By: Sasha 11/27/201712/08/2017 creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectChristmas, fiction, five minutes, Mariah Carey, santa, short fiction, unedited, Writing

“Calls of guilty thrown at me” by Sasha at her desk

Monday November 27, 2017
10:51pm
5 minutes
Cherry Wine
Hozier

Mariah Carey makes me think about the Christmas that Ken dressed up as Santa and got wasted. Her Christmas album was playing, that must’ve been it. I don’t know what Ken was thinking. Dressing up was Dad’s thing. He found the suit when he was looking for tinsel in the garage and I guess he just couldn’t help himself. He was already starting to lose weight, so he wrapped a bungee cord around his waist as a belt to keep the pants up. Dad was a bit pissed, but he got over it and I think he actually was relieved that he didn’t have to sweat his balls off in that suit for four hours.

“Calls of guilty thrown at me” by Julia at her desk

Monday November 27, 2017
9:24pm
5 minutes
Cherry Wine
Hozier

If it weren’t for the husk of corn left in the sink
the distinct sting between us: barbed wire, fenceless,
I wouled have decided to stay.
Instead I left and gave you the buzzing shell
still hot from the guilt of not saying goodbye.
You didn’t know the absence well enough.
You knew the actor, she was brilliant.
On nights like Tuesday and 6pm
the space hung in the kitchen is never
big enough for the both of us.
On nights like these you mmm
too easily at the kiss of me.
You always start speaking right
in the middle
of my hand trying to write you.

By: these five minutes 01/08/201712/08/2017 UncategorizedChristmas, daily, dip, flight, heavy, honey, suitcase, travel, unedited

“we drove past the honey sign” by Julia on the plane

Saturday January 7, 2016
11:28pm
5 minutes
Summer of My Amazing luck Miriam Toews

Mom packed two jars of honey in my suitcase and because of that I had to leave behind the conditioner and the peppercorns and the bamboo wipes and the Italian grappa with my name on the label from my brother. We packed the checked luggage the best we could but there were a lot of bottles and jars that we didn’t want to break and were already too heavy to wrap properly with other things like sweaters and socks. My carry on weighs more than I do and my mom and I both overpack things that don’t have a weight limit even if we won’t be able to lift the damn thing over our heads. The flight attendant asked if I needed help and I thought she was going to get angry at me for being so brazenly unlawful. She tried to lift it in the overhead compartment then asked me if I had rocks in there when she realized she couldn’t lift it either. All I managed to say was “Christmas” but she didn’t seem to care even a little about that.

“Can you please bring me my water?” By Sasha on the couch at Macdonell

Sunday December 25, 2016
6:23pm
5 minutes
Overheard in the kitchen

I don’t know what to write today. I’m tired. I’m sick. I’ve overwhelmed. I’m sad. I’m full of buttery, meat-y, spicy, sweet. I don’t know what to write today. The sound of my pen moving across the page feels like shit. I’ve got nothing. I’ve got nothing.

Layah asked Oli to bring her water because she is nursing the baby. I never realized that nursing is pretty much a full time gig. I romanticized nursing, like most things. I romanticize everything. What a strange quality. Ugh. Ugh. I’m pretty sure I have a fever. I hope I don’t make everyone here sick.

By: these five minutes 12/29/201612/08/2017 creative every day, creative writing, UncategorizedChristmas, creative writing, hymns, mass, non fiction, prayer, short story, short writes short reads, unedited, Writing, writing every day

“people who called themselves atheists.” By Sasha on Nadeem’s bed in Mississauga

Thursday December 22, 2016
11:35pm
5 minutes
Dust
Charles Pellegrino

We’ll go to Church on Christmas Eve, with the whole family. Mass at four, with the children’s choir singing carols. The priest will say what he always says. He’ll talk about Bethlehem and the black sheep of the family and we’ll say, “Peace be with you”, and shake hands with strangers and kiss cheeks and pat backs. I’ll sing harmonies on hymns, a small subversiveness. I’ll pray for all we’ve lost and all we’ve gained.

By: these five minutes 12/26/201612/08/2017 UncategorizedChristmas, daily, dip, family, feeling, heart, home, laugh, lift, love, observer, reunion, sweetness, together, unedited, write

“Can you please bring me my water?” by Julia in her childhood bedroom

Sunday December 25, 2016
11:52pm
5 minutes
Overheard in the kitchen

Young one is half laying beside me, nodding off and meeting sleep somewhere in the middle so it doesn’t have to come all that way.
Older one is propped up against the fire place, figuring it out pen in hand or holding space for the opportunity in case it comes knocking.
Fire starter keeps banging on the wood, offering silly comments, and roasting chestnuts even though they’d taste better if we were still hungry.
Happy heart is stuffed into the love seat, smiling at me every time something deserves an eye roll or a gut laugh.
You are on the other side of me, keeping my leg and my spirits up, holding my water and my elbow, lifting more up than you ever could hold in your two hands.

By: these five minutes 12/16/201612/08/2017 UncategorizedChristmas, couple, daily, dating, dip, drama, family, fiction, five minutes, holidays, home, issues, project, sister, unedited, write

“Can you take that out of the oven?” by Julia on her couch

Thursday December 15, 2016
9:20pm
5 minutes
Overheard in my mother’s kitchen

-If Rachel is going to be in one of her moods–I’m gonna be honest–I don’t think I’ll be able to be around her.

-Quin. Come on. It’s not going to be like that.

-I’m not kidding, babe,like I’m not going to do well in a setting like that.

-So what are you saying then.

-I’m just saying.

-Okay. But that she’s what?

-I’m just saying that I know she will 100% be in one of her moods and it will 100% destroy my time there and maybe everyone’s. So I don’t want to go if Rachel is there. Not this year.

-I can’t believe you would ditch me and my entire family’s Christmas because my sister is going through her things.

-I need this year to be good. This new year of good decisions and good behaviour and good food and good drugs. I can’t truly embrace my year if I’m anywhere near the things your sister is going through.

“We have a Christmas cake box?!” by Sasha in her bed

Monday June 20, 2016
8:30am
5 minutes
Overheard at Starbucks

It’s Christmas, which means that Aunt Cathy is hammered and Pa is smoking pipe after pipe and Jason, my twin brother, is likely going to try to hang himself again. He does it every Christmas. The attempts are feeble, but are attempts nonetheless. Our mother, Joan, recently got a tattoo of a turtle on her right bicep. Jason thinks she’s having a midlife crisis but from what I’ve read, those only happen to men. Jason lives in the weird loft space above the garage. There’s a box spring and a mattress, a hotplate and a mini fridge. It’s where we used to hang out with friends and drink forties when we were in high school. I only see him a couple of times a year and every time I do he has more grey hair. We aren’t identical, but we look a lot a like. My hair is still entirely brown. I haven’t even spotted one grey strand. Aunt Cathy whispers that Joan went grey in her early thirties, too.

OUR FORMULA

1. Inspiration “dip” (find a phrase, word, image or audio clip arbitrarily in a source of our choosing).

2. Set the timer to five minutes.

3. Write (without editing).

4. Share.

“he lowered the drink onto the table,” by Julia at New Waves

By: Julia 09/18/2018

Uncategorizedalcoholic, bar, chaser, diary, dreams, drinker, fears, five minutes, heart, knee, life, poem, poetry, potential, Regrets, short writes, shot, throat, unedited, wasted, writer, Writing

Tuesday September 18, 2018
1:02pm
5 minutes
Candy Cap Magic
Jocelyn Kuang

It’s a shot to the knee
not the heart
The heart would stop
The knee would keep screaming
What are you supposed to do without your knee?
Get good at reading
Get good at writing at the bar with another beer
another beer
You’re never going to be better than this
pour another
keep your tab open
a shot to the liver to
keep the knee from reminding you it’s there
Bring a book and black out all the lines that have you in them
turn the pages into a diary of the wasted major organs
the wasted time and delusions
all those prayers to the wrong god
all that for nothing
When they tell you you’re meant to be more
it’ll be too late
Tilt your head back and chase the bottom of the glass
You would lick it clean if your tongue were long enough
If you were good at something
The knee isn’t dead
the heart is sick
the throat is never dry

