The Words in My Hands by Asphyxia

Author:Asphyxia
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Annick Press
Published: 2021-08-19T16:41:29+00:00

NEWSMELBOURNE

Food and Fuel Crisis Meetings

Meetings between federal, state, and local governments continue in private, with no statements made to the media yet about proposed plans. Sources hint rations may be on the cards, forcing equitable distribution of imported and local foods currently being snapped up by wealthy buyers before they hit the shelves. Whether citizens will still be required to pay market prices for rations or will receive handouts is uncertain. At a media conference last night, Karen Kildare stated, “We remain committed to finding the best way forward for Australians in this new climate.”

My wristlet buzzes. It’s Taylor! Finally.

3 From: Taylor

Who broke your heart? Are you going to JAIL? Save some possum for me? I know I’ve been horrible—let’s get together. This Saturday afternoon? I’m SO GLAD you haven’t disappeared off to Sydney and need to make the most of having you here!

3 To: Taylor

Yes! Saturday afternoon! It’s a date. Come over? I want to show you the garden I’m making. I’ll tell you all then.

3 From: Marley

Hey, Piper … How’s Sydney? I should have said before you left that there are Deaf organizations in every state—you could look up the one in Sydney and make contact. Maybe you can find out about sign language classes or meet the Deaf community? It’s so quiet without you here.

3 To: Marley

We didn’t go. I realize now I should have planned to stay. 16 is old enough to live independently, but I didn’t realize until it was too late, and the short version of that particular story is that I caused Mum to lose her job and now we’re staying.

3 From: Marley

What the hell? I’m intrigued now. Surely your mum can get her job back?

He wants Mum to get her job back? Can’t he at least pretend to be happy I’m staying? There’s no invitation to go to the bike shop. No mention of Kelsey, either. I glare at my wristlet.

I don’t feel like messaging anymore, so I flip my journal open to a page with a background I started when I was using up some leftover paint on my palette and hesitate. Then, on a whim, I sketch a tree. I’m thinking of Grandma’s oak tree again. The first draft looks ridiculous, so I rub it out and look up an image of an oak tree in Robbie’s book. Copying slowly, I draw in branches, scribbling quickly to shape the knobs on the trunk. But when it comes to drawing acorns, I stop. There are no acorns here. Instead, I draw blocks of textured concrete hanging from the tree—lots of them. Words form in my mind as I sketch, and by the time the concrete blocks are filled in, I know what I want to say:

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