“successfully completed” by Sasha at her desk


Sunday April 28, 2013
1:12am
5 minutes
A Smart Serve Card

He felt proud. APPLAUSE! He felt glad. YAHOO! He felt twisted up and turned inside out. BOO-HOO. He stood before the whole conference, all of his most respected and admired peers, the leaders in Business Marketing and Administration with a Specification in Printed Materials… PHEW! He was ready. He glanced at his notes, but only to ground him. Only to see the hieroglyphics on the page, the tiny dots of black on white on black on white, and he felt – YAWN. Oh my good greif. How could he – YAWWWWN. He wasn’t bored. He absolutely wasn’t hungry. He’d had a roast beef sandwich with potato chips and two dill pickes! YUM! He heard a faint murmur of upset. He heard Barbara Jenkins say, off-stage, “Don, what the hell is going on?” He was utterly compelled, totally moved, unbelievably inspired to lie down, to rest, to nap. HOLYSHIT. Don had been working since he was fifteen. He had gone on one vacation to Mexico, and on it, he got terribly sick. HE IS TIRED. HE IS EXHAUSTED. HE IS OVER IT. He falls to his knees. One woman, in a grey pantsuit, wonders if this is what performance art is. If so, she finally understands it.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know” by Sasha on her couch


Saturday April 27, 2013
12:02am
5 minutes
The Dark Half
Stephen King


I’ll tell you softly
Because you like that better
Twirled in a paper cup
Chocolate and vanilla
Drizzled in caramel
I’ll tell you banging your head against the wall
But gently
Because you like that better
Tapping your silken brain
Your sponge toffy thoughts
Maple syrup
I’ll tell you dancing to the Rolling Stones
In a dive bar
Where a cowboy had his heart broken
By a girl in a denim vest
Where they buy shots of whiskey
Mistaken identities
Streamlined hope springing from the creaky floorboards
I’ll tell you late tomorrow night
When I get home and you’re already sleeping
Cloudy with dreams
Cloudy with desire
You won’t hear what I’m saying
You’ll hear what you want to hear
Like always
Like the morning coming so fast
We can’t catch a wink
A glimpse
Of the inner lining
Of the clouds

“15 people lost limbs” by Sasha at her desk


Friday April 26, 2013
2:11pm
5 minutes
The front page of the Metro Weekend
April 26-28, 2013


I wasn’t sure what the hell to do with a kid who doesn’t like ketchup, or chocolate chip cookies, or cartoons. Miles wanted to talk about philosophy. For dinner? He wanted some Soupe de Poisson. I tried not to mutter about his stepmother, or his father, here on business and meeting with someway way up on the seventeenth floor. “You can look after him, right Vera?” Said, Nancy. “Sure,” I said through clenched teeth. Miles wore a sweater vest over a blue button-up. His khaki pants were a bit too short but other than that, he was the best dressed ten year old I had ever seen. “Vera, as in named after the Aloe Vera plant?” He asked, upon sitting down and opening the lid on his bottle of San Pellegrino. “I guess…” I responded, looking to see if his glasses were brand name. “So…” I said, “What’s your favorite subject at school?” He barely flinched, “Astrophysics.” There was a glimmer of self-satisfaction in his eyes. “Aren’t you in grade four?” I asked. “Yeah, but I go to an International School. We have Specialty Programs.” He was matter-of-fact about it. “Have you ever read any Plato?” He asked, tying the shoelace of his loafer.

