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CHERRY ISSUE 8


Editor’s Letter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Bridge to Hawaii. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Feelings of Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

A Home Is Where You Make It. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 In Flux. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Honolulu Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Poems by Inés Cardó. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 House Of Flowers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Diana Roncaioli. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 There Is No Concept Of Time. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Home Movies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Home Is Where The Art Is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Adventures of Anthony. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Georgie Newson-Errey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Girl With Book . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 How to Make Any Place a Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Falifornia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 Christian’s Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Sparkling Warmth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 Inside/Shelter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Feels Like Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Shelby Criswell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 In The Water . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 Dawn/L’aube. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97


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The stars were already shining brilliantly as I sat at the window, watching them walk across the sparkling damp grass. The door bell rang and I rushed softly down the stairs to let them in. We greeted each other. Robert and I hugged before I took their coats, draped them over the banister and the three of us went through to the burgundy living room that smelt of smoke and home.

“Oh really?” he said, lighting a candle, “What happened?” I laughed and, blushing in the candlelight, turned my eyes to the ground. “You don’t want to know.” “Ohh, that kind of dream?” he laughed, but as I looked up, I caught the expression of disapproval that he exchanged with Allen.

When he sat back down he sat even closer to Allen than he had done before. They touched: at the shoulders, the elbows, the I put the record on the turntable then reached into the mahogany spirits cupboard hips, the feet. There was a casual tenderness for three heavy glasses and my parents' two about that touch. I sat directly opposite and thirds full bottle of whisky. When I returned stared into my glass. I swirled the liquid and partially melted ice round and round before from the other room with the ice they were downing the remnants. I opened the bottle already sitting closer together as Patti and refilled my glass. Smith’s voice crooned in the background. I poured our drinks and knocked half of mine “You drank that quickly,” Robert remarked back straight away. as I put on another record.

“This is so nice,” Robert smiled. I nodded, caressing my glass. “We should light some candles,” I said, taking another drink then walking into the hall for some matches. I handed them to Robert because he is better with fire than I am.

I laughed. “I want to relax.” “I’m relaxed,” Robert said, only having had one sip from his glass. “Allen?” I offered. He nodded and I topped up his drink.

I sat back down, opposite Allen, and put the next single onto the turntable. I smiled at him meekly and he smiled at me, raising his eyebrows. “I dreamt about you last night,” I said, addressing Robert. 15

“I had a great dream the night before, you know?” I said, “We were all in a lighthouse. Everyone was there. You two, Joanna, James, Emily, Joe, Leo. I don’t remember much about what happened, but it was lovely.” “I had a dream,” Robert said, “Where I murdered someone, then I died but I still went to heaven. What do you think that means?”


“That evil people prosper,” I said cynically. “Perhaps,” Robert screwed up his brow. We sat in silence and sometimes it felt like the space between us begged for words, but mostly I was happy sitting round listening to the music. If someone had spoken just then I would have beat my fist on the ground to make them stop. Lana’s voice was all the sound that we needed right now. I observed Robert and Allen this whole time. I thought about the time when Robert had told me that they were together now. I was happy for him; I really, genuinely was. The evening that he told me was so surreal. I’d never seen Robert so happy before. I want him to be happy, and he is. But it also makes me so sad that I can’t breathe. Everything he describes to me about his relationship with Allen is how I wish a relationship to be. They are happy together: a situation I have only ever imagined in my dreams about lighthouses. I was and had been feeling so lonely lately. Robert and Allen sat just a metre away from me, but I felt worlds apart from them. Robert once told me about the worst two months of his life. I almost began to tell him about the worst two years of my life, but I stopped myself. That would have been too morbid. I’m too morbid for him now. Robert used to come round my house and get drunk in the middle of the day. I’d lie on my bed, with the sun streaking yellow light through the blinds and he’d get out a copy of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and read extracts from it, dancing round the room. Sometimes we’d end up laughing until we felt sick, lying next to each other on my bed, and I often contemplated kissing him in an appreciative way, but thought better


of it. The song finished and I turned over the record.

“It will be free anywhere we go,” I said. That was not true, of course, but we entertained this idea of freedom when we talked about moving away from home.

It was now that we struck up a conversation once more. We talked of moving on, as we had got into the habit of doing lately, now that the future was chasing us. “It’s so, so sad that soon we’ll all be so far away,” Robert said, “And by we, I mean like four people.”

