By: Julia 10/11/2018 Uncategorizedauthenticity, choice, Christmas, creative, daily, dip, every day, love, power, release, Writing

“we have enormous power” by Julia at her desk

Wednesday October 10, 2018
8:48pm
5 minutes
Louder than Words
Starhawk

We have an enormous power. I think we’re supposed to use it to give love. Something about stopping the struggle today and giving love? I did that. I tried that. It worked. I played. I liked it. It worked. Dinner was joyful. Authenticity wasn’t strained for. I believe now in the power of giving love. Like for Christmas: you get things you wouldn’t buy on your own. Could buy. But don’t buy on your own and someone in your close circle of love gifts you the thing out of the joy of giving because if you really needed it you would have bought the thing yourself before Christmas anyway. If you needed it you wouldn’t have been able to wait for someone else to provide that. Negating the need for the gesture. So what we do is give love as gift without expectations or because it’s a requirement. And giving love is always needed. Everybody needs love. But giving love because you want to…now that’s the gift.

By: Julia 10/11/2018 Uncategorizedauthenticity, choice, Christmas, creative, daily, dip, every day, love, power, release, Writing

“we have enormous power” by Julia at her desk

Wednesday October 10, 2018
8:48pm
5 minutes
Louder than Words
Starhawk

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.

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.

“I thought that I could take it from here” by Julia on her couch

Tuesday October 16, 2018
8:41pm
5 minutes
Falling Water
Maggie Rogers

It fell firmly from
the ceiling as if
it were made
of maple.
This idea of you:
I caught it in
my arms and held
you there so no one
could touch you but
me. I know about
secrets. I know when
to hide the chocolate
and where. I considered
you then, this detail
of you I mulled over
like a promise.
I decided with the
smell of your shirt
painting pastels
of your arms across
the room that you
were the right one.
This idea.
This weight.

“Worries are the most stubborn habits” by Julia on her couch

By: Julia 10/15/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, creative writing, daily, decision, dip, epiphany, five minutes, poem, poetry, short story, short writes short reads, trust, unedited, yesterday

Monday October 15, 2018
10:31pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Vicki Baum

isn’t it funny how heavy worry is when we haven’t put the work in and believe popping sentences.
two different things but you know what I mean.
I could fall asleep while blow drying my hair and here and during an epiphany storm and yesterday. all this to avoid myself. all this to find some control that doesn’t come with the reaponsability of making a decision. but brains sometimes over-spin. and here while I sleep. and yesterday.

“Worries are the most stubborn habits” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 10/15/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, short writes short reads, Uncategorized, writers, writing, writing practise, writing projectfear, five minutes, habit, non fiction, these five minutes, truth, unedited, worry

Monday October 15, 2018
4:09pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Vicki Baum

Worries are the most stubborn habits. I know this by heart, like the songs we sing in the morning when we’re drunk with dreams. I have a bad habit named Worry. I count on her to visit when I’m least expecting, when I think I have a handle, when I’m still, when I’m flying. Worry is a loyal companion, especially when things are fucked up and fraying, delicious and beautiful. A habit is a thing that can be broken in thirty days. No. A habit is a thing that can be started in thirty days. Does it go both ways?

“Thinking of you.” By Julia in her bed

By: Julia 10/14/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, anthem, bars, creative writing, daily, fiction, five minutes, poem, poetry, rhythm, short story, short writes short reads, these five minutes, thinking, unedited

Sunday October 14, 2018
10:21pm
5 minutes
From a text

I’m not thinking of you.
I’m not laying in bed eyes closed picturing you.
I am swallowing all my body’s enemies
and all it wants is to release them
I’m not thinking of you.
I’m not scrolling eye rolling not considering you.
I am up to my eyeballs in decisions about me and my own eyeballs.
there is a lot left to know
about everything
about nothing
about silence
but I do not need to know about you.
not checking your latest falling for your taste tests
I’m not tonguing about you.

“Thinking of you.” By Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 10/14/201810/15/2018

Uncategorized

Sunday October 14, 2018
5:02pm
5 minutes
From a text

Thinking of you and all that you’re losing.
Thinking of you and all that you might be feeling but haven’t shared and so I have no idea really.
Thinking of you with your quiet joy secret.
Thinking of you and your death.
Thinking of you and the frailty.
Thinking of you who will be born this spring, this spring, this spring.
Thinking of you who knows betrayal like she’s your daughter.
Thinking of all we forget.
Thinking of all we remember.
Thinking of you and how I wish I could call you.
Thinking of you and hoping you’re okay.

“This report contains confidential information” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 10/13/201810/15/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, short writes short reads, Uncategorized, writer's block, writers, writing, writing practise, writing projectconfidential, five minutes, report, short writes, these five minutes, unedited

Saturday October 13, 2018
11:39pm
5 minutes
From the lab report

This report contains confidential information. Please do not show this report to anyone, share it via the internet, or forward it in an email. This report is for your eyes only. There’s no reason for the confidentiality really, besides that this report wants to be taken very very seriously, and confidentiality means seriousness. Everyone knows that. This report is really only pertinent to you and no one else would care about it if they did happen to see it. This report is snickering about how earnest the expression is on your face.