“after every sick joke” by Sasha on her couch

Monday September 17, 2018
8:22pm
5 minutes
July, ’77
Jill Mandrake

Am I boring you?
I know we don’t edit these
but I just wrote
“borning” and had
to go back and erase
the “n”
Maybe I’m doing
that too

“N” is a letter
that I love
The cello is an
instrument that
I love
Fall is a season
that I love

Some days all we
can do is make
a short list of
the things
that we love

“after every sick joke” by Julia at The Coffee Studio

By: Julia 09/17/2018

Uncategorizedair conditioning, bed, creative, daily, dip, dreams, everyday, five minutes, heat, joke, room, short story, sleep, swamp, unedited, waking, write

Monday September 17, 2018
2:35pm
5 minutes
July, ’77
Jill Mandrake

In the night the sticky hot wakes you up and the ac robot beside you becomes a sleep villain. The edge of noise I can teeter on has become finer. The line a little less warning, a little more plummet. I remember you asking for permission but I don’t remember granting it.
My throat catching all the room particles and holding them there. I pull the sheet over my legs and up to my mouth. It’s been an hour in sleep years and in my dream I’m asking you if it can die soon? The robot closes its eyes so now I know you can meet me in my dreams. I know you’ll be able to hear me. In the morning the alarm clock is a welcome sound. No more begging for breeze in the dip of my back, the swamp of my neck. You say, Well that was the most comfortable sleep of my life. Even this joke turns to mud.

“It is a highly awkward effort” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 09/16/201809/18/2018

Uncategorized

Sunday September 16, 2018
6:17pm
5 minutes
How to Unthink (In Two Movements)
Jill Boettger

Remember when everything was “awkward”? When that word took over the mouths and minds of everyone under thirty? “He looked at me and it was so awkward!” “I slipped and it was so awkward!” “Ew, that’s… awkward…”

Words have power and yet when my mother calls with the news, I can’t find a single one that feels right. When my mother calls with the news, there are no words in my mouth.

I love words. They are my prayer, my heartbeat, they make stories – my blood. And, even then, over the phone, across the country, there’s nothing to say.

“It is a highly awkward effort” by Julia on the Brown Line

Sunday September 16, 2018
5:55pm
5 minutes
How to Unthink (In Two Movements)
Jill Boettger

The bedsheets wake up bloody and somebody’s name gets cursed for choosing white. Not my name, I’ll tell you that. The first tears are muted into the pillow at 6AM. The second at seven. The stomach starts talking to me around ten after eight and starts yelling at nine. So far universe: 5, me: 0.

When the deep weakness punches back from the reflection in the mirror I know I am on an up-cliff climb without a rope. The first person to get hit in a street fight is usually the one who loses.

Somehow the angel card that gets flipped up from the pile by no one with fingerprints is
Acceptance.

It wasn’t me, I’ll tell you that. You said it wasn’t you.

Acceptance.

“people are still listing reasons” by Julia on the Red Line

Saturday September 15, 2018
7:55pm
5 minutes
Collaboration: Visual/Written Poetry
Sarah Leavitt & Jen Currin

When the subway ascends and we can see the city, you nudge my shoulder, point my body in the direction of the skyline and the tail lights of all those cars
glowing up the street
You say, look at that.
You’ve been giving me reasons why I should stay and what we could do if we decide to and who we would be if I decide to
They sound like good reasons
The good Mexican food being at the top of the list
You tell me this doesn’t have to happen and I believe the sweet in your eyes when you say it’s not going to move you if we don’t move here
Move lives
Move dreams over to a bigger city that we will surely get lost in
You are good at drinking slowly
Waiting for me to finish swirling the straw and ice around in my glass
But if we move here, you tell me, we will also find ourselves

“people are still listing reasons” by Sasha at JJ Bean on Cambie

By: Sasha 09/15/201809/16/2018

creative writing, five, five minute story, five minutes, ongoing writing practice, these five minutes, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfall, Keith Jarret, love, records, risotto, this time, unedited

Saturday September 15, 2018
4:55pm
5 minutes
Collaboration: Visual/Written Poetry
Sarah Leavitt & Jen Currin

Keith Jarret on the record player. The Masquerade Is Over. You stir risotto over the stove, your glasses fogging up. You add white wine, and then swig from the bottle. Here we are. The temperature is dropping outside and people we thought we loved are turning out to be those who we never imagined. Or did we? And people we definitely loved are sick, and we are gathering around them with baskets of fresh veggies from the market and tear-stained cheeks. There aren’t words. There’s Keith Jarret. There’s a table settling for two.

“a multitude of mouths” by Julia on the Blue Line

Friday September 14, 2018
8:52pm
5 minutes
SWITCH/CHASE
Ben Rawluk

Got me dripping drooling thinking about the next mouth of yours I’ll kiss
Morning mouth afternoon mouth or after that. The one that tastes the most like you
I could sip it lick the flavour trick myself into saving it won’t forget it when I’ve savoured it and morning afternoon goodnight goodnight goodnight.
Got me craving itch-mouthed waiting for the mouth you make me want you with
The one that sucks the cold from my lips the one that steals the beat from the mix make the room fall silent
Make the flies on the wall get violent
Give me the mouth you need mine for
Give me the mouth you swish my name in.

“a multitude of mouths” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 09/14/201809/15/2018

creative every day, creative writing, fiction, friendship, short fiction, Uncategorized, unedited

Friday September 14, 2018
8:58pm
5 minutes
SWITCH/CHASE
Ben Rawluk

“I don’t believe in that,” Kelsey shakes her head and picks a lemon seed out of her water glass. Jem has been talking about orgies and polyamory and how as descendants of apes we are meant to have many mates – “Many, many mates!”

“It’s not a matter of belief,” Jem says, leaning in across the candle-lit table.

“Everything’s a matter of belief, my love,” Kelsey looks Jem right in the eye and they both laugh.

Their food arrives – Kelsey’s pesto pasta and garlic bread, Jem’s burger with caesar salad.

“Do you ever just want to say fuck it and move to the country and keep bees and make preserves and sing in a choir?” Kelsey steals a crouton from Jem’s plate.

“Of course! But will I do such a thing before I’m all wrinkled and grey and surrounded by dogs and cats and parakeets?! NO WAY!”

“still dangerous,” by Sasha on her couch

Thursday September 13, 2018
6:39pm
5 minutes
Soft
Sarah Pinder

Soon we will be spread out
different places
you here and her there and
me where we used to leave
the three of us

Different countries
Different worlds maybe
Or that’s my fear talking
She sounds like you
sometimes

I want to tell you everything
but I can’t
and that’s a first
kind of
and that’s strange
kind of

Curled up in my bed
watching the clouds
listening to jazz on the radio
dancing with my hands
until I fall asleep

My heart breaks for
who we used to be
The women on the corner
head’s thrown back
laughing

“still dangerous,” by Julia at Millennium Park, Chicago

By: Julia 09/13/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, daily, dip, every day, faking, fiction, he, love, lying, metaphor, micro story, pocket sized writes, poem, poetry, She, short story, whistling, Writing

Thursday September 13, 2018
1:48pm
5 minutes
Soft
Sarah Pinder

He whistles his love from the bathroom with the door closed
She is supposed to whistle back to signal that she heard him
She never learned how to whistle
It hasn’t been a major set back
except when everyone else was whistling in the
first scene of the show but her
She pursed her lips together and
raised her eyebrows to fake it

When he whistles from the bathroom
She is supposed to answer him but
she doesn’t know how to fake it
Whatever song comes out, comes out
Whatever noise, faint or otherwise
He takes it as a symbol of her love for him
But she does not know how to whistle
She does not know how to fake it
She has never been good at lying
He has never been good at detecting it

They say you can teach yourself how to whistle
The placement of the tongue in your mouth is everything
The space left for air to flow through

One day she tried to teach herself how to whistle
She put her mouth the way they say to
she made sure her tongue was in the right spot
One sad little note slipped out
And she was glad that she could learn to do
the thing that everyone seems to know how to do

When he whistled his love for her behind the bathroom door
She whistled back one flat note
She never learned how to change the tone
Or make it sound more alive