We started talking more about university but ended up discussing our art.

“We’ll adapt,” I said, “We’ll have to.” “It will just be so weird not living so close” he said. “We’ll stay in touch,” I said and it was not flippantly spoken. We all knew that Robert and I would always stay in touch. Ours was not a friendship that would easily disband just because there were a few more miles separating us.

Allen nodded, “Yeah.”

“It’s all about the light,” Robert spoke, passionately, “It’s all about the light,” he repeated, with drunken exaggeration. By now, there was already an emptiness about the bottle of whisky that sat beside me. I kept putting the lid back on after pouring more into our glasses, but we all knew that we would open it again before my hand had a chance to rest from the movement.

I thought about how lots of things “I can’t wait to get to Aberdeen,” are “all about the light.” Tonight Allen said, “But it’s gonna be so would not be the same if the canmelancholy being so distant.” Aldles were not spilling their dim len’s going to the University of Ab- glow onto our situation. The day erdeen. I cannot imagine why he would drown our lucid thoughts would want to go there. It’s so and speech in puddles of routine empty and dark and so, so far and societal expectations. But, away. I picked up another record. now, we were here, drunk, with music. “What do you think about?” I asked. I’d heard Robert try to explain Allen’s reasoning before, but his explanations were always vague and muddled. “It will be so free up there,” Allen said.

“What do you mean what do I think about?” Robert replied, smirking. “I mean, what do you think about? When you’re taking photographs. When you think about art,” I rephrased.


“About how hot the model is,” he smiled, half-jokingly.

This is what I think,” Allen said, “I think that we’re only here for a finite amount of time. Our lives are but a scratch and our thoughts merely dependent on our circumstances. But, we try to forget about that. When I’m drawing I feel free and freedom makes me think of long walks in the rain and feeling alive. I look at the sky, I turn to the ground. I love myself, I hate myself. I believe devoutly, I am an atheist. None of that matters anyway. Our existence will end. We will return to the earth.” I looked at the floor and accepted these confessional words. They were Allen’s manifesto and I now felt bound to him in ways I had not done so before, for he reminded me of myself and some words I had once written solemnly in my journal at night.


“That was sooo profound,” Robert joked. “Whatever,” Allen shrugged, picking up his drink again. “I get what you mean about the paradoxes,” I said, “It’s crazy how much I want something but I want the opposite too. I don’t like the in between so much. I don’t really do moderation.”

“I just take things as they come and try to get what I want,” Robert stated.

nence. If those walls could stay standing, perhaps I could do too. “Do you wanna go for a walk?” Robert asked. “Yeah,” I said, animatedly. I loved walking drunk in the dark. I had always rushed to danger. We didn’t walk far, but it seemed to me that everything around us was decaying. “Everything round here looks so stale,” I said with a sigh.

“Hmm,” Allen contemplated silently. We all “I don’t mind it,” Robert replied. slipped back into our own thoughts. I was walking ahead and, when I turned I thought about writing. I suddenly got a back I saw that Robert and Allen were holdgreat impulse to write something down. I ing hands. I silently thanked God that my wanted to write about tonight and the things senses were dulled. It was very cold now. I we were talking about and the feelings I was wrapped my coat around my neck. I didn’t feeling. I was worried that the thoughts want to get a bad cough like I did last winter. would be forever lost in sleep. I knew that I “I love winter,” Robert said. would crave this evening once it was over, like I craved Robert’s company when we Allen replied to this and I listened but did were not together. I feel so lucky to have not turn around, “It makes me think of blanfound someone who “gets me” like Robert kets and Bob Dylan and books and hot chocdoes at such a relatively young age. Once I olate.” thought that our friendship would blossom “You two wanna get pizza?” I asked. into something more, but now I think that what we have is a kind of love in its own “Nah,” Robert said, “Let’s go and sit under way. I put on another song. the tree.” We did as suggested. Robert sat between Allen and I and put his arm around both of us. I felt warm then. Then I knew that Robert loved me too, just in a different way to the way he loved Allen. I rested my head on Last night I walked down to the bar and dropped my guitar off to an ex-boyfriend for Robert’s shoulder and I could have fallen his gig. I didn’t stay. I walked home the long asleep or died and been happy to stay there. way, past the castle where the lights illumi- We weren’t in my house anymore but I felt nate the cold stone, leaving the path draped more at home than I had in months. in morose darkness. I looked at those stones and thought about how they had been there for longer than I could ever truly comprehend. It made me feel better about perma-


