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CHERRY ISSUE 9


Editor’s Letter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Anny’s photo diary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Grace Witherell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Everyday Fascination. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Girls Girls Girls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Night Time Magic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 No Fear In Our Eternal Years. . . . . . . . . . 28 Frances Sousa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

La Fin de Printemps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Twenty Somethings

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .41

Strange Creatures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 We Felt The Imprisonment of Being a Girl. . . . 57 Home No.III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Kati Yewell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Packing Your Suitcase, Thinking Of The 70’s . . 69 Wonderful Dust. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Pebbles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83


DEAR READERS,

This issue has been a long time coming. It’s taken me a while just to write this because I’m trying to think of a way to not make excuses for myself and just explain what is happening in the world of Cherry. I’ve been slow, I’ve been busy, I’ve been putting it off, I’ve been distracted, but most of all I’ve been worried. Worried that I won’t be able to create content of a quality I could be happy with. I take disappointment to heart, so much so that all too often it stops me from doing the things I actually want to do. I’ve come to realise that by not finishing something, I’m actually disappointing myself more than if I created something I thought was only semi-okay. It is a much, much greater effort to carry the weight of unfinished things than it is to actually finish them. I’m cleaning out the crap under my bed, I’m taking that trip I’ve made so many excuses not to take, and I’m saying goodbye to Cherry.

I have been debating this for a while now, and have come to this conclusion because I can’t keep promising something and not delivering. I’m finding this harder than I thought, because when I look back on Cherry I realise how much of myself I put into each one and I miss my teenagehood even though I’m still in it. I miss it the way I’m remembering it, but that’s not the way it was. What I mean is, my last couple of teenage years seem so carefree in retrospect, but in reality they weren’t like that. Being a 16 year old drop out with a bundle of mental health issues is hard, and this zine was my point of moving forward, of leaving school behind and doing something great on my own. It’s been my way of feeling important again, but I don’t need that anymore. It’s less of an ending, more of a moving on.

I have had the chance to meet so many incredible artists from all over the world (on the internet and in real life), and so many of you have given me a look into your world through your photos, poems, stories, opinions, films and music—so thank you all for making Cherry happen. This last issue theme is MAGIC, and I hope you enjoy it.

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GRACE WITHERELL


EVERYDAY FASCINATION

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PHOTOS:

SAMERA PAZ


GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS

PHOTOS: REUEL LARA MODELS: AUNNIE TURNER & COURTNEY DUNN

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NIGHT TIME MAGIC By Sophie Demy moved her small suntanned body to the music as she prepared for a night of largely dull conversation and loud pop songs. The casually-sipped vodka had left a dull burn at the back of her throat. The empty glass now sat alone at her dressing table, stained with her cherry red lipstick. Demy looked at herself in the mirror as she decided what to wear. She tried on the soft black chiffon dress that, up until that night, had been hanging lonely and limp at the back of her wardrobe. Her hands gently caressed the silky material, enjoying the way the way it felt against her smooth brown skin. She pulled it down over her narrow body then stood sideways to check the delicate roundness of her belly in the floor length mirror. “I wonder if I’ll meet anyone tonight” Demy thought to herself as she sprayed perfume across her neck. She examined her face closely in the mirror. Her skin was plump and clear, but she felt the wrinkles and blemishes of experience as imagined romances clouded her thoughts, as they always did when she had been drinking.

at the window. Demy grabbed her embellished purse, touched the hairpins holding her hair in place, turned off the radio then left the room to grow gradually darker and quieter in time with the night. Demy shouted goodbye to her parents then shut the door to their comfortable world. Demy and Alice wandered through the suburbs whilst it was still light outside. Demy watched Alice’s jaunty walk and reflected on her own more timid posture. The puddles left by last night’s rain were shining under the evening sun lying low to the west. There was a party and they were all going. Everyone was getting noticeably older for the first time and they would never again need fake IDs or obliging older siblings to buy them alcohol. Demy had been holding her breath for this party, though she was not sure what she was waiting for. She wanted love like the love in the 19th century romance novels that she read, but the boys in her town were either physically repulsive or failed to grasp the concept of what feminism actually meant–– “No it doesn’t mean I hate men and want female supremacy.” Demy couldn’t believe she still lived in that dead town, so she was willing to compromise her notions of whirlwind love affairs for anyone who would take her away from there somehow.