“the only kind there is.” by Sasha at Cafe Pamenar


Thursday April 25, 2013 at Cafe Pamenar
2:40pm
5 minutes
from a quote by Carl Jung

My Aunt Genevieve believes a real woman wears Parisian perfume. Genevieve is almost my Grandma, ‘cuz my real Grandma died before I was born and Genevieve was her twin sister. It works out for the better ‘cuz from when Genevieve says Grandma was a real pill. When Aunt Genevieve was seventeen she moved to France for love. She met a very handsome, drop-dead-gorgeous man named Fillipe at the beach in Muskoka and then, by the end of September, she was with him in his bachelor apartment on the Champs-Élysées. She said, “My Mama and my Papa were as angry as magpies but if I didn’t follow my Fillipe my heart would’ve broken”. It broke anyway, but not because of him. Her twin sister, my Grandma, died when she was way too young. My Mom was only three. Aunt Genevieve says that when your twin dies it feels like a phantom limb. Fillipe and Genevieve got married but they didn’t have kids, which was a really rebellious act in that day and age.

“the only kind there is.” by Julia at Sambuca Grill


Thursday April 25, 2013 at Sambuca Grill
2:40pm
5 minutes
from a quote by Carl Jung

One of a kind. And we’re having it with raspberry jam! Ha! I knew you’d come if I mentioned raspberry jam. You’re my little baby. You like everything that comes out of my mouth because you think you’re going to get the chance to taste it. I like it when I sing Janis Joplin to you and you roll around on the floor with your tongue out like it’s the dessert after all that yelling. You earned it. You love it when I tell you to cry, cry, baby. Here’s the thing, you asked for it before, remember? The one of a kind apology. It sounds like all the other sorrys but this one is so much better. You believe me because you believe everything that comes out of my mouth. You think you’re going to take some of those home for lunch tomorrow. WHY DO YOU WANT TO EAT SO MUCH? Consume me. Yeah. I’ll let you. Cry, cry, cry, cry, baby, baby, cry, baby, cry, baby. It has the seeds. The raspberry jam. Remember? I made you throw out the one without the seeds because then it’s just red and that is NOT why you buy raspberry jam. That is why you eat lollipops, or jello.
I’m spreading I’m sorry on your egg bread. On your challah. You told me I COULD! You TOLD ME. It’s the only kind there is. It’s the only lesson you need to learn. Just wait. Just WAIT. I’ll hold out my tongue for you and you can wait with your mouth open for the poison to drip on out and land right next to your teeth.

“my wrath did end” by Sasha at her desk


Wednesday, April 24, 2013
1:01am
5 minutes
A Poison Tree
William Blake


When you wrote me the e-mail telling me that you’d found a hostel to work at, that you’d arrived, that you had a bed, and a roof, and a place to charge your camera battery, I couldn’t help but look up, to whoever is up there keeping the clouds round, and say a quiet, “thank you.” I hadn’t expected you to do that. To land safely. To find a place where you could live and work and settle. When I had your tea leaves read I felt like I was doing a very naughty thing. I gave the man, the reader, with tattoos of sanskrit words up and down his arms, all of the details I could think of – how you were born in a leap year; how it had taken a long time for your adult teeth to push out your baby ones; how you find your deepest solace in a deep dish pizza and a crime novel. The man, the reader, looked at me like I was the one who was crazy. I was only concerned, and filled with unbelievable love. “His future stinks of hardship…” The reader said, blue eyes darting towards the door, as if you might burst in at any moment. He wouldn’t ever have told you that to your face. He could tell me, a woman once removed from her man, a man who was her man and now is just a man, on his own. You decided to go to Johannesburg because you spun a globe at an antique shop and that’s where your finger happened to land.

“As Aristotle says” by Sasha at her desk


Tuesday, April 23, 2013
10:45pm
5 minutes
The Screenwriter’s Workbook
Syd Field


Jasmine wrote down the list for Barry, like she always did, on a scrap of paper. Maybe an old receipt, or a piece of the newspaper.
Lettuce
Tomatoes
Cucumber
Marmelade
Cat Food
Spaghetti
Cottage Cheese
Toilet Paper

“Don’ forget the cat food! The wet kind! We got enough of that kibble to last us til’ Christmas!” Jasmine called, as Barry tied his scarf and opened the front door to go. She’d had her license taken away. She couldn’t help herself. Barry, thank goodness, was as patient as an owl.