“and a quiet evening sipping whiskey” by Julia on the Brown Line

By: Julia 09/12/201809/13/2018

Uncategorizedalcohol, Beer, body, daily, dip, drinking, fiction, poem, poetry, rant, sick, sip, thirsty, unedited, whiskey, write

Wednesday September 12, 2018
7:16pm
5 minutes
Mr. Bright Eyes
John Barton

Who had the bright idea to go to Target and buy a 12 pack of Miller Lite? Must have been you since you’re the only one drinking Miller Lite these days. Me, I can’t swallow the stuff. Not just Miller Lite, but beer. The only thing they drink here. Not beer as in here take a sip, take a load off, take the edge off. Beer as in, here, here, here, and here, and more, and more, and more, and here. I can’t do it like that. I was told not to. My body has been trying to remind me that. You wouldn’t want me that way anyway. Those days when I used to drink beer and beer and here and here I wouldn’t know where here was or me, or my desires. I don’t recognize the person who used to drink in the shower, before the comedy show, before leaving the house. I could ask us to stay in one night, have a quiet evening sipping whiskey but, you are not the kind of person who sips anything. You like the feeling of being tipsy with me, but I can’t seem to get there anymore without losing myself. I don’t like the action of sipping things when I am simply not thirsty.
My guts have been full since I got here. You had a Miller Lite in the closet yesterday and I had one more reason to stop. The dreams come worse when I’ve been filling all the holes with the wrong kind of gold. The kind that costs four dollars at Target.

“and a quiet evening sipping whiskey” by Sasha on her couch

Wednesday September 12, 2018
7:02am
5 minutes
Mr. Bright Eyes
John Barton

He calls and tells me that he misses me. I want to hear it from the one who hasn’t been drinking whiskey, the one who wakes up and washes the dishes, the one who plays basketball with the lanky teenagers in the courts by the community centre. I always said that I’d wait for you. I always said that I’d be able to. Now, though, it feels as though time moves faster and people are dying, and being born, and how are we wasting time on things that aren’t true? He calls and tells me that he misses me and I pull the phone away from my ear so that he can’t hear the catch in my throat, the tiny “me too,” the deep breath, the tear rolling down towards my upper lip.

“a few drops of peppermint oil.” By Sasha in the bath

By: Sasha 09/11/201809/15/2018

five, five minute story, five minutes, nonfiction, these five minutes, Uncategorized, uneditedfuture, mystery, now, past, small house, who knows

Tuesday September 11, 2018
8:22pm
5 minutes
The Incense of Those Rooms
Jen Currin

We’re going to build a small house behind the house that I grew up in. A garden, five trees, a bird bath will separate the past from the present. Now it’s just drawings, and hoping, and scrounging, and working through feeling like hell. Now is making it happen for then. For them. For us, three years from now. It’s strange, isn’t it. How autumn brings nostalgia, heavy and ripe. We’re going to build something together, maybe a house, maybe several homes scattered across the coasts. East and West, sun and moon. God laughs at our plans. I hear it in my belly like butterfly wings, touching pinkies with you.

“a few drops of peppermint oil.” by Julia on the Red Line

Tuesday September 11, 2018
4:27pm
5 minutes
The Incense of Those Rooms
Jen Currin

Misery loves Company so Misery keeps inviting Company over. Together they sway in the dark and call it romance. Call it pretty.
Misery asks Company to stay a while and talk to her while she cries. And she cries Niagara Falls. Sometimes on the inside where her sandwich drowns a thousand deaths. Company loves Misery and keeps telling her she’ll be there. That she’ll never leave her. Company draws a bath and sprinkles in a few drops of peppermint oil. All this running water and nowhere to go. Misery wants to be who she is, find someone who will love her this way. Company keeps Misery from changing. Keeps bringing her baskets of hand picked sorrow. Calls it unconditional. Calls it sweet. Calls it forever.

“like slivered almonds in the bulk section,” by Sasha in her bed

Monday September 10, 2018
10:31pm
5 minutes
Parsley
Listen Chen

Someone who’s just as lonely as all of us. A change of heart.
A sliver of a dream from a decade ago, a sliver of a hope that got washed out, a sliver of all the “no’s”; all mixed in together like almonds for baking in the bulk section at the grocery store. This is the way it goes, I guess.
Thirty two years doing this life, and I still don’t know
much beyond what I do. I imagine your body turning into a million tiny shards
of light – fireflies – and ascending up up up up up.

“like slivered almonds in the bulk section,” by Julia in The Loop, Chicago

Monday September 10, 2018
10:38pm
5 minutes
Parsley
Listen Chen

Jessie keeps her handkerchief in the secret pocket of her purse. Nobody knows it’s there but her. A tiny reminder of her tiny grandmother who left a big hole in her life when she passed away. She has never been the type to use a handkerchief but knowing that it’s there makes her feel better. It is yellow and white and sweet and floral. It makes her feel lavish. Abundant. Like all those slivered and blanched almonds in the bulk section. Nothing else goes inside the secret purse pocket. It has to stay clean and folded there where all the memories live.

“We made sure you could still heal” by Julia at Washington and Wabash

By: Julia 09/09/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, action, Art, belief, copy, creative writing, daily, dip, dream, five minutes, generosity, good, mantra, poem, poet, poetry, short story, short writes short reads, theft, unedited, wisdom, Writing

Sunday September 9, 2018
9:45pm
5 minutes
Day Thirteen
Adrienne Gruber

there is an old saying
let yourself be loved
and you
will love those who
love yourself better

okay those are
my words
I said them
I’m saying them

someone could have said these words before me
maybe not in their exact sequence but life is art
and art is theft

I’m glad we’re choosing all the right things to copy
all the good things to stand up for

these are all the words we heal by:
the ones that sound off in the echo of our own hearts
the ones that bridge the gap between lonely and understood

I could keep a tally of good dreams that mean something
that tell me I am collaborating with the energy of every good place I’ve touched

“We made sure you could still heal” by Sasha at the beach

By: Sasha 09/09/201809/15/2018

Uncategorized

Sunday September 9, 2018
3:45pm
5 minutes
Day Thirteen
Adrienne Gruber

We’ve been healing these weeks
Me – slow like the leaves turning
You – fast like the leaves turning

We’ve been in that rocky water
All I want is the glass lake
All you want is to surf

The more I know the more I don’t know
about all of this
What I do know is that strength is

Saying every day
“I am ready to meet
whatever life gives me”

What I do know is that love is
the messiest kitchen and the
softest “yes”

“books about people living on the street” by Julia in The Loop, Chicago

Saturday September 8, 2018
10:39pm
5 minutes
Searching, results
Shawn Syms

I walked into a bookstore today. The shelves were lined with post-it-notes telling me which staff member recommended which book. The girl working the counter had a tattoo of a strawberry wearing sunglasses. She recommended the Miranda July and I thought she and I would be friends. Mariella, the store owner, had recommended a few books about the housing crisis and single room occupancies. When I asked the girl with the same lipcolour on as me if she had read Mariella’s recommendations, she got real quiet and said, Mar used to live on the streets. She built this place so it’d be here for anyone who might need it. That’s why we’re open so late.

“books about people living on the street” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 09/08/201809/15/2018

creative writing, five, five minute story, five minutes, ongoing writing practice, these five minutes, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectbookstores, creative writing, five minutes, stream of consciousness, unedited

Saturday September 8, 2018
7:12am
5 minutes
Searching, results
Shawn Syms

In a good bookstore (I think you know what that means) I wish I was a better writer I wish I was a better reader I wish I was a better person. Books make me want to do better in every inch keep things clean keep things open keep things real. I admire how my Dad reads. I wish I read like my Dad. I wish I spent way less time with a screen and way more time in pages and pages and pages and words are the way of the future they are how we become who we are how the future breathes life into the present.

“she died before age forty” by Julia at Wabash and Washington, Chicago

Friday September 7, 2018
12:44am
5 minutes
F*** Face
Amber Dawn

She didn’t know what she wanted. Thought she wanted to change some minds and open some hearts. Thought she wanted to tell the truth and free herself of the lies she told herself. Guess some
dreams never come true. Guess some hopes are too high to reach.