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IN FLUX have you ever been in flux? you know when you stop standing on solid ground, everything becomes significant. you'll hold onto every word, every action will tug on the hairs on your arms and the ache in your chest. the world wizzes past and you're with it but you're also standing above too, watching. and when everything carries significance, everything is surreal. everything means something. insignificance is no longer a factor and life becomes a thrilling game. and it's horrible, in it's unfamiliarity and it's anxiety and in all it's movement and change. because all of a sudden, you don't have a home base. there's nothing to keep your feet on the ground. and it's wonderful, in it's unfamiliarity and it's anxiety and in all it's movement and change. because all of a sudden, you don't have a home base. there's nothing to keep your feet on the ground.

Poem by Bella S, photo by Justine

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Gods (an ode to Peru) There is greatness in front of me, and there is dust at my feet, The mountains hold themselves as barriers, They whisper to the clouds "there are worlds inside of me". They breathe, indeed, they keep secrets that I cannot believe, they are hiding from humanity. Are they gods? Are there gods? I feel so barefeet when I walk through them, I feel so naked, no one knows my name, I am so tiny, I cannot scream, or fight,

try to compete,

yet I do not want to, just let it be. The world does not know me, but I am free. And your shades of green, when they turn to me, they make me wonder how whole one can feel. The air is so pure, right now it seems, to be no sin, to be no time,

I am giving up having all these fears, looking at the beauty and it makes me feel so utterly tiny, so damn complete.

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Transatlantic Lungs (an ode to Brazil) Transatlantic lungs, And my skin, a sponge, Has absorbed the ocean. Now I am a shell, A seaweed, A tiny boat with no anchors, Letting myself be pulled adrift.

Handing myself out, in pieces: A cradle in the highest Andes, At age four, the blue playground, Two years later, the ballet lessons, At age eleven, the skeleton.

My limb, my cliff, I have lived in you, Ten years: a rib, And oh, how ungrateful it is! To watch you stay untouched As now you watch me bleed.

But if I turn back and see The lights, the honks, the streets, You’ll end up with the best of me, Sao Paulo, you’re killing me.


Turbulence (an ode to travelling)

We become little boxes among the clouds, Floating and flooding. For an instant, Our desires coexist. We do not bring our identity cards tattooed on our faces: Strangers, In a war against time. Wouldn’t it be amazing if there was Neither a beginning nor an end? We breathe the same air, but what do we share? The woman who wears pink lipstick, The man reading poetry, The kid who fell asleep? Our feet are so distant from the ground That we could dance between the stars We’re just solid particles of blind light, Mistaken? Weightless.


Coming to life (an ode to Spain)

The day is born In the mourning of winter,

Gray days of March,

The city sleeps,

Madrid is covered by a white veil;

The orange blossoms wake up.

No one is awake,

Outside, the sidewalks look like

I get out of my bed,

Dead dance floors,

My bare feet touch the floor

Over which flowers fall

(I walk as a mistake)

From almond trees: they become rain.

I hear breaths, Plants do breathe too.

This is my street, not the end of From here I see my memories as a my world. curtain

Look at the windows, the hands,

I never say ‘good bye’ as I should.

So closed, so turned off,

I get back to bed,

It’s too early to build up wishes:

Soon everything will be lit up,

The city simmers gently.

Silence wraps me up:

(Am I a mistake?)

I have a second skin.

Will I come to life, then?

I love you. It’s Saturday and the atmosphere

I love you, Madrid.

Already smells like hangovers

I love you.

And children’s sighs. Today the sky is made of marble

I am so stupidly happy.

And time is nonexistent.

I love you. And the silence.

