The Authenticity Project

by Clare Pooley

example), I find that my voice comes out in a croak because it’s curled up and died in my throat from neglect.

Julian wore his solitude and loneliness like old, ill-fitting shoes. He was used to them—in many ways they had grown comfortable—but over time they were bending him out of shape, causing calluses and bunions that would never go away.

One day, in the not too distant future, his head would finally slip under the water and he’d leave barely a ripple behind. Through that book, at least one person would see him—properly. And writing it had been a comfort, like loosening the laces on those uncomfortable shoes, letting his feet breathe a bit more easily.

At a time when I was floating aimlessly in space, it kept me tethered to the space station.