“that time of innocence” by Julia on her couch

Tuesday November 24, 2015
5 minutes
from a poem by bell hooks

It was a very knobby knees sort of pick your nose behind a book kind of pants too baggy in all the wrong places kind of time. Garrett was in love with me and asked me to be his girlfriend at least three times a day.They were very long days sort of strategic routes taken home from school to avoid certain people kind of too shy to say why kind of time. When I told him no the first time I think I was even cruel about it. I didn’t know yet that just because a boy was of no interest to me it didn’t mean he didn’t just use up all his courage trying to be. It was a very young kids playing in the cornfield sort of kiss behind the church before getting called into supper kind of late nights laying on the floor with candles lit listening to Bon Jovi kind of time.

“that time of innocence” by Julia on her couch

“a finger in each mouth” by Julia at her desk

Sunday November 22, 2015
5 minutes
From a poem by bell hooks

I can’t read what you wrote because it hurts me every time
like a knife in my side
like a drill in my spine
I can’t see your doctor-prescription-careless-anarchy penmanship because it reminds me that you don’t have any respect for what I do
Your o’s look like d’s, your d’s look like meteors
your ripped napkin with the tomato sauce stain letterhead of our kitchen makes me cry
The part scratched out that I wish to God I could read haunts me
You told me you were leaving me on a garbage scrap and then left it on the fridge next to the photo of us rubbing noses

“a finger in each mouth” by Julia at her desk

“a finger in each mouth” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Sunday November 22, 2015
5 minutes
From a poem by bell hooks

a finger in each mouth and
bare feet the woman doesn’t know
how deep she is
she wakes up crusty and disoriented a
different day a different toothbrush
opaque window
peeking out towards wednesday
the woman doesn’t leave a note on the counter or
on the fridge in lipstick
the woman loads the dirty dishes into the dishwasher only to
realize that the dishes inside are
the woman promises to never live in a place with a dishwasher
how confusing
how complicated
she leaves the key under the welcome mat and
fishes around for her lighter
she’s not a
she’s a smudger
she takes the small bag of dried sage leaves
from her purse
and lights two
clasped between thumb and forefinger

“a finger in each mouth” by Sasha at her kitchen table

“I love kittens!!” By Sasha on the ferry to Horseshoe Bay

Sunday November 22, 2015
5 minutes
From a text

When I call you, your voice is horse.

“Did you just wake up?”


“You did!”

“So what?”

“It’s two o’clock, Jay… Don’t you work today?”

“At three.”

“What’re you going to eat?”

“Tuna sandwich.”

It’s getting worse. I can almost see the dark of the sky where you are, even though it’s sunny, even though it’s a shimmery kind of day.

“I’m gonna go pee. Wanna stay on the phone?”

“No, no… I’ll let you go.”

“Thanks for the call.”

“Of course…”

“I love you, Syd.”

“I love kittens!!” By Sasha on the ferry to Horseshoe Bay

“Maybe we shouldn’t” by Sasha at Szos’ desk in Cowichan Bay

Saturday November 21, 2015
5 minutes
Overheard at the Eastside Culture Crawl

I keep replaying the moment before, like that cat food jingle no one can get out of their heads.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” you say. “What if it hurts?”

I don’t feel fear like you do, as a “golf ball in your throat, covered in thorns”.

I jump first. I’m a more experienced swimmer. I promise you I’ll be fine but we make the plan that if I don’t bob up within a few minutes you should call 911.

The water is colder than hell. It shakes me into oblivion. It’s better than coke. I bob up and I scream, “Jump! Jump!”

You say that you’re scared and I reassure you that it’s deep, that it’s safe, that you’ll be fine.

“Maybe we shouldn’t” by Sasha at Szos’ desk in Cowichan Bay

“Her face was like a spring sun halo” by Sasha on the futon in Cowichan Bay

Friday November 20,2015 in Cowichan Bay
5 minutes
White Heat
M.J. McGrath

He’s turning thirty tomorrow.
He’s having a breakdown.
He’s got a gun and it’s cocked towards his temple.
He made love to a stranger last night, poorly, he guesses.
He ate Cheerios for breakfast, alone, having asked the Stranger to be on their way.
He didn’t have any milk so he ate them dry.
“Nothing worse than dry Cheerios.”
The laces on his shoes are broken so that he can’t tie them.
When he walks, they squeak.
“Nothing is more demeaning.”
He considers calling Celeste and then decides against him.
“Nothing worse than disappointment.”
He’s sitting on the toilet when the succulent on the shelf above falls, unexplained, right onto his head.
He stops his shit, clenching his anus closed, clenching his teeth.
He blacks out, only for an instant, and in the instant, “blacks out” makes no sense because he sees light.
The metal is cold against the side of his head.
His mouth waters.
“Is this really how I feel about death?”
He thinks about who might find his body.
He thinks about Celeste, and Jon and Katherine.
He thinks about his shit, still sitting in the toilet, unflushed.
“Can’t leave unfinished business.”
He puts the gun down.
He goes into the bathroom.
He flushes the shit.
He sees a piece of the ceramic pot that housed the succulent.
He goes to the kitchen to get the broom and dust pan.
There’s a knock at the door.

“Her face was like a spring sun halo” by Sasha on the futon in Cowichan Bay

“methodological, theoretical, practical” by Sasha at UBC

Thursday November 19, 2015
5 minutes
From the back of a theatre theory book

With a moustache of icing sugar, when Caleb talks puffs of white billow onto the front of his shirt. Doughnuts are his religion, his one true desire. When Caleb wants something, he’s incredibly skilled at berating you until you cave, like an avalanche, even though you think of yourself as stubborn. You never knew stubborn until you knew Caleb. You answered an ad in the newspaper. “Looking for a care worker for a strong-willed teenager with developmental disabilities. Experience required.” You didn’t have experience, really, but you knew that you could do it, what with Dev, your younger brother. Your mother wrote your reference, but Cynthia didn’t need to know. On your first day, Caleb told you that he loved you. Cynthia thought that was a good sign. You weren’t sure, at first, but now, seven months later, you agree. Hindsight.

“methodological, theoretical, practical” by Sasha at UBC