He returned about a half hour later. Jasmine was making tea, watching as Burt, their grey tabby, sitting on the windowsill, licked her back. When Jasmine heard his key in the lock she rushed to the entrance way. He produced the list. She took it to the kitchen. He followed with the grocery bags. She unpacked each item, crossing it off the list.

“Fingerman, saw this as a good thing.” by Sasha on her couch


Monday, April 22, 2013
1:08am
5 minutes
Twenty Something
Robin Marantz Henig and Samantha Henig


She’s got the moon-face, pie high in the sky. She’s got the draping pillows, the azure throw rugs. She’s got a mistake waiting to happen and a gun loaded with “I’m so sorry.” She’s here because she heard her name called, a roll-call, a third-grade “today’s the day!” type of thing. She was born under the star of Cancer, but she’s Pisces rising so watch out. She was born to a mother who wished that she wasn’t one of those type of things. If I’m getting the story straight, she knew her times tables before most of the other kids could waltz down to the Convenience Store for freezies that would turn their tongues blue.

“my wrath did end” by Julia on her couch


Wednesday, April 24, 2013
12:33am
5 minutes
A Poison Tree
William Blake


But I meant it. I was furious. I had a reason for yelling, for stealing all your money, your things. Those stupid possessions. That’ll teach you to choose them over me. To prioritize materials. I am a HUMAN BEING. And so, yeah, I took your cell phone and I drowned it in the bathtub. Took it in there with me when I was reading Rumi. He has some good ideas. I have some of my own. You wouldn’t have noticed. Not like you look at it every 2 seconds. Oh wait. You do.
I’m not sorry. I do not feel bad about cutting holes in all of your pants’ pockets. Or poking them in all you polo shirts. What did I do so wrong? Want your attention? Right. I guess I should feel some remorse, then. Pity. I’m surprisingly fine, however, so I guess there goes that. Guess I woke up with a lot less baggage and a lot fewer second place ribbons. You could have avoided it all. I will never forget the look on your face when you saw that rock through your precious new lap top screen. Priceless. Like your RELATIONSHIP was supposed to be. like I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE.
For a millisecond I thought about stopping.

“As Aristotle says” by Julia on her couch


Tuesday, April 23, 2013
12:11am
5 minutes
The Screenwriter’s Workbook
Syd Field


What a crock of shit, she said, as she slammed her fist down on the glass coffee table. She was always one for outbursts and dramatisations of reality. He can’t treat you like that, Liddy, he should know better.
It’s fine, Mare, I said to her, Don’t get all crazy. It was an accident, I’m sure. He forgot your name on the payroll? That’s an accident? Liddy, she started, Don’t push me. She had fire in her eyes, her hair. She was just on a mission and I knew better than to get in her way. Yes, I said, despite her warning. It was an accident because it’s never happened before and it will never happen again. He feels bad, I said, He feels really really shitty about it. Mare laughed like it was the funniest thing her younger sister ever said to her. He knows better, Liddy. So do you for that matter. Did he make a move on you? Is that it? Mare, I said, Easy…
He knows you’re married, what the ring doesn’t mean anything? That bastard. How dare he! Mare, I told her, you’re jumping to conclusions. That’s not it.
You refused his advances and now he’s embarrassed, bruised ego, mushed penis, so he’s punishing you, Liddy. He’s trying to teach you a lesson. You’re out of your mind, I told her, and started to clean up the crumbs to the cookie she broke.