On a Friday she realizes she
needs to define her path. She cries about the roadblocks but doesn’t even know the road. Her friends seem to be making strides. Putting their hands in all the right collection plates, offering themselves to the highest bidder. Maybe God is a good excuse not to do anything. Maybe having a baby is a better one.

She didn’t know how much the lion’s roar would sadden her. She didn’t know how small a big thing kept would feel when she wasn’t allowed to be free. Guess some dreams never come true. Guess some hopes are too high to reach.

“she died before age forty” by Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 09/07/201809/15/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, poem, short poem, tiny poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectdeath, forty, gone, love, milk, sister, twins

Friday September 7, 2018
5:11pm
5 minutes
F*** Face
Amber Dawn

She died before age forty
and it’s okay don’t be sad about it
she was ready she’d lived
a full life
she’d fucked
and fled
and funned
and stayed
and stopped
and loved

She died before she turned forty
right but she lived more in those
years than most people live in
their eighty two or seventy six

She called her sister
before she died
because her sister couldn’t be there
she was the only on
she had two new babies
two new babes
and she called her sister
and her sister cried and cried
her nipples dripping milk
the twins sleeping beside her
she rocked them with her foot

“Grid of Polaroids” by Sasha at 49th Parallel on Main St.

By: Sasha 09/06/201809/10/2018

Uncategorized

Thursday September 6, 2018
6:22pm at 49th Parallel
5 minutes
Sinuous
Lydia Kwa

I see those years like
a grid of polaroid
some overexposed
the drunk the tired
the shabby the shameful
the tender the kissing
I see you now like I
did then but different
now you’re chest is wider
because you’re heart
is bolder now your
you-ness is the best
taste after being
gone too long
after being out
and away
after leaving

We sleep back to back
some nights and I
like those nights
too because my lungs
breathe the air that
your lungs made and
your lungs breathe
the air that my
lungs made and is
there anything better
than the mystery of
what we’re up against
of what we’re doing

“Grid of Polaroids” by Julia at Vancouver International Airport

Thursday September 6, 2018
6:15am
5 minutes
Sinuous
Lydia Kwa

When I first met you, you lived with two dudes who didn’t know what cleaning was. Or order. One of them waked and baked everyday. The other one had a weird thing with dogs. Your apartment was falling apart. You didn’t have proper wine glasses but you had wine. There was a wall of polaroids by the front entrance. You partying in those photos looked so cool. You had to bathe like an ape because the shower head was broken. You made that joke the first time I came over. Those thin walls. The corner store condom runs. The 28 hour day. The food poisoning.

“I love the internet” by Julia at the desk

Wednesday September 5, 2018

11:09am

5 minutes

The Experimental Boy

Mat Laporte

Did you know that ladybugs are actually beetles? Where would we be without the internet? Without online check in. Without Google Chrome crashing every time I use it because of karma, likely. You can find out all the most important information: Am I going to die if I’ve eaten the same seeds for a week and today I found a tiny worm in them? How do I remove this wart on my foot using home remedies? Can I put a wool skirt in the washing machine? How do I wash my dishes if I am out of dish soap? Cloves is the answer. Did you know that? I love the internet for watching my every move and tracking my routes traveled. I love that the internet knows where I live and who I see often and can recognize their faces in my photo apps and can suggest other e-mails when I’m writing to a certain group of people. Isn’t that what we’ve always wanted anyway? Someone to see us and know us and help us? Or some thing. Or someones. I wonder how many people know I care about what a ladybug actually is or that I’ve searched for the kind of porn with “gentle hands”.

“I love the internet” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 09/05/201809/10/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfive minutes, iceberg, internet, New Age, technology, these five minutes, unedited

Wednesday September 5, 2018
7:16am
5 minutes
The Experimental Boy
Mat Laporte

I refuse to believe that the internet is evil. Think about all of the political movements that were propelled forward through hashtags and blogs and twitter? Think about #metoo alone. Groundbreaking. Revolutionary. Literally changing the world and how we know it. If it weren’t for the internet, knowledge wouldn’t be shared with a click, opinions wouldn’t be batted back and forth across borders! You might look at me and think, “that old hippy dude probably thinks that we were better off without smartphones, Alexa, Google, whatever… In some ways, maybe. When we let the internet rule us – we’re in big trouble. When we are at the hand of capitalism, when our only identity is “consumer” – we are in big trouble. But, I do not fundamentally believe that all of us are lost at sea without a paddle, on a melting iceberg.

“I tell him how a blimp once hit my head.” By Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 09/04/201809/10/2018

Uncategorized

Tuesday September 4, 2018
6:54pm
5 minutes
DADDY
Prathna Lor

A blimp once fell down out of the sky and hit me right here, right on my head! Do you see the scar? No?! It’s there. Cross my heart and hope to die. A bird pooped on me the first time my Mom took me outdoors to bring me to the doctor so I’m good luck. It’s good luck when a bird poops on you! My Dad my Dad my Daaaad used to be a firefighter until he had to stop because he’d inhaled so much smoke that they told him if he took in any more he’d become a dragon a real dragon!

“I tell him how a blimp once hit my head.” by Julia on the 7

Tuesday September 4, 2018
7:26am
5 minutes
DADDY
Prathna Lor

I used to tell everyone that I was struck by a truck when I was little. Story goes: I was on my tricycle and the truck smashed me and I was very badly injured and everyone came running because they were so worried. Story is: I was on my tricycle and the truck backed up slightly and bumped me and I was fine.

Maybe the real story is better in the first place. The one that has me up against a monster truck and being saved in the 11th hour. The way I was saved in the 11th hour when I was 18. Swerved in the ice slush, totalled my parents’ Corolla, suffered back and wrist pain, but was still alive enough to get my charges dropped down to “Failure to Share The Road.”
Their car was a write off. they ended up getting more because of me.

“These are the demons you wanted” by Julia in her bed

Monday September 3, 2018
5 minutes
11:47pm
FtM
Kierst Wade

you called for these, right? these back spasms, hole in the heel of our feet, night light, better dreams? these are the demons you asked for. the ones who lie about comfort. the ones who throw you onto the pile, fire, fire, but won’t give out the punishment. they are just looking for abandoned hopes. they are looking for hoplessness. that is their favourite snack. amuse bouche at midnight.

“These are the demons you wanted” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 09/03/201809/10/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, poem, poetry, short poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectbirth, herbs, moon, womb

Monday September 3, 2018
5 minutes
7:41am
FtM
Kierst Wade

You asked for this when you were in your mother’s womb
You asked to be wrapped in colts foot and birch bark
You asked to be burned and wrung out and lifted high
You asked for the stars to be in Aries
the moon to full
You asked for twelve trusted women to flank you
when you emerged
naked and screaming and howling at the Gods

You asked to be tested
to be tried
to be true

You asked for all of this by choosing them
and then you asked again when you chose him
and here you are asking this newness
this dawn
and you asked again for the grace to
rise

and all the sheets drift jazz” by Julia in her bed

By: Julia 09/02/201809/05/2018

Uncategorizedcreative writing, fiction, five minutes, jazz, music, relationship, short story, short writes short reads, taste, these five minutes, unedited, Writing

Sunday September 2, 2018
10:51pm
5 minutes
Bad Boy’s Slut Song
Nick Comilla

I told him I didn’t like jazz. Said the music made
my brain feel like a loaf of bread left sitting. He wanted to convince me that there is some good jazz. He said he knows the kind I’m talking about: elevator, supermarket. I said yeah but it disrupts me on a cellular level when it’s bad. I don’t trust people who say they like jazz. Like why.
He told me he liked jazz and I would have to stop generalizing. Like do you leave someone over jazz? As in can’t support someone who loves it or can’t be with someone if they can’t get with it?

“and all the sheets drift jazz” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 09/02/2018

creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing project

Sunday September 2, 2018
8:10pm
5 minutes
Bad Boy’s Slut Song
Nick Comilla

Raymond plays jazz at the Rex on Sunday afternoons. I’m there because Nicola likes to go, not because I really care about jazz. But Raymond does something to a trumpet that I can’t quite articulate. He shows us how music can be, who we can be, what a wild heart actually looks like. The rest of us are fakers. I used to play, but I got tired of staying out late and having the schmooze and kiss ass and all the rest of it. Raymond doesn’t play those games. He plays his set, drinks a cranberry soda at the bar, chats a bit with the regulars, and then walks home. He doesn’t make a big deal about it. He’s just living his life.