“This report contains confidential information” by Julia on her couch

Saturday October 13, 2018
10:48pm
5 minutes
From the lab report

burn after reading
or it’s the kind of thing that will burn you
every top secret insight
every thought secret kept tight behind lined pages
the letters adressed to eyes that were never meant to read them
this is the kind of private you’ll wish you never craved quiet turned public rage
inside voice blasted on the hallway speakers arent’t you glad you came
but if anyone should see it it’s you
if anyone should know me

“not even debate” by Julia in her bed

By: Julia 10/12/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, creative writing, debate, five minutes, jury, karma, midnight, poem, poetry, short story, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited, Writing

Friday October 12, 2018
11:06pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Richard Wolff

why are all the midnights mad at me? no fight, no debate, jury’s never left. what did I do? to a family of twinkling possibility. what twisted corner did I take? today they gave me discernment. never a straight answer out of anybody. I don’t want to let them think I’m too afraid to notice what’s going on here. I don’t want
them to know how much I need them to change their minds.

“not even debate” by Sasha at Terrace Beach

By: Sasha 10/12/201810/15/2018

5 minutes, creative writing, ongoing writing practice, short writes short reads, Uncategorized, writers, writing, writing practise, writing projectdebate, love, relationship, sleeping, want

Friday October 12, 2018
9:38am
5 minutes
From a quote by Richard Wolff

Jennifer doesn’t enjoy debate, but Paul does, and so they do, because that’s how things go. Jennifer enjoys conversation, and avocado and cucumber sushi, and sleeping in socks. Paul enjoys debate, reading the New Yorker with a cup of lukewarm black coffee, and running uphill. Jennifer thinks that Paul is bizarre, and that’s one of the things she loves about him. Paul thinks Jennifer is simple, and that’s one of the things he loves about her. Paul instigates debates and Jennifer resists and refutes and then engages, because that’s what he wants, and she wants to give him what he wants.

“Most families” by Julia at her desk

By: Julia 10/11/201810/15/2018

Uncategorizedbrother, dip, every day, family, father, five minutes, grateful, gratitude, home, long-distance, love, lucky, mother, sister, support, Writing

Thursday October 11, 2018
6:10pm
5 minutes
Poor and Poorer
Jerrold Ladd

Most families are not all families. I have to tell you I’m lucky.
Lucky that I never had to prove myself anyone. Lucky that I could
move out and move far and the guilt wouldn’t be there. The guilt
wasn’t given to me. I am lucky that my father shows love in sauteed
shrimp and that my mother will talk to me on the phone for an hour
if I’m walking that far. I am lucky that my sister sees my insides.
That she thinks my growth is beautiful. That she isn’t afraid to
tell me the truth. That she never pulls me down when I’m up.
That my brother let’s me call him whatever I want. That he wears
the bracelet I got him for Christmas 6 years ago. That he will pick
me up from the airport during a blizzard. Drive me to the airport
on his only day off. Tell the story at the table that makes me look
hilarious. I am lucky that my family gives what they have and doesn’t
count favours. That they send me photos of their meals when the only
thing missing is me. I am lucky that my family holds me. That they
think I’m important enough to wait for.

“Most families” by Sasha at the table at Terrace Beach

Thursday October 11, 2018
4:05pm
5 minutes
Poor and Poorer
Jerrold Ladd

I know how lucky I am and I don’t take it for granted. Really I don’t. I know how lucky I am when I become an artist and no one questions it or asks how I’ll pay rent; when I fail and rise and break and shed and am seem for all of it, for each of them, by each of them. I know when I see how she isn’t known by her family in the way she wants so badly to be, and she is known by mine, in a different way, but in a way closer to her craving. I know how lucky I am, when he has pie and tea with my father and can talk about how hard it’s been, how he doubts me, and us, and the future, and more so himself.

“we have enormous power” by Sasha at Ocean Village

By: Sasha 10/10/201810/15/2018

5 minutes, creative writing, ongoing writing practice, poem, short poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectdeath, farmer, father, fiction, five minutes, smoking, son, unedited

Wednesday October 10, 2018
9:11am
5 minutes
Louder than Words
Starhawk

When he’s rolling cigarettes
just a little bit of weed
mostly tobacco don’t even okay
He thinks about his father
rolling cigarettes and smoking
sunrise to noon to sunset
to midnight his father in the
field hoping to keep calm
He remembers his mother beating
on his father’s chest with closed
fists with anger the colour of
blood in her eyes and how she wailed
when she told him he was gonna die
and how she wailed when she lost
another child and how she wailed
when he collapsed in the corn

“lured into my childhood home” by Sasha at MacKenzie beach

Tuesday October 9, 2018
2:42pm
5 minutes
The Stray
Stephen A. Waite

We play Monopoly lying on our stomachs on the carpet
in front of the woodstove. Mom is out for a cross
country ski. We just filled our bellies with hot
chocolate, more than we’re allowed to have, more than
is good for us, but that’s okay. You put another
log into the mouth of the stove, and I jump up
because there are sparks, and fire is brave.
You know how to turn the damper. You know how to
be the banker. We hear Mom banging her skis on
the porch.

“lured into my childhood home” by Julia at the studio

By: Julia 10/09/2018

Uncategorizedallowed, avoidance, children, cousins, dreamer, dreams, family, father, home-life, images, memory, movies, nightmares, nonfiction, pisces, reality, scarring, scary, sensitive, sons, uncle, Writing

Tuesday October 9, 2018
1:34pm
5 minutes
The Stray
Stephen A. Waite

Matthew and Mark used to watch scary movies at their house. I used to lay with my head in Matthew’s lap and my legs in Mark’s. I felt like my older cousins were taking care of me. We weren’t allowed to watch scary movies at our house. And after seeing IT with them when I was six, I figured out why. I have always been the dreaming kind. Pisces born on land, a vivid seer of worlds beyond my own. I knew the answers were there. I knew the questions were there. I knew I was making connections and being guided. Of course when nightmares are a regular occurrence, it’s hard to think they serve a purpose other than torture, punishment, torment.
I used to pray before bed to avoid the bad. Pray to override the scary images swirling around in my tiny body. What did Matthew and Mark have? Who did they talk to about their bad dreams? Did they just learn not to remember them? Was it easier to stay quiet and keep watching scary movies? Was watching scary movies less scary than the reality they had to face?