Poems and photos by Inés Cardó


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BY DIANA RONCAIOLI


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GISELLE’S POEM AND PHOTO


OS OF ONE OF HER FAVOURITE COUPLES, KATE AND SAM


HOME MOVIES A collaboration with the feminist film blog Screenqueens

Hannah Ryan: The films that I would select when asked what reminds me of home are not entirely conventional. The two, in fact, that remind me the most of my roots are, arguably, some of the most pivotal movies of the nineties. My dad and I have always bonded over a shared appreciation of cinema and as I reached my mid-teens, I discovered a newfound love for Tarantino’s collection, which eventually culminated in a joint viewing of ‘Pulp Fiction’. And if there had ever been a film that was worth the wait, then it was most definitely this one. There is no way that I can summarise the brilliance of what I feel is Tarantino’s finest work, as he has somehow managed to craft both a story and characters that are just as complex as they are daring while still making the plot seem relatable. Since then, I have watched and happily explored the hidden messages and points made throughout the movie without regret. It has become one of my all-time favourites, alongside Sam Mendes’ masterpiece; ‘American Beauty’, another of the films that my father introduced me to. The wonder of this movie is simple; it is a subtle deconstruction of the so-called American dream, of the traditional, nuclear family and its wholly mundane life. And yet, the lives of the Burnhams are far beyond dysfunctional, they are entirely torn apart by disarray and indiffer-

ence. It is a shocking, yet worryingly relatable, portrayal of the archetypal American family and Mendes does what so many others fail miserably at; by making the breakdown of an ordinary, middle-aged man in a world of increasing selfishness and corporate greed entirely believable, aided, of course, by Kevin Spacey’s incomparable performance. As I have already stated, the films that have me reminiscing over home are not those that make me feel cosy inside but those that remind me of the conversations touching upon them, that my parents and I would share and debate over, and of the inspirations that shaped my adolescence.

Ashley Woodvine: Things I associate with home; the smell of olbas oil, the smell of chips from the chip shop, sleeping bags. I think it’s because in some way these things are all linked to winter and the consequent warm and comfort you create for yourself. That feels quite homely, to me, a home created within a home, just for you. There are films that create in me the same sort of feelings. I guess they are mostly linked to winter as well and Christmas, because that’s when I spend the most time inside - Love Actually being the shining example of this. No other film fills me with that encompassing warmth. Love Actu-

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ally aside though, the films that I most associate with home are the ones I watch alone in the winter nest I have created for myself; they tend to be slightly silly, romantic comedies centred around women. Pitch Perfect, The Princess Diaries, 13 Going On 13. All films that I would stick the ‘guilty pleasure’ label on if I thought such a thing existed. I have to watch them alone mostly because by the end I am doing in a gross state of happy sobs. There’s no place like home to wipe your tears on the duvet you’ve cocooned yourself in because of a film about fucking acapella.

sessed. I was so obsessed with this film and I really think it deserves its status as a cult classic. I love it so much because its simplicityfull of fun and adventure and I’m pretty sure most nine year olds want to find an old map in their attic and go hunting for treasure. As well as this I always loved the whole Sloth/ Chunk friendship, because it was so weird but so unique; who ever thought the sinister image of a small boy befriending a guy who has been locked up in a basement for years would make good cinema to a child?

There’s about nine million other reasons this film is such a classic; from Data’s endless stream of inventions that he carries on him at all Laura Hague: times (I idolised him for a large proportion of my childhood) to the Choosing a film for the theme of Truffle Shuffle- there are so many ‘Home’ was a hard one, because the films that remind me of home are ba- reasons this film will always provide timeless entertainment for me, and sically just the crappy films I was stupidly obsessed with as a child and it’s one of the many Spielberg films would watch repeatedly for hours (aka you can watch over and over again The Lizzie McGuire movie- didn’t want without getting bored. to review that). So I chose to write about one of my favourite films of Chloe Leeson: all time and probably the least embarrassing film I was obsessed with If I think of home, I think of being as a kid: The Goonies. cosy, and from cosy I ultimately The Goonies is about seven kids on a think of Christmas. In December 2005 journey to find the infamous One-Eyed I received a portable DVD player for Willy’s ancient pirate ship which is my birthday or Christmas (the two being a week apart often merges in my rumoured to be full of treasure. memory) and the DVD that I got alongThere are added complications, and they have to battle through a sort of side it was A Series of Unfortunate Events. That birthday/Christmas night maze underneath an old café, avoid Willy’s traps, and escape three crim- I retired to my bed incredibly early, with a blanket fort and birthday/ inals who are chasing after them in Christmas chocolate my accomplices I order to steal Willy’s treasure and proceeded to watch the adaptation of save their homes from being repos-


the first 3 Lemony Snicket books. I then slept. When I woke, I watched it again. This cycle kept on for a number of weeks till I remembered that the family owned DVD’s we already had also worked in this portable player, not just ASoUE.