“she would rub her clit to her bed post,” by Julia on her couch

By: Julia 09/01/2018

Uncategorizedcreative writing, daily, dip, fantasy, five minutes, forbidden, hospital, pleasure, self-love, sex, short story, short writes short reads, these five minutes, women

Saturday September 1, 2018
11:14pm
5 minutes
Nocturne v: c
Marie Segolène

Kinny would think of being pushed up against the wall in the basement of the hospital. She pictured finally having that blonde woman all to herself. People would be around, but they’d both be turned on by that. She thought about her until her clit begged. That blonde hair made her want to tug. And that sexy fitted button down. With her eyes closed she saw herself undoing each one until her black bra pulsed. A little lace. A little bow. She wondered if the blonde woman ever knew she was into her.

“she would rub her clit to her bed post,” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 09/01/201809/02/2018

Uncategorized

Saturday September 1, 2018
10:01pm
5 minutes
Nocturne v: c
Marie Segolène

What time is it where you are? I’m not good at calculating that kind of thing. Vancouver to Tokyo? I don’t know… It doesn’t matter. Shit, I really miss you. Finding time to talk is hard, I mean “we’re all so busy” right? That’s what everyone says. “We’re all so busy”… I’m not that busy, but I pretend I am because I feel like it’s wrong to say that I’m actually bored about twenty percent of the time. Is that a good average or a bad one? I’ll never know because we never talk about that kind of thing. Sometimes when I’m bored I do weird stuff. I’m not going to get into it with you, because you wouldn’t get it, but let’s just say that vibrator that I got at that sex shop on Granville like ten years ago? It’s still going…

“And we never talked about that.” by Julia on her couch

Friday August 31, 2018
11:38pm
5 minutes
A Love Letter To Lost Sisters
Hywel Tuscano

we never talked about the way he mishandled me and the way I let him. we never talked about how it was weird he didn’t mention that we’d be sharing his bed. we never talked about how early he wakes up and how late he’s banging around for. not about how I was feeling about my stuff. not about how I was feeling about him. we never talked about how he kept using my towel and saying he wasn’t. we never talked about the fruit rotting in the car. we never talked about the lines he crossed or tried to. the ones we both said we’d be mindful of. we never talked about how many times he told me the same story. how many times he’d break the pattern of the room by injecting a silly pun.

“And we never talked about that.” By Sasha on her couch

By: these five minutes 08/31/201809/02/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfive minutes, short writes short reads, talking, these five minutes, unedited

Friday August 31, 2018
12:02pm
5 minutes
A Love Letter To Lost Sisters
Hywel Tuscano

We never talked about how it was that you came to be so full of crimson temptation and peaked righteousness. It just appeared, somewhat like you did, sat across from me on the train. We never talked about it because I thought that to love you I had to endure (that’s another story) and that unconditional means forgive forgive forgive.

We started speaking less altogether, just a grunt or a thank you or a goodnight. It happened slowly, as many things do – corrosion, erosion, rustt, growth.

“I’ll quit smoking when God admits he fucked up.” by Julia at King Street Station

By: Julia 08/30/201808/31/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, ask for help, autonomy, behaviour, belief, daily, dip, god, gratitude, learn, short story, short writes, unedited

Thursday August 30, 2018

9:57am

5 minutes

Nigh

Chris Emslie

I could ask God for some help here but God has been fucking up a lot lately. You know the God in the sky, the God in my chest. I can’t ask that God for help cause that’s the God that has been making things hard for me. What am I supposed to say? Thank you? To myself? Oh. Maybe I am. So I could say thank you to myself for fucking up? I see what you’re doing. Use my own mistakes as information. Gratitude for the fuck ups because they’re the real teachers, the mentors, the believers and the seers. They’re the ones who think I’m capable enough to handle the mistake and learn something. Thank you fuck ups. Thank you God in me for fucking up and showing me what I need to adjust. I am grateful. I am responsible. I am the one in charge of leading this whole damn thing. So you’re saying if God is in me then I can ask myself for help? Believe that I already have what I need, and if I can ask the question I can certainly answer the question?

“I’ll quit smoking when God admits he fucked up.” By Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 08/30/201809/02/2018

creative writing, five, five minute story, five minutes, ongoing writing practice, these five minutes, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing project

Thursday August 30, 2018

7:21am

5 minutes

Nigh

Chris Emslie

Fewer gifts and more

honest conversation

okayyyyy the sound

of your voice is a

lullaby a butterfly

kiss a warm wish

Less comparing

because that’s

capitalism talking

that’s the fear that

stuff makes us

enough but really

what makes us

enough

the laughlines

and the pit in

your chest that’s

filled slowly

through music

and a conversation

with an old friend

Who cares about

where we’re going

if the present is

full my heart is

bursting wide

begging the season

to change to mark

this bigness inside

“the truth is” by Julia on B’s couch

By: Julia 08/30/201808/31/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, creative writing, daily, dip, forgotten, friends, hurt, ignored, left out, party, short story, undervalued, unedited

Wednesday August 29, 2018

1:03am

5 minutes

Close Encounters

Meg Torwl

I wish the inner me wasn’t so hurt. So confused. So left alone that I wasn’t able to summon some strength to say how I really felt about the whole thing. But behind the veil of this screen, the protection of “fiction” I can find some semblance of vindication. Thanks I’ll say. For inviting me to the party. Then for forgetting to tell me where the party is. Then for forgetting to welcome me. For forgetting to introduce yourself to me. Thanks for having me and not telling me I could eat. Thanks for having me and then leaving the room when I began to speak. Thanks for talking to your friends during the hard parts. Thanks for being more concerned with your phone. Thanks for blaming me for the guests staying too long. Thanks for forgetting to remind anyone I was there in the first place. Thanks for leaving me when I didn’t know how to find my way home.

And still none of this is the real truth.

“the truth is” by Sasha on her bed

By: Sasha 08/29/201809/02/2018

Uncategorized

Wednesday August 29, 2018

10:13pm

5 minutes

Close Encounters

Meg Torwl

The truth is, I never trusted you. Mercurial creature, shape-shifter, appeaser, provocateur (just for the sake of it), for your sake, not for the sake of the receiver. Most adept at playing “truth”, the only truth is that I never trusted you. The gut doesn’t lie. I know it now like I never have before. The gut knows. The brain in my gut is the smartest one I have. I will not apologize for my softness, for the times I kept quiet. I was guarding my gut, my guts, my heart, my everything. I am done with this “you are broken”. I am done with your self-absorbed, self-hatred, afraid to actually be free, preaching and lying and cheating and drugging and you are a sham. You are a fake.

“a constant nagging of hopelessness.” By Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 08/28/2018

Uncategorized

Tuesday August 28, 2018
8:44pm
5 minutes
My Tongue’s Memory
Antonette Rea

You only feel hopeless in small doses, when you’re fighting with your girlfriend, or when you can’t seem to get on top of laundry. You’ve never felt it for a prolonged period of time. Your therapist says you’re lucky. You’ll take it. Sleep’s been illusive these past few weeks and you wonder if it has something to do with the forest fires. You had asthma as a kid. You thought you grew out of it, but you feel like you can’t get a deep breath, like you can’t get enough air.

“a constant nagging of hopelessness.” by Julia at Rebar, Seattle

Tuesday August 28, 2018
7:41pm
5 minutes
My Tongue’s Memory
Antonette Rea

she drags her feet around the house. downstairs neighbours call her elephant snail. add them to the list. sister used the term “horse failure”. She’s a bit low to the ground these days. easy to trip over. easy to pretend you didn’t see. she’s been here since last October when the last blue sky made an appearance. been bumming ciggarettes from all the corner people. spiders too, lending something for her to get caught up in. But even they won’t touch her. They string her up with her own sadness. use her as bait for the silver fish to lick her to death. sometimes she lives at the back of the throat. steallig all the good swallows.