For a while I used to associate their dad with Beetlejuice. One time he came to Mark’s room to tell us to shut up and go to sleep. In the shadows, his eyes looked sunken in. I dreamed about him that night instead.

“I married Dave” by Julia at her desk

By: Julia 10/08/2018

Uncategorizedblame, convincing, creative writing, daily, dip, domestic, five minutes, lies, life, love, marriage, men, Regrets, relationship, repetition, sadness, settling, shame, unedited, violence, woman, write

Monday October 8, 2018
8:30pm
5 minutes
Plants Don’t Have Birthdays
Andrea Gregor

I married Dave
He is the one I wanted to marry
He is the one I wanted to marry
He is the one I wanted
I am happy with Dave
He is the one who makes me happy
He is the one who
He is the one who makes me
I am in love with Dave
He is the one I wanted to love
He is the one I loved to want
He is the love I wanted
I settled for Dave
He is the one I wanted to leave me
He is the one I wanted to leave
He is the one I wanted then didn’t
I am still with Dave
He is the one I regret
He is the one I didn’t expect
He is the one I was too afraid to question
He is the one I can’t see myself in
He is the one who was there
He is the one who had a car
He is the one who had a temper
He is the one who had a problem
He is the one who had a temper
He is the one who lied
He is the one who kept me small
He is the one who I let keep me small
He is the one I married

“I married Dave” by Sasha at Ocean Village

By: Sasha 10/08/201810/15/2018

creative writing, five, five minute story, five minutes, ongoing writing practice, short writes short reads, these five minutes, Uncategorized, writers, writing, writing practise, writing project

Monday October 8, 2018
3:31pm
5 minutes
Plants Don’t Have Birthdays
Andrea Gregor

If I’d married Dave my life wouldn’t be what it is. I would never have married Dave, but if I had, it would be chaos. It’s chaos now, in a way, but life is chaos sometimes and I’m okay with that. Dave is chaos. I’m not okay with that.

I sometimes get bored by the stories of my past that just go round and round and round and round. Can I ever let go? Am I the only one? What’s with the barnacles?

Summer makes me nostalgic and fall makes me nostalgic and winter makes me so nostalgic and spring makes me nostalgic too.

“in the blue plastic chair” by Sasha at Ocean Village

By: Sasha 10/07/201810/15/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfiction, five minutes, Oma, reading, ready, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited, Writing

Sunday October 7, 2018
10:26pm
5 minutes
Illness and Literature
Tony Hoagland

Mia sits in the blue plastic chair and chews on the end of her braid. She’s waiting for her Oma to finish her treatment in the room with all the buzzing and whirring, where people of all colours and ages are hooked up to tall poles. Mia brought a book but she doesn’t feel like reading. On the way here, Oma said that Mia could play on her cellphone while she waited. Mia said, “No thanks”. Sometimes, looking out the window is enough. Sometimes, when you’re ten and a half, your imagination is what saves you.

“in the blue plastic chair” by Julia at her desk

By: Julia 10/07/2018

Uncategorizedapology, assumptions, daily, dip, facts, feelings, five minutes, healing, invention, narrative, poem, poet, poetry, proof, right, short writes short reads, source, story, unedited, unknown, wisdom, write, wrong

Sunday October 7, 2018
5:28pm
5 minutes
Illness and Literature
Tony Hoagland

I’m not going to sit here and pretend I know what you’re thinking.
I won’t stand and do it.
Kneel and do it.
Won’t close my eyes and picture you saying it.
All I can do from here, from outside your skull
from across the world, is invent a story that might explain.
I might tell myself that you think you’re right.
That you believe I should be working on my apology.
That everyone you know thinks the worst of me now.
I might try to understand why you’re desperate to control things.
But what it all means, that is something I’ll only be able to dream up.
No proof.
No facts.
You’re probably not sorry.
And there I go again.
I don’t know what you are thinking but I know what I am feeling.
I want to scream it out but the wisdom says, the source says, the sister says:
I should practice being still and if I know I am right, let that be enough.
But I don’t know now.
I don’t know what is good.

“My friend Joe” by Sasha in a bunk at Camp Fircom

By: Sasha 10/06/201810/14/2018

creative writing, five, five minute story, five minutes, ongoing writing practice, these five minutes, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfive minutes, Joe, unedited

Saturday October 6, 2018
11:02pm
5 minutes
His Hands
Mary Jane Nealon

I used to have a friend name Joe.
Then things went really fucking wild and I can’t exactly say that we’re friends anymore.
See in my world, when you’re going to do something radical, or you do something radical, if it impacts someone else, someone you care about, someone who is your f-r-i-e-n-d, then you give ’em a heads up.
Shoot them a text even.
Doesn’t have to be something scary like a phone call or a face-to-face.
A text.
Is not.
Hard to send.
So it makes me think about how this guy, this Joe, is not made of the stuff I thought he was.
Maybe none of us are.
Or we learn as we go.
As we fail.
As we fuck up, fuck people over, choose what matters.
I’ve had almost a year to reflect on how I could’ve done things different.
There are so many things I could’ve done differently then.
Now though? Now I think about my old friend Joe and I wonder what would happen if we ran into each other on the street.
What would Joe say?