this film hiding in my bed with my new portable movie device, watching all the BTS footage and outtakes, noticing my creativity in Violet and my passion for reading in Klaus (not so much Sunny’s biting though) and probably sparking my interest in costume design (which I’m doing a degree in) I experienced weeks of complete imtoo. I didn’t have a hard childhood mersion in the Baudelaire orphans stories, one of Count Olaf, a wicked like the Baudelaire children, my parents didn’t vanquish in a great fire actor who adopts the children after leaving mysterious objects behind, the death of their parents and only but sitting with my eyes fixated on wants to claim their hefty inherthat teeny screen made me so grateful itance (and follows them in various for the fort I was at the time inhabdisguises throughout the next two stories), one of Uncle Monty, a her- iting. A cosy sanctuary. Just like the Baudelaire children had in their petologist who wants to take the children on a trip to Peru and one of tent. Aunt Josephine, a woman who claims ‘grammar is the greatest joy in life’ and is rife with ridiculous phobias. Despite its dark manner and even dark colouring, I found so much solace in Collage by Beth


HOME IS WHERE THE ART IS 55


MODEL: ALYSHA


(In which Anthony attempts to write a calm and poetic sectional piece, but just ends up getting angry instead.) Whether you believe in the soul or not, you'll have probably heard someone mention to you in the past that you should feel "at home in your own body." Personally, it's a phase difficult for any transperson to miss–– it has practically become a mantra for all support and information websites out there.

invented and romanticised fantasy cis people hold about trans people, but also to all the glories of cissexism and general ignorance found in mainstream society. Simply put: describing transgender folk as "girls trapped in boys' bodies" and "boys trapped in girls' bodies" is It's a common misconception that really as far as you can get from helpful. trans individuals feel trapped in a body that isn't theirs. I I'm a boy trapped in my cismean, whilst the idea is glori- centralistic society's percepously illustrative and speaks tion of what it is to be a fethe truth for maybe a few trans male! Why? Because the true crux people, the bottom line is that of what I'm saying here is that it's more of a description cis your body does not equal your people tend to use when talking gender! To say I'm trapped in a about us, rather than one we female body really goes against might choose when talking about the fact that my chest (whilst ourselves. I mean, not to sound hatefully bulging) is male, my rude, but it really does quite hips (whilst hatefully wide) are succinctly cater not only to the male, the beard that grows on my

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face is male, and yes, even what's between my legs? Hell, that's male too. Because I am male. Perhaps a better way of looking at this by envisioning a young man moving into a new home. He isn't very lucky, and lands himself with the least appealing flat available. He wants it to look just like the chic modern ones he sees day after day on the covers of glossy home-design magazines, but it just doesn't, and this makes him sad. But, home being home, he decides to make do with the flat he's got - and with a little investment he exchanges a few ugly doorways for sleek, modern arches, he adjusts the lighting plan to something brighter and more 'now,' brings in a few potted cacti, and beholds his new flat. Slowly, he notices that the white walls that were there from the start seem to really work well with the minimalism going on; the cedar wood floorboards really compliment the archways, and before he knows it, he feels like he is home, in a space that reflects who he is and who he wants to become. Just like how the young man throws out the old lighting plan, I'm going to be getting rid of the lumps on my chest this December. Not because they make me fe-

male, but because I dislike the way they look and how 'wrong' they make me feel. Its also important that there are aspects of my body that have always been there, that I have learned to fucking own, like the young man's cedar wood flooring.

We've got to where we are with perseverance, survival, and selflove. Please think twice before you explain that our bodies do not belong to us.


GEORGIE NEWSON-ERREY

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INSIDE After foreign tastes and stuffy air, I feel an anchor deep inside As soon as I Touch the white door.

Tiny paws tapping On my thin tights A smooth embrace, An awkward hug.

Now to the place in which I hid My skin. Its walls marked by Red and black.

Quiet neighbours And reclusive thoughts, With a small hello and a Loud goodbye.

I sink inside, Just as before, With roots deep within the flesh Of this place I used to fit.

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SHELTER

When you’re there And my insides stop hurting

Because you have hugged me a thousand times before.