“And we created a hybrid,” by Julia on D’s chair

Monday August 27, 2018
1:38am
5 minutes
Poetry Is The Song Of The People
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

Altogether in the forest
I remember us walking in a line linked like breakfast sausages
It wasn’t cold or I had on a good coat, I can’t exactly recall. But Illiah was wearing a red rope around his neck with a hangy medalian. a piece of wood with a stamp on it maybe.
and as we gathered around the mother tree, Jara started to sing and we all started to sing too. as if we knew the song. as if our bones were already in tune.I remember feeling like warm water was being poured over my head, cascading down and blanketing my spirit. I never wanted to leave. I never wanted to wake up.

“And we created a hybrid,” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 08/27/201808/28/2018

creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectdeath, five minutes, grief, laughing, loss, unedited

Monday August 27, 2018
7:15am
5 minutes
Poetry Is The Song Of The People
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

Finally they are laughing again. It happens without them knowing. Sat around the table, eating homemade caesar salad and garlic bread and baked zucchini. Who knows what was even said, or what was even funny, but they are laughing and they haven’t in a long time, not all of them. When you lose a child, or a sibling, when you lose someone young, you forget how to laugh, or they did. We can’t speak in generalizations, but it’s easy to imagine that this is what happens, that this is what the grip of grief does, that this is what it’s like now. Finally they are laughing again, on this Monday at the end of August, as summer wanes and traffic buzzes and a fruit fly lands on the pineapple on the counter.

“Light becomes me.” by Julia at the desk

By: Julia 08/26/201808/26/2018

Uncategorizedbeauty, belief, blessed, daily, dip, energy, express, eyes, five minutes, gift, glow, healing, honesty, light, love, makeup, naked, natural, paint, radical, seeing, self-doubt, short stories, standards, unedited, unlearning, worth

Sunday August 26, 2018

9:46pm

5 minutes

Here Be Monsters

Lisa Foad

I have friends sending me long distance healing. I am blessed beyond reason.

When I remember this love I am lift. I become light.

Earlier my lover told me he loves looking at my eyes naked. As if he could see me better without mascara. I used to look at other women who didn’t need makeup with reverence. How much love they had for themselves, how nice their eyes were naturally.

I wanted to believe him better. Let him love me the way he loves me.

I am sad at how radical leaving the house without filling in my eyebrows has become for me.

Why when I am this loved from across the world. Why when I am this bright and grateful and open? Why do I question the quality of my light? Why do I sit and wait for someone else to tell me that they see it. Feel it. Notice it.

If I believe I am light then light will become me. It will be the best accessory. The sweetest outfit. It will bathe me in its glow. And I won’t need to line my eyes in purple paint to draw attention.

“Light becomes me.” By Sasha on her couch

Sunday August 26, 2018
8:22pm
5 minutes
Here Be Monsters
Lisa Foad

Light becomes me
like blue does
and rest does
even now when
everything is
upside down
and changing

Light becomes you
like a white shirt does
and rest does
even now when
you aren’t getting
very much
and you feel
like you’re failing

I’ve never loved
you more than the
moment I fell into
your arms near the
bookshelf that saturday
that morning I’ll
always remember

I’ve never loved
you more than now
watching you sleeping
watching your face
change with the dreaming

Here we are
on the edge
this new jump
it’s higher than
we’ve ever gone
and I know there’s
a peak of doubt
and a plunge of faith
but all I can

hear is all the
ones who have come
before saying

You’re ready
You’re ready
You’re ready

“But fuck that kid. He was a shitty poet.” by Julia on D and M’s couch

Saturday August 25, 2018
9:53pm
5 minutes
A quote from Alex Leslie

I want
to tell
you that
you are
so damn
good
but I
can’t cause
I don’t
like to
lie if
the truth
saves
don’t get
me wrong
I still
think you
deserve love
and all
the nice
things in
life
but you
can’t write
cause you
refuse to
see your
own heart
even when
it begs
you to
bleed
look you
are so
damn good
at so
many things
and one
day you’ll
find your
peace
paper and
pen and
pencil and
ink and
blank page
will love
you better
if you
know it’s
how you
see the
world

“But fuck that kid. He was a shitty poet.” By Sasha on her bed

By: Sasha 08/25/201808/28/2018

Uncategorized

Saturday August 25, 2018
9:32am
5 minutes
A quote from Alex Leslie

It’s true that everyone has a story to tell, and I don’t want to sound snobby, but not everyone can write. It’s a craft, like woodworking or pastry. I’m sorry but it’s true. I’m not saying I’m the best or anything, but when I was in seventh grade I did have a teacher tell me that I could become a novelist. I’m not a novelist, but I am a journalist and journalism is the hardest written form if you ask me, because you’re turning facts into something someone actually wants to spend their time on. Did you know that human beings have shorter attention spans than goldfish? Studies actually show that! We are fucked, but that’s not the point, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to say, that if you want to learn about writing, you’re learning about reading, about patience, about re-writing, about sitting with your ass glued to your desk chair when everyone else is having fun and getting married and going swimming.

“I’m old enough to be that girl’s mother,” by Sasha in her bed

By: Sasha 08/24/201808/28/2018

creative writing, five, five minute story, five minutes, ongoing writing practice, these five minutes, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfive minutes, girls, mother, poem, poetry, truth, unedited

Friday August 24, 2018
10:14pm
5 minutes
My Mother’s Body
Marie Howe

When I’m on the bus
or downtown
I see these packs
of wolf-girls
and I think

“I could be your mother, howler”

There’s a power
in that I didn’t
know to be true
until I got a disdainful
look until I was
standing in front
of the classroom
asking them to write
poems and a few of
these wolf-girls
look at me like
I’m old
I’m gross
I’m uncool
HA!

Jokes on them
but it does feel strange
because I used to be
one of them
judging less overtly
though

I used to be one of them
and now I’m old enough
to be that girl’s mother

“I’m old enough to be that girl’s mother,” by Julia in T’s kitchen

Friday August 24, 2018
7:11pm
5 minutes
My Mother’s Body
Marie Howe

we sit at the diner without speaking. Lulu is mad at me and I am mad at her. the drive was long, quiet, peanut butter stuck in the back of the throat. when I pointed out the horses grazing in the field she gave me the finger. Lu knows i loves horses. she even loves them more than me. I don’t know where I went wrong. i’m old enough to be that girl’s mother but I am not her mother. they don’t tell you that trying to parent another person’s kid will pulverize your heart into something you wish you could snort. Madelyne isn’t sending any instructions from where she is. how to handle a kid who hates me for not being more. when she was just my niece she used to beg Mad to sleep over in my truck. I guess that’s a hope worth tucking beneath the hip.

“‘You talking to me like that in my home?'” by Julia in her bed

By: Julia 08/23/201808/24/2018

Uncategorizeddip. daily, five minutes, privacy, rules, short writes short reads, unedited

Thursday August 23, 2018
11:01pm
5 minutes
Rum Punch
Elmore Leonard

there was a time when dad needed to have the bedroom doors open so he could keep tabs on us
never mind that we were teenagers going through it
never mind our rights
he must have had one bad thing happen to him about privacy about the door being closed
I don’t even think he had a particular reason but it was something to cling to. And lord knows how important it is to cling to something.

“‘You talking to me like that in my home?'” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 08/23/201808/28/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfiction, five minutes, Oreo, short fiction, these five minutes, unedited

Thursday August 23, 2018
8:02am
5 minutes
Rum Punch
Elmore Leonard

Mica uses her tongue to lick the centre out of the Oreo cookie. It’s not a real Oreo, it’s a gluten free knock off that her sister bought at the health food store on Princess Street. She’s on her fourth and she’s in a trance, she’s in another dimension. She’s sat on her sister’s floor and suddenly she is love, she is presence, she is God. Her sister won’t be home for three more hours, and her mother is at her Women’s Group and her father is in the basement painting war figurines.