“Fingerman, saw this as a good thing.” by Julia at her desk


Monday, April 22, 2013
1:06am
5 minutes
Twenty Something
Robin Marantz Henig and Samantha Henig


Of course it was a good thing, it was the only thing. It shone like a red crescent moon that begged the question “are we even still alive?” It was his way of analysing me, of telling me that life is good and things in it are on a temporary wheel, just spinning spinning until they’re not anymore. He was vague like that. Like a sunset. Sort of beautiful in all its ambiguity. It was a good thing. The answers to life’s more tedious demands. It was a humour-filled narrative. Something like that. It’s all a dream now anyway.
He was resting his aching feet by the water, just dipping the bottom of his slacks into the salty edge to get wet enough to cool him. He didn’t mind his pants being ruined. He was sitting pleasantly in that moment. The one between sleep and awake, the one where nothing bad could touch him. He was on his own plain then, trying to convince me of my own beauty and my talent. I didn’t want him to know that I already believed him. His poetry beguiled me. Made me into a woman without difficulty. I was never anxious in his presence. He had a way with words back then…

“My psychic friend Leila” by Sasha at High Park


Sunday, April 21, 2013
11:27am
5 minutes
Why I Moved To The Country
Ruth Schwartz


My psychic friend Leila says that when you dream of snakes it means you’re transforming. When I go to see her, at her home in a cabin about an hour out of the city, she’s not there. She’s in the woods, scavenging mushrooms for our dinner. I sit with her sheepdog, Ethel, on the big rock out front. There isn’t cell phone reception. I think about calling Donny or my Mother but decide to just sit, scratching behind Ethel’s ears. I hear Leila’s whistle coming through the trees. When she sees me she speeds up, almost running, but careful not to spill the mushrooms that she’s carrying in a whicker basket. They are overflowing. She drops one, bends down and puts it back in the basket. The city was too much for Leila. She described it as living in a house where the TV, radio and record player are all on at the same time, playing something different, dissonant and disturbing. In the country she can sleep. She inherited the land that she lives on when her father died, and she built the cabin using one of those house kits you can send away for and receive in the mail.

“My psychic friend Leila” by Julia on the 506 going west


Sunday, April 21, 2013
5:39pm
5 minutes
Why I Moved To The Country
Ruth Schwartz


She ain’t tellin’ nobody the truth! I even axed her if she was playin’ and that bitch couldn’t say a single word. Uh uh not in my house. Make me pay for some cheap ass readin’ and not tell me the simple truth? Now I know my mama raised me better than that so I have to go ahead and wonder if she an orphan or if she just aint got no common courtesy. Now that’s important. It’s like sayin’ your please and thank yous or washin’ your hands after you done usin’ the bathroom. Shit. It was like every wall could tell if you was lyin’ so ain’t worth mama raisin’ her voice in the first place. If she even had to get that far…boy you’d be tastin’ her boot in your mouth, she’d kick your back side so hard.
But now this here woman in my house who has my money is tryin’ to fool me. Tryin’ to jerk me around. And that’s when I want to lie to her if she ain’t gonna do me the decency and tell me the truth. But I know my mama would roll over in her grave if I stooped to that kind of level.

Water glass, pint glass and a bottle of hot sauce (photo) by Julia at her kitchen table


Saturday, April 20, 2013
4:22am
5 minutes
Dip!

Spicy kind of girl with spicy kind of skin.
Smells like something from a summer garden in Italy.
Feels as smooth as shea butter cream.
She gives that extra wink without even meaning to.
If she were any less good-looking she would never get away with eating messy foods in public.
Spicy.
Full of spice and some other stuff that she doesn’t like to talk about.
Like anger and disappointment for most people she meets.
Why?
Why does she do that?
Why does anyone do anything, retorts back at you.
It’s cold in her house.
So she sits on the floor of an abandoned underground used bookstore at the corner of her street.
No one comes in and no one goes out, she thinks, wishing she could bring business back.
Spicy. No amount of perfume will cover it.
Is it the raw garlic she used to eat as a child?
Daddy offered her sister two dollars to eat a whole clove. Or two.
A dare.
She’d do it voluntarily, never really cared for money.
It happens sometimes.
When she’s alone.
She licks her lips till they’re raw, then smacks them hard to feel the tingle.