Demy heard a sound behind her during the pause between songs. She walked over to the window as an old rock song came on the radio, noticing how the sun had sunk between the trees and shade had draped itself across her room. Below, a figure stood on the grass of Demy’s front garden, looking up into the window. Her tall shadow crept across the lawn Demy broke through to the surface of her and her white teeth were revealed by her thoughts when Alice said, “How have you playful smile as she threw another stone been?”

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Demy shrugged. “Fine.” She had no time to ask Alice the same question because they were now at the front door for the party.

the rest of them. Perhaps she should call him a man, but there was something fragile and motherless about him. Whilst the other blogs beamed with bravado, he sat in the corner just watching the floor. “All the boys are gonna go for more tonight,” Alice whispered. “ They’re all try- His gaze occasionally turned to the light ing to lose it before uni.” Demy rolled her leaking through the window as if he was waiting for it to get dark so that he could eyes and exhaled. What did that even mean? Now all her plans for romance–– disappear. of either the epic or escapist variety–– “He thinks he’s so cool,” said the girl suffocated in the evening air. standing next to Demy, “Don’t you think?” “Hi.” Greg’s pale moon face smiled at them from the doorway.

Demy was not wholly aware of who they were talking about so she offered a poDemy winced. Greg was the host’s boylite, “Hmm.” Better to agree when in a friend and his pale, fat frame coupled large group of girls or be the recipient of with his derogatory remarks on the female sex disgusted Demy whenever she unnecessary exclusion from the pack. They were all so juvenile though, Demy was around him. thought as she finished off her cider. She Alice, however, still managed to smile slipped out of the conversation and driftbrightly and shake Greg’s chubby outed towards the lost-looking boy in the stretched hand as Demy pushed past him corner. Her ability to fade into a crowd and into the front room. She picked up a without saying goodbye to the people she can of cider that floated in a bucket of was with was a bad habit of hers, but she half-melted ice and went over to some had a lot of bad habits she needed to kick girls from her school. They exchanged at some point. People were talking as Deobligatory questions: my poured wine into a plastic cup. She picked up a can of now lukewarm beer as “How are you?” a conversation starter. “Fine.” Demy looked round for Alice as she approached the corner of the room. Alice “Not really.” was sitting on the edge of the coffee table Then the girls went back to filling pauses talking animatedly with the boys who with talk of exams, university and boys. stared at her with eager eyes, transfixed by her magical femininity. Demy held the Demy continued to nod and smile but beer under the boy’s nose. He looked up she had stopped listening. The girls’ mouths continued to move in an enthusi- at her from under his thick eyebrows asm not mirrored by their slouched and with sad pale blue eyes. He took the beer with a barely visible smile and a nod of nervous postures. thanks. Demy locked her eyes on a boy who sat “Hey,” Demy said. across the room. He looked older than “Up to much this summer?”


“Hey,” the boy grunted in response. “I’m Demy.” “Max.” Demy hovered awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. She had questions to ask–– who are you? Do you not know anyone here? And why do you look so sad?––but none seemed polite or appropriate.

moment,” he said, taking a second drag on his cigarette, “I guess I could really do with talking to someone entirely objective. I need to meet new people.” A pause to smoke. “Make new friends.” Demy smiled to herself, glad that she looked trustworthy enough for such a role. She did not speak because she could sense that it was not her turn yet.

Demy looked around the room, nodding to herself, before asking the noncommittal yet curious question, “What’s up?”

She wiped the smile off her face and replaced it with an expression of concern when Max turned to look at her. His eyes burned into her, narrowed in scrutiny. It was the first time he had really looked at Max shrugged. Demy stared at her her. Demy guessed that Max was a young chunky black sandals and wiggled her toes around. Just as she was thinking of man of extremes. He was more prone to addiction than to moderation. It was a leaving in search of a more animated conversation, Max looked up at her again somewhat adolescent trait though Max and said, “If you really want to know and looked like he was a few years past that you’re not just being polite, let’s go for a stage of life. Perhaps he was simply still figuring things out, like everyone else walk.” was. Demy nodded eagerly. She loved going “How old are you?” was the question he for walks at parties. It meant that you could talk and smoke and watch the sky shot at her. without interruption. “I’m eighteen next month.”