“if you fed your neighbours” by Julia on her couch

Wednesday August 22, 2018
8:39pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Rebecca Solnit

you should feed them the bullshit
hi how are you good I’m good we’re good she’s good
no we can’t hear you coughing no we didn’t realize we were so loud
no we don’t have any sugar for you to borrow
you should tell them you are practicing a scene for acting class when they catch you screaming your lungs off
spilling your own secrets
about who you really are
you should tell them the thing they want to hear
i’m happy we’re happy he’s happy we’re good we’re staying together we’re really good actors we’re really passionate people

“if you fed your neighbours” by Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 08/22/201808/28/2018

stream of consciousness, Uncategorizedit's hard to write today

Wednesday August 22, 2018
8:03pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Rebecca Solnit

It’s hard to write today because he’s sick and she’s bursting and sometimes the dichotomy of so much joy and so much sorrow is just too heavy to hold
It’s hard to write today because I feel like shit and the room is spinning and I never thought it would be quite like this I never did
It’s hard to write today because I’m more tired than I’ve ever been and the city is burning and the smoke is strangling us and I’m scared to my bones
It’s hard to write today because I’ve got so much to say but it’s all secrets and when I have to hold back my writing suffers my writing sucks

“the freedom to do as we please” by Julia on the plane

Tuesday August 21, 2018
10:51pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Wendell Berry

The place of more freedom is waiting for you.
And me.
Together we will see.
Hand over heart swear to the sun and the moon.
You say me and I say you
and you say you
You say this and I say true.
You choose me and I
choose me and I choose
you and you
choose you.
You keep leaving me babe.
And I keep coming home to you.
The heart knows how to
grow: slowly slowly.
It pumps what I use.
It gives it back to you.
I don’t want them anymore.
I don’t need them either.
You’re the only thing I’m after.
In your arms I find my freedom.
Come take this piece,
this experimental page.
Walk beside me walk me up to your lips and wait.
You will always see me, babe,
so you say, so I believe.
And I will always see you, babe.
Underneath.
Underneath.

“the freedom to do as we please” by Sasha in her bed

By: Sasha 08/21/201808/28/2018

Uncategorized

Tuesday August 21, 2018
5:19pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Wendell Berry

it’s the burnt toast on the floor and the crackers in the cupboard and the possibility however slim of mice it’s the freedom to do as we please eat chocolate pie for breakfast drink whiskey and rum til we’re crosseyed and giddy it’s the smell of fall knocking on the door and then running away and then coming back and hoping for a laugh it’s the tickle of a memory you thought you forgot it’s the toes touching when it’s too hot for more it’s the almost finished bottle of ketchup in the fridge that no one dares finish because what if there’s a spontaneous barbecue

“Be a lamp,” by Sasha in her bed

By: Sasha 08/20/201808/28/2018

creative writing, love poem, ongoing writing practice, poem, tiny poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing project

Monday August 20, 2018
11:11pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Rumi

“I don’t want to be a lamp”
young Billy did say
Sitting a top
a big bale of hay

“Of course you don’t”
His mama replied
picking him up
as she softly sighed

“I want to be a table
or a whale or a star”
Billy wiggled about
and they didn’t get far

The cows were grazing
and the pigs were in mud
Billy liked to watch the kittens
jump with a thud

“Come on now honey
It’s almost time for bed”
“But I’m not tired”
Is what Billy always said

They got to the house
and said goodnight to the barn
and while Billy brushed teeth
his mama spun yarn

“Be a lamp,” by Julia at Paul’s place

By: Julia 08/20/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, creative writing, daily, dip, five minutes, light, poem, poetry, short story, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited, write, Writing

Monday August 20, 2018
11:13pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Rumi

Be the light in the room

Set yourself to bright and go

I know about the seeing

About the illuminating

Walk into a dark place and

Turn the switch

Then how bright the room will be

The glow will be from you being the light in the room

The whole house will be a beacon

For airplanes passing over head

Or be the fuzz in the room instead

The complicated thought

The blur that keeps lines unapproachable

If it is easy then be the fuzz

But if it is good

Then be the light

“the thin woods and across the highway” by Julia on Amanda’s couch

By: Julia 08/19/201808/28/2018

Uncategorizedbreathe, communication, connected, daily, deer, dip, forest, nature, talk, unedited, whisperer, woods

Sunday August 19, 2018
10:00pm
5 minutes
November 1968
Brian Doyle

My best friend is a deer whisperer. She is pen pals with at least three of them and one doe with her faun. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a deer in a past life. She knows exactly how to breathe around them. She knows exactly what to hum. This month she asked one of them for protection and she granted it. She said her grace when she realized how steadfast it all was. Nothing else in life is this sure. I hope when she writes them she tells them about me. Maybe they will love me by proxy. Maybe they will send their Forest Friends to keep me safe too.

“the thin woods and across the highway” by Sasha at the Airbnb in Mount Pleasant

Sunday August 19, 2018
10:56am
5 minutes
November 1968
Brian Doyle

She climbs and climbs
like she never knew she could
the thin woods reaching
towards sun
towards starlight
towards eagle feather

She reaches a highway
and wishes it was a
river she was crossing

Eagle swoops down
lifts her up
carries her across

She shares water and
bread as a thank you
and the bird leaves
a feather in exchange
for her smile
for her goodness
for her trust that
inter-species friendships
are not reserved for the
domesticated
it’s only that too often
human beings
are afraid

“Bible under his arm,” by Julia at the Chelsea Hotel

By: Julia 08/19/201808/28/2018

Uncategorizedbelonging, bible, christianity, daily, fiction, five minutes, memories, non fiction, teacher, unedited, Writing

Saturday August 18, 2018

2:06am

5 minutes

The Unbreakable Thread

David James Duncan

She tore the stickers from my sister’s bible. Said the devil would get in easier that way. We tried to stop her but she wouldn’t listen. That’s what happens when teachers take students to Christian conferences outside of school hours. The guy who was praying over us said one of us should tell our testimonial to the guy with the headset and maybe we’d get to go on stage. I didn’t have a good story. No decayed turned golden tooth or a broken turned perfect leg so I didn’t go up. My sister was still sad about her troll stickers being destroyed by a tiny troll woman in track pants wearing a giant cross around her neck. I think I wanted to believe it so I did. The place was buzzing with people speaking in tongues and swaying with their eyes closed. I swayed with my eyes closed too. It was the only thing that came natural to me.

“Bible under his arm,” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 08/18/201808/28/2018

creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectbible, fiction, five minutes, god, jesus, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited

Saturday August 18, 2018
7:40am
5 minutes
The Unbreakable Thread
David James Duncan

Things got weird when Malcolm started carrying his Bible under his arm. People didn’t take a lot of notice in the first week, thinking it was just some new strange thing he was up to. But a month in, Betty sat her son down.

“Malcolm, why are you carrying around that Lord book all the dang time?!”

Malcolm thought for a moment before answering. Not his usual.

“I’m a Christian now, Mom,” he took the Bible out from under his arm and put it on the kitchen table. “And I suggest that you start reading the Holy Book before your soul is too tarnished to save.”

“What the he – heck, Malcolm! When did this – …?”

Just at that moment Tammy came in the door hollering about lasagna. She was still in her volleyball uniform.

“What’s the matter with you two?” Tammy opened the fridge and drank milk from the carton.

“trying to pry one of them” by Sasha in her bed

By: Sasha 08/17/201808/27/2018

Uncategorized

Friday August 17, 2018
11:07pm
5 minutes
Ship
Tony Hoagland

My father makes the sign of the cross and asks me what he can do to help. I tell him nothing, what’s done is done. He says that there’s always something to be done, and I say, “Not this time there isn’t.”

At confession I tell Father Mendes that I had to have an abortion and he gasps.

At school Maria holds my hand walking down the hall and I feel all eyes on me. I used to be invisible.

My mother won’t look me in the eye, and mutters prayers under her breath when we’re in the same room.

“trying to pry one of them” by Julia on the 505

Friday August 17, 2018
2:37pm
5 minutes
Ship
Tony Hoagland

The smallest one didn’t speak very loudly. Brandan started calling her “Small One” and she liked it so much that she stayed small. Even after a game where she spent most of her time smiling at dandelions, you had to pry Small One off the field. She didn’t want to go home to Bad Dale or Claudia, Bad Dale’s chihuahaha. Small One tried to sing to Claudia once and she bit her square in the cheek. The next time Brandan saw Small One at practice with a band-aid on her face she whispered to her, “I bet you’re not so small afterall.”