“My friend Joe” by Julia on the 4

Saturday October 6, 2018
5:57pm
5 minutes
His Hands
Mary Jane Nealon

My friend Joe became
my boyfriend Joe at the end of the 12th grade. I liked the way his arms looked while driving. I liked that he knew how to use the barbecue.
when I went to university I stayed with Joe even though I no longer wanted him.
One of the first days there I made eye contact with the coolest guy I had ever seen. His name was also Joe. I wanted this Joe instead. I wanted to know everything about him.
There were a couple others I started to like before I told the first Joe that we needed to break up. There were also a couple of crying episodes in my dorm room. Not me. Him. This was the same guy who knew how to use the barbecue.

“you are more than your drama” by Julia on her couch

Friday October 5, 2018
10:18pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Ram Dass

call me up in the middle of the night and question my integrity I double dog dare you. I’ll be the first to hold up my own mirror and accept responsability
cause I have gotten good at apologies and I have gotten good at slipping out of rooms unnoticed. you go ahead and pick up the phone to wield your insecurity at me and I will answer with grace manifest
manifesto
manifest
manifesto
manifest
I will stand calm in the rumble and dig my roots down deeper
you can believe whatever it is you would like
but I will always choose stillness in the face of it

“you are more than your drama” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 10/05/201810/14/2018

Uncategorized

Friday October 5, 2018
3:54pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Ram Dass

the first thing i wanna do here is laugh like obviously but then really when i let it land deeper i know that when my mind is whirring like a salad spinner and usually that’s at night when i’ve gotten up to pee and can’t fall back asleep and when my mind is whirring i do not in fact know that i am more than my drama then why is she angry when is she avoiding me why isn’t she responding to my emails did i do something wrong what could i have done what could i have done besides bloom

“difficult for the Western mind to understand” by Julia at her desk

By: Julia 10/04/2018

Uncategorizedapproval, body, daily, decision, deep, dip, epiphany, happiness, love, manifesto, material things, priorities, privilege, question, self-value, trust, west, woman

Thursday October 4, 2018
9:36pm
5 minutes
The Heart of Understanding
Thich Nhat Hanh

Did I luck out living here or did I land in the wrong place?
You might say that I am exactly where I need to be.
And you would be right. Or you would just be, in that instance.
Total harmony with the universe, not convincing; not pushing.
Here where all these scales lead me further away from happiness.
The belief in others’ approval and allowances. I wish to only seek
my own decision. For the last time leave my importance on the weight
of shoulders balancing on one wheel. I will not dip low and find
comfort there. I will question my trapped animal and learn to pack
a wound. I will face the demon head on and I will make the thing anyway.
I will keep myself and throw away the key.
Who wants a body you can love in a place where they
won’t let you love it.

“difficult for the Western mind to understand” by Sasha in her kitchen

By: Sasha 10/04/201810/14/2018

5 minutes, creative writing, ongoing writing practice, songwriting, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfive minutes, hands, hold it steady, leaves, lyrics, unedited, you

Thursday October 4, 2018
9:15pm
5 minutes
The Heart of Understanding
Thich Nhat Hanh

Hold it steady
Hold it steady
Your heart on the outside
beating for the world to see
beating for me to write a song to

Hold it steady
Hold it steady
Sweet angel you’ve got all the goodness
Sweet angel you’ve got all the badness
Like we all do – in equal parts

Hold it steady
Hold it steady
My hand in your hand
as the leaves turn in their glory
in the breaking as we turn towards

each other

“silence that voice.” By Julia at her desk

By: Julia 10/03/2018

Uncategorizeddaily, dip, ego, flexibility, flow, inventing, learning, loud, love, mountain, poem, poet, poetry, quiet, release, right, river, silence, stillness, Tao, test, these five minutes, trust, unedited, voice, whisper, wisdom, women, Writing, wrong, yelling

Wednesday October 3, 2018
9:41pm
5 minutes
Sitting in the Fire
Pema Chodron

She doesn’t whisper anymore
she begs
she wants me to be loud
that’s my goddamn mantra anyway
Yell Woman, Yell As Loud As The Moon
But the pull of this river is telling me something different
That I should quiet the voice quaking
that I should walk in silence and observe the wind moving
I am being tested every second and there are so many seconds
which mountains I’ve made and which I’ve climbed
I am fairly certain there have been no molehills worth dying on
I know that is what the pull is saying
the one that doesn’t whisper anymore
The one that doesn’t say anything at all
Wisdom is knowing you are right and not beating a love
over the skull with how right you are
and how wrong they have been
It is about knowing deep within and underneath bone
that sometimes saying less is saying more
and saying nothing is saying nothing

But what about the Yell Woman.
The Women of Yell that I have built all my bridges on
They rumble sometimes
and still
I must sit

“silence that voice.” By Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 10/03/201810/14/2018

creative writing, love poem, ongoing writing practice, short poem, tiny poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectdoubt, five minutes, mother, patience, poem, unedited

Wednesday October 3, 2018
6:37am
5 minutes
Sitting in the Fire
Pema Chodron

Silence the voices of doubt
like you would a mewing lamb
weaving between your legs
underfoot and gentle

