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.


24. Entry five:

Entry Five:

In the summer, the swimming pool looked like Michael’s eyes. We’d lie there in the morning, while the guards were almost sleeping in their high seats. By the time the throng of others arrived, our skin was already peachy and wrinkly. Then we dried off in the sun, our bags rattling with made picnics, and inhabited benches and parks and bedrooms for the hours. From dawn until day break, we’d hang out as a five. I’d collapse on my bed when I got home, happy and tired, waiting for the next day like I couldn’t survive without their presence. There was something so co-efficient about my lifestyle now, as though there was nothing worth doing alone. I’d fall asleep in the early hours, and wake up a

For the first time, I had friends and not just safety nets. June had done this; she’d bonded us by the love of her. Rose came every third day or so, when she could muster the skill of tolerance. She was calm but her tongue was sharp when she spoke. And she avoiding June’s homemade cupcakes and jokes that made the rest of us fall to the ground on the verge of tears. No, Rose had her own hot tears of frustration.

I also taught June how to garden. We had a little patch out back reserved for me, about two metres by two metres, and untouched. I’d planned to plant some vegetables or something, but we went to work with flowers, instead. It seemed June didn’t have green thumbs more than she did for picking, but she still tried. Her hands were all awkward and heavy, anxious to place the seeds in perfect lines as though their very survival depended on it. I laughed at her, and told her if Poppies could grow after the grounds of war, a few packet seeds could break through the fertile earth. She laughed, but her eyes didn’t leave the seeds she clutched to her hand. Daises were lined in the pockets of her jeans, and tucked behind her pixie ears.

When we were done, we had a celebration out back in the night, with a modest campfire and suitable snacks. We hardly took a minute to be proud of the square of productivity. June was impatient with it, praying that the plants would sprout like a children’s tale far above our heads to the skies. Instead, it was just damp brown ground. As always, the Creek was hosting strange weather. The sky was purple, with grey clouds of rain and we’d already seen two rainbows that day.

We’ll have to do this every few weeks, to check up on them. I suggested, and there was a hearty circle of agreement. I thought I was talking about the plants at first, but soon it became about us. Like plants, if you forget to care about people; they shrivel without touch. And we all did, we all are now, but we’re fighting back for warmth and life again.

I may have stopped checking, but that didn’t mean I stopped caring. I just indulged a minute too long on the comfort of being a part of something.

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