“slow puffs of steam” by Julia on b’s bed

By: Julia 08/17/201808/17/2018

Uncategorized

Thursday August 16, 2018
5:18am
5 minutes
What Happened During The Ice Storm
Jim Heynen

It was bad. The night was over. The buns were on the table. He thought they had cooled off by now but alas. They had not. The puffs of steam shot out and punctured his eyes. It was bad. It was really bad. He wanted a pork bun. He wanted to enjoy it. He was not patient. He laughed too loud. He didn’t know who he was yet. His eyes were on fire. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t really see. He couldn’t listen to his own laugh too loud at 5am. The puffs of steam shot out of the bun and into his eyes because he was hungry. He was greedy. He was obsessed with his own hands. He never said thank you to his mother. He never once held the door for somebody just passing through.

“slow puffs of steam” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Thursday August 16, 2018
6:02pm
5 minutes
What Happened During The Ice Storm
Jim Heynen

She bakes because her favourite thing is the smell of bread rising, butter browning, cookies crisping. She bakes because her mother bakes, and her grandmother baked, and so on and so forth.

She limits her baking to Saturday, and brings the treats to her meditation group on Sunday afternoon.

“These are the best lemon squares I have ever had, Rachel,” says Glenn, who lead today and accidentally hit the gong with his foot when he was readjusting his seated position.

“Aw, thanks,” she says, and she knows he’s telling the truth. Her lemon squares are the best.

“You should open a bakery,” says Carol.

“I’ve thought of it, but I worry that if it’s my job I won’t love it as much anymore.”

“Maybe you’ll come to love it even more,” Glenn smiles. “That’s just as much of an option…”

“My miracle is not that you can’t knock me down” by Sasha on her balcony

Wednesday August 15, 2018
7:10am
5 minutes
Monday Night Class
Stephen Gaskin

you know that you’ll find yourself
finally
in your forties
you’ve heard that it can happen
for some people
in their thirties
but that’s just not you
you can’t even remember to
take the recycling out on the
proper day
or survive a month on
plenty of fish
you know you’ll find yourself
eventually
before death
you imagine that that’s what
that means
eventually
it’s a miracle that you often say
“I’m fine,”
when asked
“How are you, Melanie?”
you know that you are fine
most of the time
occasionally you drink too much
and on those nights
you wonder if anyone
is fine at all
if anyone has found themself

“My miracle is not that you can’t knock me down” by Julia at G and C’s house

Wednesday August 15, 2018
9:01am
5 minutes
Monday Night Class
Stephen Gaskin

weak knees she said
she didn’t want to marry someone who had weak knees
what about running?
does that just go out the window? I know how she feels. when indigo’s shoulder slipped out for the eleventh time in three days, I got worried too. how will we play catch for the rest of our lives? timidly? it’s worrisome. And it’s so very mortal. I suppose nothing lasts forever. we are, at best, temporary. I guess I’d choose an unexpected shoulder pain over a partner who can’t even take a night walk. I’d rather good shoulders though too.

“Hey, man, fuck that.” By Julia at The Common on Bloor

Tuesday August 14, 2018
11:44am
5 minutes
A quote by Elvis Presley

I have never been to florida and now addie is planning to have her wedding there. she says it’s so dean’s family can drive there and some of them don’t handle flying very well. when we were young she used to invite me but I was never allowed to go. my mom said there was something she didn’t trust about florida but she had never been there either. addie wants the resort to plan the wedding because she plans events for a living and wants a day off where friends and family can drink and eat and tell her how awesome she is. if people give her a hard time about not doing a tradional (stupidly expensive) wedding at a hall she usually flips them the bird and tells them to fuck off.

“Hey, man, fuck that.” By Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 08/14/201808/17/2018

Uncategorized

Tuesday August 14, 2018
8:13pm
5 minutes
A quote by Elvis Presley

I’m not sure what you’re hoping for here, is it retribution? A break? A line in the sand? A banana split? You know what? Fuck you, man. Fuck your entitled face, and your big voice, and your rude disposition. I’m tired of your shit. I told you to have your stuff packed up, and to be out of here on the first of the month and now it’s the fucking fourteenth and that’s just insane. What makes you think it’s okay to act like this? Did someone teach you it was totally fine to take advantage of people? Mila was supposed to move in two weeks ago, man! She’s staying at her parents place because she refuses to move in when you’re still here! You’re ruining my relationship!

“have another cup of coffee” by Julia on the 511 going north

By: Julia 08/13/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, coffee, creative writing, daily, dip, five minutes, morning, poem, poetry, routine, short story, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited, wake, Writing

Monday August 13, 2018
10:34pm
5 minutes
A quote by Joan Didion

in the days before these ones I was waking without assistance
the sun bright enough to light the room
the birds bright enough to sound the alarm
he wished I drank coffee
he begged
his headaches kept him from peace
his breakfasts too small to count
I would shake my head fuzz slowly
I would sometimes wonder at the fridge
but I did not drink my alertness
I did not know how to work the machine
which buttons to press
how long to wait at the foot
of an appliance

“have another cup of coffee” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 08/13/201808/15/2018

Uncategorized

Monday August 13, 2018
7:08am
5 minutes
A quote by Joan Didion

How many points?
How many calories?
How much fat is in half an avocado?
Is this nourishment?
Have I had enough broccoli?
Weight Watchers?
Have you lost?
Have you gained?
Am I succeeding?
You do not know
how full of health
she is
I am
we are
BMI is a lie
Did you know that
What about
What about
What about
“She’s looking so beautiful! She lost a bunch of weight, and not like she had much to lose, but… She just looks so healthy!”
BARF.
Actually, though.
All these gorgeous chickens vomiting in the bathroom.
“Could you please pass me some toilet paper?”
Everything is points.
Here are your points.
If you don’t reach your limit, you’ve succeeded!
If you aren’t listening, then you aren’t losing.
But here’s the thing –
when you’re losing, you’re
actually winning!
And who gives a flying fuck
what you feel like and if you like your life!
Thinness is the prize and GOD I am displaying
it on the mantle.
Who has a mantle anyway?
How many points, though?
How many calories?
Is this an indulgence?
“I know I shouldn’t
but I think I’d like the
brownie
sundae
cookie ice cream sandwich”
DON’T FEEL BAD PLEASE
DEAR GOD FEED YOURSELF
FEED YOUR GOODNESS
FEED YOUR HEART
YOUR DAUGHTER DOES NOT
GIVE A FLYING FUCK
ABOUT WHAT YOU’RE
PUTTING IN YOUR MOUTH
AS LONG AS YOU ARE
FULL FED LOVING
TURNED ON

“the splendid ugliness of this disguise.” By Julia in Jess and Rick’s nook

By: Julia 08/12/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, daily, dip, lies, mask, poem, poet, poetry, short poem, short story, truth, unedited, write

Sunday August 12, 2018
11:10pm
5 minutes
Ode to Invisibility
Ellen Bass

behind this mask is a person afraid
of not living up to the hype she bestows upon herself
to the hype she gets from others
it is ugliest when she lies to herself
big dreams and cotton candy promises
do this then you’ll…
be this then you’ll feel…
one day you’ll wish upon a star and
find yourself among the wreckage
little lives left losing
little hopes laid to rest in the fields
filled with shoulds but didn’ts
knows but won’ts
the mask looks confident
the mask looks like a lot of things

“the splendid ugliness of this disguise.” By Sasha at her kitchen table

Sunday August 12, 2018
7:36pm
5 minutes
Ode to Invisibility
Ellen Bass

I buy another black pair of jeans, another white T-shirt, a blue blazer, a grey pair of leggings. $364.99. I buy a coffee at Starbucks. $6.21. I buy food from the hot bar at Whole Foods. $14.10. I Car2Go home. $6.45. I sit on my $2,475 couch and I go on Facebook and I see that fucking Cathy is in the Dominican Republic again. Who is that disgusting hottie she’s holding onto is that her new boyfriend SHOOT ME?! HOW DOES SHE DO IT. Onto Expedia. I text Jacquie, “What are you doing next week?” I see that she’s typing back, and then she stops, and then she types, and then she stops. “What the fuck?!” I throw my phone across the room and luckily it lands on the footstool. $220.

September 2018
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