Silence the voices of doubt
with the kindness of a lover
with the patience of teacher
with the fire of freedom

I know doubt like I know
my mother’s face
even though I go months now
without seeing her

My mother
not doubt

Doubt creeps in often
hard to say exactly how often
when I’m turned the other way
when I’m tying my boot

“Hard as it may be to believe” by Julia on S’s couch

Tuesday October 2, 2018
8:40pm
5 minutes
Beneath Our Feet
Redfern Jon Barrett

when you trust someone you don’t catch all the warning signs that float in and out of consciousness
you believe everything they say and do and prove
you don’t look for reasons why they should be hunting you
not in the folds of the couch or buried deep beneath a compliment

when you trust someone else more than you trust yourself
you don’t think their help will hurt you
you don’t think their generosity will silently strip the screws from your chair and watch as your backbone slowly caves in
leaving you defenceless
when they tell you they think you an equal
you will consider it a kindness, a gift until you realize the fact that they tell you that at all
kicks the level playing field out from your feet

“Hard as it may be to believe” by Sasha on her bed

By: Sasha 10/02/201810/14/2018

creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfiction, Frida, shower, sleep, unedited, you

Tuesday October 2, 2018
8:46pm
5 minutes
Beneath Our Feet
Redfern Jon Barrett

Frida sings me a lullaby and I toss and turn and hope that someone – anyone – might save me from myself.

It doesn’t have to be you, although that would be ideal.

You, fresh from the shower and smelling of sand and amber. You, seeming to have grown a few inches overnight – how do you do that? You, sweet mermaid man, good to the bone, knowing the perfect amount of honey for tea and exactly how to light a room a dusk.

“didn’t resemble each other” by Julia at the studio

By: Julia 10/01/2018

Uncategorized

Monday October 1, 2018
1:11pm
5 minutes
Boy
J. Mays

Hello October,
How you smell like years past
but taste different
Are you spicier?
It may be too soon to tell.
So far you are wet and
orange and alive and
I’d like to say thank you.
You have never been one
to steal from other seasons–
you always feel exactly
like you.
Are you going to cradle
the spasm in my back
better than your sisters?
Because you resemble the
oldest child even though you
are one of the youngest.
Your hum is softer;
more mature,
more observant and sponge.
You are a river reflecting and
I’d like to say thank you.
I promise I won’t burn you
the way I used to light the
match at your arrival.
I promise you with all
the bigger belief in myself
this time, the one that keeps
saying No at all the right moments.
You don’t have to be anything
like the others who try to inspire
You get the wind chimes and
cool earth and the mosaic of
leaves for free.

“didn’t resemble each other” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 10/01/201810/14/2018

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

Monday October 1, 2018
7:01am
5 minutes
Boy
J. Mays

We didn’t resemble one another when we left, but when we got back everybody kept saying we looked like sisters. We spent a total of four hours apart over the course of these seven weeks, which is truly not a lot of time. Travelling with someone allows you to know them in a way that every other act does not. What happens when it’s raining and you don’t have an umbrella and you don’t even have shoes on, just leather flip flops? What happens when you’re more tired than you’ve ever been, and you finally understand what real fatigue is, not the kind of fatigue one gets from all-nighters and hangovers, but from responsibility and having to navigate the winding streets of Jerusalem?

“My mother told us” by Julia on her couch

Sunday September 30, 2018
9:10pm
5 minutes
Waiting For My Rape
Jessica Anya Blau

she says “just do your best” and no matter why she says it, she always sounds close to (if not battling) tears. I don’t think she likes crying. but it’s in her like she’s made of sand. a billion moving particles loose under her skin, washing. she says “bye” at least three times. she has to be the last one to say it. it’s an italian thing. like goodbye is the saddest most beautiful world they could think of. and her goodbye keeps me calling. I don’t want to be this far away from her. this daughter’s body a river of sand just like her. a milky way. starlight.

“My mother told us” by Sasha at her desk

Sunday September 30, 2018
4:43pm
5 minutes
Waiting For My Rape
Jessica Anya Blau

My mother told us the prognosis
over the phone as we lay in our bed
your hand on my belly
my hand on your heart

The rain came today and it feels
right a cleansing a weeping
a shedding and you’re cleaning
the house of all the summer sand

My mother astounds me every day
with her willingness to feel the truth
with her ability to meet the mystery
with her strength in the breaking

It’s good to have stillness
amidst the flurry the fury
the unfurling the fraying
It’s good to have a Sunday like this

Jolie eats an apple on FaceTime
and we laugh at the determination
the squeals the sweetness
the surrender

“what day she was born,” by Julia on her bed

Saturday September 29, 2018
11:18pm
5 minutes
The World’s Oldest Person
Elizabeth Onusko

i’m doing that thing where I’m waiting for the first of the month to come again. permission to be bad until then. permission to be born anew and with readiness.
goodbye bad choices and to a cruel time user.goodbye to avoidance and laziness. goodbye to an empty fridge and full days of not leaving the fridge. and full days of
not leaving the house. and full.

“what day she was born,” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 09/29/201809/30/2018

fiction, five, five minute story, five minutes, short fiction, these five minutes, Uncategorized, uneditedfiction, five minutes, mama, short writes short reads, sick, these five minutes, unedited

Saturday September 29, 2018
6:01pm
5 minutes
The World’s Oldest Person
Elizabeth Onusko

when mama forgets the day that daisy was born everyone knows that’s it. probably any day now. uncle bert hid the vodka, the whiskey and the gin. mama was drinking everything in sight, and that makes her worse, that makes things worse for everyone. chloe sings to her, “rock-a-by-baby” and all the songs mama used to sing to us when we had nightmares. daisy, poor thing it’s her birthday, makes a sponge cake with whipped cream and sliced strawberries. we bring mama a slice in bed and she chokes and coughs but says that it’s delicious. she’s right. it is. “good job, daisy,” chloe says and I play with her hair the way she likes.