Max stood up and started weaving through the crowd. Demy followed, observing how the majority were already drunk or stoned enough for her and Max to sneak off into the sketch grey streets without anyone noticing. They walked for a long time before Max said anything. Demy felt the warm evening on her skin. Max took out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his Harrington jacket and put one in his mouth before offering one to Demy. She accepted, and as the smoke danced its way into the starry night above them, Max began to open up. “I’m going through some bad times at the

Max nodded. “I’m nineteen. That’s not really relevant but . . . well, I’ll tell you about the bad stuff now. Last week I found out that my fiancée was cheating on me. I know I’m quite young to be getting married but I’m, well, I’m different to other people. She wasn’t just cheating on me though. She also had an abortion without telling me and after I broke up with her she sent her psycho mother to try and kill me. I was at a friend’s house and she comes round banging on the door. She has a baseball bat and is shouting my name. We had to call the police. Well, the end of it is that I don’t have anywhere to stay. I’m sofa-surfing,” he


paused, embarrassed, “I’m homeless. There, I said, you think I’m disgusting. I’m nineteen and homeless. No one will ever want to get to know me.”

and that made her feel more alive than she had in months. Max stopped by the old concrete cabin where not many trees separated them from the caravan park where parents brought young children Demy stared forwards, suddenly very and teenagers came for a cheap summer aware of how frequently she was blinking. It had got much darker now and they holiday. had walked all the way to the beach. The “This is where I’ve lived on and off since moon threw its silver beams towards the I was fifteen,” Max said slowly, interruptdeep, vast midnight-black sea. A cold, ing the sound of trees blowing in the calm breeze brought the dark silhouettes wind. Demy looked at her feet, feeling of silent trees into movement, but the guilty for every time she had run past the moon stayed majestic in its stillness. cabin scared. Never had she guessed that its principle inhabitant was a defenseless “I–I’m sorry,” Demy said quietly. teenage boy. “You can stop pitying me Max put out his second cigarette, dug his now,” Max said, with the hint of laughter hands in his pockets and stared at the in his tone. “I have enough self-pity from ocean. The bright white circle of the myself to last a lifetime.” moon hung high in the sky, illuminating the sweat of the night. Above humanity’s “Sorry,” Demy said awkwardly, “It’s just frantic, artificial light the moon covered that, y’know, life’s been so unfair to you. Things have to start getting better soon.” the seaside town with a varnish of nature’s glow, encouraging deeper thoughts Max nodded slowly. “Come on it. I have that would be drowned in puddles of something magical to show you.” routine come daylight. Max ducked into the cabin and Demy fol“Follow me,” Max said and he set out across the beach with a determined gait.

lowed. Inside, it was barren. Whilst Max was staying on friends’ sofas it was used as a place for caravan park vacationers to Demy followed him with blind, sympathrow empty beer cans into. The roof thetic trust. Max trudged up the hill at the back of the beach, into the woods be- covered only half of the building. Max lay down on the ground so that he was fachind. Demy sometimes went to those woods with her dog, but even in daylight ing the open sky. Demy lay down next to him. they scared her. Alcohol from the party and knowledge of Max’s hardships “I do this a lot,” he said, “It’s beautiful pushed her forward and through the first and magical when the stars are all out cluster of trees. like tonight. I wish that I was just floating, floating in space.” They walked into silence as Demy desperately tried to keep sight of Max. The longer they walked the less scared Demy felt. The woods began to feel less haunted and more enchanted. The late hour had left the world to nature and to her,

“It makes me feel so small,” Demy said. “But that’s important. That’s it. We’re small, insignificant and absolutely mortal, but once you stare that in the face


then you’re free. You realise that all that matters is being and the ground you’re lying on is more important than anything else. Your heart beats and your feet pulse with the world.” He paused then confessed, “When I realised that I ran around the woods laughing so I reckon that when people think they’ve seen ghosts they’re actually seeing desperate people down on their luck who have just had an important midnight epiphany.” Demy smiled. “You know, people talk about being disappointed that there’s no magic in this world, but what you just

said is more magical than any nymphs or fairies that could ever live in this forest.” “People try so hard to make stuff like that up. You don’t have to strive for magic. It’s here already,” Max said, “I’ve been forced to realise that I’m tainted and flawed and homeless but I’m still here and that counts for something.” Demy reached out and took Max’s hand in hers. She felt him flinch, then relax. She squeezed his hand and Demy forgot about her thoughts of the future whilst Max forgot about his thoughts of the past and they let the magic of the trees radiate around them.


