed handwriting that would have made more sense in Arabic to me. June Bloomer had written a story, etched with little diagrams of clocks and weather, personified and real.

Once there was a little boy called time, who was the soon of time itself. Time looked for a friend, they said, and found the season sisters playing by themselves one day.

He asked if he could play with them, but his father forbid it. He was as stern as a ticking clock, with little run to negotiate. Little Time went anyway, and met Spring. Spring was too bright and excited for him, so he went to play with Summer.

Summer was vivid and captivating but she would soon wither to nothing at all. He then met Autumn, and she was a beautiful sister. Her hair was falling leaves of ginger and chocolate, and she had quiet mousy features and owls’ eyes lit up like jack o Lanterns. Time had found his partner, and disobeyed his father to love her.

He watched her from a distance, but the more he looked; something happened. She was growing tired and grey, and when time asked his father why he said it was because time and seasons could only watch from afar and too go close was to damage. Sick at heart, Time finally met Winter who killed her sister in a jealous rage for an orange glow. He was forced to follow nature and only observe what was happening through the wintering tears. Autumn perished, and snow fell for the first time in murderous white. And that was the tale of Time.

It took me a long time to decode what she meant. Maybe you can picture it already. I spread the crumbles out and hid It under the wood of my bed, trying to shrug it off like the child’s tale I knew it wasn’t.

I have lied to whoever is reading this. I said these were sunny days. But believe me, with what you have to still hear; this is as sunny as it gets.

Rose's edit: we're getting close Michael.

Michael's edit on Rose's edit: too close. 

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