“Three hundred years” by Julia at her desk

By: Julia 09/28/2018

Uncategorizedbirth, character, daily, dip, drink, fiction, five minutes, frienship, Goddess, imagery, pocket sized, practice, quirky, raccoon, skunk, snake, talent, unedited, wine, write, writer, Writing

Friday September 28, 2018
9:51pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Barack Obama

Tonight I walked by a raccoon party. There’s some symbolism already, K tells me, and I should probably start looking this stuff up. It’s 3 raccoons at first and then I look to the left and there are 3 more in on it. One skunk. There is symbolism about skunks too, I’m sure, and I take a photo cause I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. K tells me to look up skunks and raccoons and snakes. Together? No, K, says, just when you get a moment. Don’t make it your life’s work or something. Like you? I joke, but K isn’t laughing at all. K has drank most of her blood red wine and is asking if she can have what’s in my glass. I give it to her cause she bought the bottle and I care more about looking up the goddesses and whatever associated with the little lawn party I feel like I was a part of. No snakes on the lawn, mostly in text books and on medallions, and in stories. K wants me to write the story of my first day on earth. I don’t want to tell her that it might be pretty boring. It’ll start with Cold Cold Cold and then maybe lead into Cry Cold Cry. K isn’t impressed with my comedy. She says I am wildly talented but have a chip on my shoulder and sorry for saying so but it’s true. I think she might be right. I wish I didn’t give her the rest of my wine.

“Three hundred years” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 09/28/201809/30/2018

Uncategorized

Friday September 28, 2018
8:02am
5 minutes
From a quote by Barack Obama

A handful of grapes in a small plastic bag. Fifty cents in nickels. A post-it with an address. Half an envelope with a shopping list. September is a strange month. Put the sweaters away. Water the mint on the porch. Set the alarm. Boil the kettle. Send a text – “I hope today was a good day.” A paperclip. A stack of unopened mail. Recycling to be sorted. A pile of incense and matches. Rain. I’ll never forget this month. A staple. An old lime in the crisper that’s turned hard.

“thinking maybe you threw it all away” by Julia in her bed

Thursday September 27, 2018
1:04am
5 minutes
When A Guy Helps You Out
Cary Tenn

it takes ten years for either of us to notice.
ten years of never realizing
fully seeing.
when I see what takes ten years to see, I am changed.
ten years to notice that these eyes belong on two different faces. how do you go back from that? you noticed it too, ten years later, only you thought it was something about the pupils. Something scary.
or did you think it before and now you have the guts to say it? Now you’re what’s making me clock it?
I know you might see what I see: two forceless halves tricking you into believing me seamless like
this whole body is a map to one destination
catch me in my good eye and see my young heart
catch me in the other and see a lion or a truth

Did you always love a hybrid?
Did I?

“thinking maybe you threw it all away” by Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 09/27/201809/30/2018

5 minutes, creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectbar, beret, five minutes, jokes, line, Shirley, shush, unedited, Writing

Thursday September 27, 2018
10:22pm
5 minutes
When A Guy Helps You Out
Cary Tenn

At the back of the club it’s dark and smoky. She leans against the wall. Shirley is in the bathroom, pissing or doing a line. Shirley is wearing a faux fur vest and a silver tub dress. Shirley made jokes about abortion on the way, on the bus, and she wanted to “shush” her, but she didn’t. Deep bass that she feels in her guts, in her spine. A guy with a beret tries to catch her eye and she evades. She looks up. She waits for Shirley.

“The first time you park your car” by Julia on the 7

Wednesday September 26, 2018
10:02pm
5 minutes
The Cure for Racism is Cancer
Tony Hoagland

Nobody can watch me maneuver this stupid car in this stupid spot and yet that is what everybody is doing. What, did all the world’s best parallel parkers get their cars impounded today? Is that why all of you PEDESTRIANS are such fucking experts? Fucking judgmental pieces of—you know what? I am a good driver. I was the only one out of my friends to pass my test on the first try. I got my graduated licence first too and there I was driving everyone around every single day. So yes, sometimes parking’s a bitch, but I only ever hit another car when I was BACKING OUT because it was dark as hell and the car was CAMOUFLAGED by being blue and parked in my BLIND SPOT. Parallel parking should be taught all the way from kindergarten so everyone gets really comfortable being stared at by a bunch of people who probably don’t even know how to get on the FUCKING HIGHWAY.

“The first time you park your car” by Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 09/26/201809/30/2018

creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectBetsy, fiction, five minutes, long time, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited

Wednesday September 26, 2018
5:21pm
5 minutes
The Cure for Racism is Cancer
Tony Hoagland

The first time you park your car outside the bungalow where Marv and I are staying, I know you’re there before I hear the engine shut off or the door slam. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. You’re probably doing the same.

Three knocks on the front door and I’m there, face pressed against the foggy glass. You can’t see me, but I’m sure as hell you know I’m there.

“Betsy?” Your voice. I haven’t heard your voice in three years, seven months, three days. “Betsy… I know you’re there.”