No Fear In Our Eternal Years Lit by the riviera Did my heart get lit too Lemon-grape stained chiffon With prominent but smooth Marble curves Laying under Covered by water lilies Braided in chocolate tresses My thumbs skimmed Strawberry-kissed apples of cheekbones And my lips kissed away Silver tears Under the sterling oyster And its accompanying Yet unreachable Pearls Slipping on black satin My lips traveled down And sought moonburnt lips Then ivory bones Acting like a frame For the artwork For the masterpiece Which was a living Breathing body Caged by guitar strings They call guitar strings That made the sweetest of sounds Frolicking in the midnight August grass And inducing a certain forever There was No fear in our eternal years An absolute — Z.P.G.

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Photos: Julia Feige Model: Christine Dinh


INSTAGRAM FACEBOOK TUMBLR


TWENTY SOMETHINGS Hannah Jones explores the reality of leaving behind teenage years through interviewing and capturing her friends at this transitional time in their lives

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KEZIAH Your twenties are the only time when you can truly do whatever you want. There's so much freedom but it feels like you're being judged for what direction you decide to go in. For me, it feels like I'm having to please other people's constructions of what a twenty something should be or do.


RACHEL

We are a generation that can do anything we want, but because that goes for every twenty year old, it's highly competitive, which can only bring you back to square one.


RYAN My biggest worry is how the country is going to turn out. With so many set backs, it's sometimes hard to stay hopeful.


THOMAS In my experience as a twenty something, I've asked myself a lot ''what the fuck am I doing?'' I know that it's going to get easier, but what's happening is happening right now.


KAI It's fine, I suppose. I mean the only thing I find difficult is the money situation, and not having your parents there to constantly help you and saving for things that you actually need and not just want. Apart from that, I'm fine with how things are at the moment. I've sort of liked being thrown into it.

JAMES As a twenty something, doing what you want constitutes of pissing off a considerable amount of people. A good few people seem to have their own plans for your own life - what your job should be, what your relationship status should be, and so on. But how can anybody be excited about planning somebody else's life?


SASKIA The worst thing about being 22 is not knowing who I am. The best thing about being 22 is I can be whoever I want to be.


ISAAC Life's really tough at this age, so I just try to be nice and have fun.

CATHERINE Your twenties is a time worry. I worry on a regular basis about my future. From whether I'll get a ''real job'', to what colour I should dye my hair next, from what I'm going to turn out like, to what I should watch on Netflix this evening, and so on. People in their thirties don't have to worry about the most pointless things.


OLIVIA Back when my mother was in her twenties, she told me that she had to pick a job and that's what she would do until she retired. A secretary or perhaps a teacher, so she could have the same holidays as her future unborn children (assuming that's what she wanted), and instead she went to art school, travelled, studied biology, and stuck two fingers up at them all. Being in my twenties, I still get this pressure that you have to have it all figured out. You still have to pick who and what you want to be for the rest of your life - only they throw in a bundle more choices to pick from. I asked my mother how the hell did she just do it her own way and ignored everybody else, and she told me not to worry so much,

and that it takes ten years to be a true master at something, and to look after myself, live well, and think about how many chances you'll get to do everything that you want to do.


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Photos: Hannah Schmutterer and Magdalena Milinkovic

Model: Marisa Beck


Background photo source


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ZOE HARRIS-WALLIS X DORA COHNEN


STILLS FROM RACHAEL

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L’S SHORT FILM


WATCH HERE


Pebbles Today I daydreamed about the beach in Rhodes Where we spent most of that August, with browned shoulders and freckled cheeks Kissing each other’s salty skin under the heat of the sun The deserted beach your grandmother told us about The one at the end of the dirt path, off the side of the road That tourists hated because there were grey pebbles instead of white sand We would walk from the small white house in the centre of town Past the fig trees, olive bushes, and grape vines Each morning and evening, languid and lazy, and sticky with sweat

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Practicing our broken Greek at the corner store

And laughing to ourselves, imagining a life together in this place Of dust and goats and church bells I remember passing through the shrubbery to reach the water Looking out upon the flat horizon, with everything so still and serene And understanding that I was so very far away from home I floated in the warm Mediterranean, staring peacefully at the clear sky above And imagined what it would be like to float on forever, Mouthing the words to myself, “how can this be real?�

Poem by Bianca Martin, photo by Beth


elisabethdunne@gmail.com

CHERRY ISSUE 9  

The ninth issue of Cherry, a feminist/art/photography/everything zine

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