And this you passed down, Through your skin and his bones.

A way to comfort.

Thoughts and feelings, The little springy ones. That grow.

Poems by Megan Hickey, photo by Beth


FEELS LIKE HOME Photos and text by Ellie Connor-Phillips

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I never really thought of my home as part of me until I was about eleven and faced the decision of which secondary school to go to. I had two options: stay at my cosy, Georgian house in the leafy London suburbs, a place I had lived in my whole life, and attend the nearby non-uniform, mixed school, or uproot and move further out of the city to go to an all-girls catholic school. My parents were quite set on the latter–– a new home meant new beginnings, a chance to start with a clean slate, leaving behind the memories and mess of our previous home and entering the next phase of my life in a new place and in a new state of mind. The school seemed interested in its students, and appeared to promise a well-balanced start to a young girl’s education. Also, the house we found nearby was huge and surprisingly cheap considering. I liked the school, but on every visit to the house or even just the area I couldn’t escape or ignore

that pressing lump in my throat, that tension in the pit of my stomach that prevented me from being anything but wary and critical of the whole idea. What would I lose? What would I miss out on? Or would this, indeed, be the new start I needed and a better home for my future teenage self? I remember struggling to even imagine not living in our house–– it held so many memories for me: memories of my childhood, of my late grandparents, of my evolution as an individual and my transition from child to young woman. Looking back, I guess I just wasn’t ready to part from them–– I wanted them close to me, wanted to cling on to them physically as my life began to change, and the only way I could think of doing that was to hold on to the material shell that I felt held them all entwined and ingrained within its walls. I couldn’t even envision what I would be without the house – I felt as if I would have no backbone, and instead be a


façade of a person, with no place to really, well, be. It seemed like childlike naiveté at first; it was as if I just couldn’t think of the benefits, and instead was innocently stubborn and shut off to the idea of any sort of big change. I think that was true, to a certain extent, but I felt something truthful and honest about my feelings, and when I was told that my Dad was actually in the auction house and about to sell our house I completely broke down. I sat in the passenger seat of my Mum’s car, soft toy hippo clutched to my chest, racking with sobs so deep and sincere I still to this day haven’t cried like it since. There was something

desperate, serious and adult-like in my manner, something beyond all hope that made my mum really see that I just could not leave that house, so she called my dad and cancelled the sale–– literally just in time. I felt bad about it for years afterwards. My parents did really want that house, and I wouldn’t have stopped them buying it if I had been able to control myself, but it was as if something inside me had taken over and broken down my will to keep my unhappiness at bay. I comforted myself with the fact that there must have been a reason I wanted to stay. I am a strong believer in the idea that everything is ‘meant to be’ and happens for a reason, and so starting my


new secondary I felt as if there was some sort of fate that had kept me there. I still believe that is true–– I wouldn’t have met my friends, or teachers, or individuals that have introduced me to different subjects, outlooks, music, art, literature… quite frankly, I would not be the person I am today if I hadn’t stayed put. I’m not sure if the house itself had an effect, but it has and I think always will feel like a part of me. Even now, in my last few years of school and preparation to leave for University I feel as if my home does make me, to a certain extent, more me, and without its mess, its comfort and its memories I would be

less of the person I am today. I don’t know whether this is just relative to me, or whether places we call home really do essentially ‘define’ us, or whether we just need a safe haven to grow and become the person we are going to be.


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SHELBY CRISWELL


Photography: Agus Cabaleiro Art Direction: Agus Cabaleiro, Priz Tamiano & Pau Tamiano for The Merienda Club Styling: Priz Tamiano Model: Sofi Arellano

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Poem and photos by Dora 97


THANK YOU FOR READING THIS ISSUE OF CHERRY MARCH 5TH MARKS OUR FIRST BIRTHDAY, SO WE HAVE A SPECIAL ANNIVERSARY ISSUE COMING UP WITH ALL THE BEST BITS FROM THE PAST YEAR. TELL US WHICH PIECES HAVE BEEN YOUR FAVOURITE EITHER THROUGH OUR TUMBLR OR EMAIL elisabethdunne@gmail.com YOU CAN FOLLOW US ON TUMBLR, FACEBOOK, INSTAGRAM, TWITTER AND ISSUU

CHERRY ISSUE 8  

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

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