“the serpent coiled around the pillar” by Julia on her couch

Tuesday September 25, 2018
9:55pm
5 minutes
Come of Age
Stephen Jenkinson

I have been casting out the devil since I knew he could break into my bedroom at night while I slept.
Lord knows I have stomped my little heart out on the floor more than once to rebuke that son of a bitch.
They do not tell you, when you are just starting to welcome Jesus into your heart, that atheists don’t get possessed by the devil. Why would they? The Christians are stacking their team with the impressionable. The talented. The eager.
Mostly I had to curse his name after watching a scary movie. I believed he could get in easier through my nightmares. I prayed for god to please not let me see anything bad, hear anything bad, or dream of anything bad. Because once I saw Jesus’ shadow on the wall and when he started laughing maniacally,
I knew.

“the serpent coiled around the pillar” by Sasha in her bed

By: Sasha 09/25/201809/29/2018

creative writing, five, five minute story, five minutes, ongoing writing practice, these five minutes, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectempty, language, letting go, poem, poetry, these five minutes, unedited

Tuesday September 25, 2018
6:21pm
5 minutes
Come of Age
Stephen Jenkinson

I have been plagued with loving you
the serpent coiled around the pillar
What is this ache for more and more
The moon knows the difference
The moon knows when enough is enough

I’m empty now that I’m full
the house is quiet and the tea is drunk
Lhasa on the stereo telling me that
life is short
Don’t I know it

There’s nothing left for me to burn
my fingers are matchsticks
my love is the wick at the stump
I’ll dance with my hands
while whispering a lullaby

Singing along in Spanish
a language I wish I knew

“you should have asked me nicely” by Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 09/24/201809/29/2018

creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing project"fuck off", assholes, bar, five minutes, reading, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited

Monday September 24, 2018
10:04pm
5 minutes
Overheard on the 4 bus

I stand up and I feel his eyes on me. I walk towards the bathroom and then turn around. I’m not going to take this shit.

“Do you have something that you need to say to me?”

“Uh,” he looks at his buddies like I’m the creep.

“You’ve been staring at me for over an hour. I’m trying to enjoy my book and my beverage, and all I feel is your eyes baring a whole in every vulnerable part of my body. Have some respect. Stop fucking looking at me.”

“Is it that time of the month?” Buddy A winks.

“My menstrual cycle is far too important to enter this conversation.”

“you should have asked me nicely” by Julia on the 4

Monday September 24, 2018
7:22pm
5 minutes
overheard on the 4 bus

A fallen chestnut narrowly misses the baby’s head I am in charge of protecgjng.
It comes directly after thinking how if a chestnut fell it would gash a chunk out of her head. Good thing that won’t happen. As if mother’s aren’t pushing their babies down chestnut tree lined streets. When it falls and bounces off the rim of the stroller instead of her it feels the way stopping an inch short of getting shat on buy a pigeon toremnting in the rafters feels.
All luck and karma and universal flow rolled up into a warning.

“survive and maybe be heroic.” By Sasha at the Airbnb

By: Sasha 09/23/201809/26/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfive minutes, love, marriage, marriage poem, one year, poem, poetry, promise, these five minutes, unedited

Sunday September 23, 2018
11:43pm
5 minutes
Loud, Unpleasant Noises
Norbert Ruebsaat

Today is the day
one year ago this one
that we stood
surrounded from all
circular curves
in grass and with
the whippoorwills
with the cumulous
and the grandparents
Today is the day
we promised love
and patience and
not to take things
personally I’m still
working on that one
slowly slowly slowly
We said we would do
our best and we have
and we are and that
one is almost always
true even when it
doesn’t feel like it
Today is the day
that we passed rings
down the spiral
sang an ancient song
as we did every cupped
hand charging them up
for the times when we
just can’t bear the truth
or we can but we aren’t
exactly sure how

“survive and maybe be heroic.” by Julia on her couch

Sunday September 23, 2018
10:13pm
5 minutes
Loud, Unpleasant Noises
Norbert Ruebsaat

please stop asking me
how my day was
no matter what I do
I am not equipped
to answer in a way
that absolves me
of the truth
if you’re asking
because you want
to know how easy
it is to put a hand
on a hot burner
and wait for the scream
then ask me
if you’re asking
because you want
to know how long
a mirror can stay
clean until it is
bloody from the
face reflected back
then ask me
ask me why the roof
of my mouth is a
pocket of worry
or why the kettle
screaming does not
rouse me from the
closet
ask me if you want
to hear denial dripping
dripping
drip

“This is an obituary.” by Julia on V’s couch

By: Julia 09/22/2018

Uncategorizedcreative writing, death, fiction, five minutes, ghost, life, obituary, poem, poetry, presence, secret, short story, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited, Writing

Saturday September 22, 2018
9:30pm
5 minutes
Empty Condolences
Joey Comeau

You live in the walls I hang my new life on
all the hooks drilled into your grooves
thank you for not whistling
I
don’t
think
I
could
handle
that
You could be watching me but I know you’re not
Never really cared about the minutia of things
the quiet worries spent hiding my tears in the bathroom
the enevelope of cash in my bedside drawers
beside the envelope of letters adressed to me that I had to write to convince myself I was good enough without you
I wonder why you never read my journals
you would have learned so much
And now you’re here and nestled underneath
when I remember to remember

“This is an obituary.” By Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 09/22/201809/26/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, stream of consciousness, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectbirth, death, fear, life, sickness, stream of consciousness, Writing

Saturday September 22, 2018
9:31am
5 minutes
Empty Condolences
Joey Comeau

I can’t write on this today. Too close. Too close to the mortality of all of us. Suffocating in the what if and the best and the worst and what does this all even mean anyway. Hands around my throat or the possibility of hands and I cannot think about an obituary today. Even though I know it’s natural and why the fuck are we so afraid of death here and why don’t we speak about it more here and now there’s so much new life and this fear and sickness and growing and leaving and loving and all I can do it lie on the floor or light a candle or turn on the stove to make tea.

“If not dead, dying.” By Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 09/21/201809/26/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, songwriting, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing project

Friday September 21, 2018
11:25pm
5 minutes
Nothing Like It Was
Mark Wagstaff

Watching you shine tonight
oh my oh my
that magnetism of your light
oh boy oh boy
I’ve got kisses on my lips for you
yeah yeah
and feelings in my guts for you
mmm hmm

Watching you shine and I’m so proud
Watching you shine and I’m so alive
Watching you shine makes
my light brighter
makes me wanna go higher
Watching you shine

Watching you shine tonight
oh my oh my
that magnetism of your light
oh boy oh boy
I’ve got kisses on my lips for you
yeah yeah
and feelings in my guts for you
mmm hmm

“If not dead, dying.” by Julia on the 99

Friday September 21, 2018
4:55pm
5 minutes
Nothing Like It Was
Mark Wagstaff

today you are the farthest from dying that you will ever be. you have more life in the wiggle of your brow than you even know. so far the room is changed by you. the building. the women. the men.
you are the farthest from unloved. the farthest from unwanted. you are the closest thing to god and even god knows it.
today you are born on the cusp of beauty. you’re already causing poetry and melting heart ache.
though we are on opposite ends of the country, you are the farthest from being far away from me. you are right here in this pocket of joy pushing through my chest. you are right where you belong.

“what would happen if we moved to Vancouver?” by Julia in her bed

Thursday September 20, 2018
12:31am
5 minutes
Crystal
Gillian Wigmore

nobody saw it coming
not me
not you
not the ones we were leaving behind
i suppose some deep place made known only to me in my dreams and
i guess in my mother’s
it was expected that i would make it
we both knew somewhere that i would twist silk into roots
and sink them in
she always knows the limits to my reach better than me
which is funny
since she doesn’t think I have any
but maybe vancouver gave me the pocket of soil to grow myself out of
she said that to me today
and here i am talking about leaving or staying or what in the world should I do
what would happen?

“what would happen if we moved to Vancouver?” by Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 09/20/201809/26/2018

creative writing, love poem, ongoing writing practice, poem, short poem, tiny poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfive minutes, poem, poetry, these five minutes, unedited, Vancouver, Writing

Thursday September 20, 2018
9:13pm
5 minutes
Crystal
Gillian Wigmore

Before we moved to the land of mist drops
and mountain tops before we came where the rain
lasts and the leaves change colour in slow motion

We were clear only on the passion and ambition
needed to leave where we’d always known
H-O-M-E that four letter word that’s so sacred

We knew it was something that we had to do
“Go West” the wind whispered
“Go West” called the pines and cedars

And bless us that we listened
bless us that it’s been four years
and all these joys and fights and loves and aches

“They must have math class” by Julia in her bed

By: Julia 09/19/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, class, creative writing, five minutes, marriage, questions, short story, short writes short reads, students, these five minutes, unedited, women, wondering married, Writing

Wednesday September 19, 2018
10:47pm
5 minutes
Wakaranai
Hanako Masutani

The class watches as Ms. P puts the quadratic equasion on the board. she doesn’t have a ring on her finger and so they wonder why she might be unmarried. Someone as good at math should surely be a Mrs. Someone as nice with the right kind of floral shirts should know about weddings. Ms. P whips around and tells them she can hear them-that being behind her doesn’t make them suddenly invisible. Nick decides he wants to ask if she’s ever farted on a man. Nick is smart enough to do the math but his social skills are stuck in a tree in third grade.

“They must have math class” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 09/19/201809/26/2018

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

Wednesday September 19, 2018
7:48am
5 minutes
Wakaranai
Hanako Masutani

“Math class give me the sweats!” Ramona shouts from the top of the stairs.

“This homework isn’t going to do itself!” Pho stands in the kitchen, almost raising her voice. “What will your Mom say when she gets home?” Pho listens. She waits. She hears the door slam upstairs, and then slow, heavy footsteps across the hall. At a snail’s pace, Ramona descends.

“I hate integers…” Ramona plops into a stool at the kitchen island, her knapsack beside her filled with books. Pho loads the dishwasher.

“I know, sweetie, try your best.”

Ramona takes out her textbook and her spiral bound notebook. She sharpens a pencil.

“The longer you procrastinate, the later it’s going to be and then you’ll be more tired and your brain will – ”

“I’m DOING IT!” Ramona huffs her way through the first few practise problems.

“he lowered the drink onto the table,” by Sasha in her bed

By: Sasha 09/18/201809/26/2018

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

Tuesday September 18, 2018
8:13pm
5 minutes
Candy Cap Magic
Jocelyn Kuang

If you were the one I’d married
there’d be drink rings on the table
and record sleeves on the floor
I’d be the one who did the laundry

When I think about moving back
I wonder if I’ll see you waiting
for the streetcar at Queen and Spadina
Skating at Nathan Phillips Square

If we’d chosen each other
we probably wouldn’t have made it
this far
this many months

Now that I know what it takes

“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.

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