“Every time we drop our bombs” by Julia on her bed


Friday, April 19, 2013
2:18pm
5 minutes
A quote by Martin Luther King Jr.

You looked at me with sad eyes and told me, I’m over this. I said, Babe, babe, and you said, No, no. I was holding on to something that looked like you, sounded like you, smelled like you. It wasn’t you, though. You had already left, long ago, bags pre-packed and sitting in the hallway. You were a just in case kind of lover. You hoped for the best and prepared for the worst, just in case I disappointed you. I did, I guess, which is why you had sad eyes and tried so hard to tell me with as few words as possible. You said, I wish I wasn’t sorry about this. I said, Babe, babe.
You said, It’s not easy for me either. I said, Babe, babe.
You tragically pushed the watch I bought you into my lap and said, I can’t. I looked at you holding a watch that, in my mind, was yours even if I bought it, because how the hell is that ever going to fit me? To fit anyone ever again? I said, Please. You said, No, no. Every time I drop the ball, you decide to drop something too. One of those hurt bombs that explode in my face and get me thinking about society and how this whole world is going to shit. And I can think outside myself because I’m good that way. I don’t need any help. All I need is for you to stay here, talk it out.
I waited till you stood up and I said, Babe, babe. You looked at me again with sadder eyes than before and you said, No, No.

Water glass, pint glass and a bottle of hot sauce (photo) by Sasha at her desk


Saturday, April 20, 2013
1:32am
5 minutes
Dip!

When I walked in you had your back to me. Your hair was a bit smooshed at the back, like you’d just woken up, or had been lying in the grass. I approached slowly. “Hey,” I said, and you turned, quickly, and I saw that you’d changed. You’d received a few crows-feet wrinkles around your eyes, your curls had a dusting of grey, your lips sloped ever so slightly downwards. You stood up quickly, to hug me, and I thought, for the first time, how strange this custom was – pressing two bodies together, heads over shoulders. Were you holding your breath? You held on. I had initiated the pulling away, but you were having none of it. “It’s been too long,” you whispered. I imagined that your eyes were closed and as I did, you moved your hand across my back, the way my father does. When you were ready, you pulled back and held me at arms length. You drank me in. “You’ve gotten more beautiful,” you say. “I always knew you’d be one of those people that grow into themselves, that get more and more beautiful as they get older,” you continue, red rising in my cheeks from way, way, down. “Stop,” I say, quietly. “No…” You respond. I sit down in the booth, opposite you. You’ve already ordered me a pint of beer. Yours is three quarters done. Only your face has changed, I guess. Your bad habits are rooted.

“Every time we drop our bombs” by Sasha at her desk


Friday, April 19, 2013
8:12pm
5 minutes
A quote by Martin Luther King Jr.

There was a shooting star
Somewhere in another atmosphere
The moment the explosion happend
And someone wished
Somewhere in another galaxy
That we’d quit our worrying
That we’d stop our whining

“Silly, human beings,”
That someone thought
“Always so concerned.”
I am

Now
A radio-voice
Calls the bluff of the 9-1-1
A radio-voice
Says that
They are at war
Better yet
WE are at WAR

They were running
Through the finish line
Exuberant
Alive
A sudden snap
Shrapnel?
Ankle?
Hope?
Resistance?
Was the man in the baseball hat smiling?
A bag too heavy for the little one to lift

Every time we drop our bombs
That somebody
Shakes her head
Furrows her brows
Wishes on whatever she can find
That one day
One day not too far from this day
We’ll finally
Get it

“When we came downstairs at 1 AM” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Thursday, April 18, 2013
11:45pm
5 minutes
In The Hills
Josh Weil


Come on now. Don’t pretend you didn’t notice. He’s got something strange about him and it isn’t the fact that that kind of mustachio is a choice reserved only for Tom Selleck. I embrace my judgemental-ism in a bear-hug. Yup. I say, “Fuck you, Politeness!” He’s got those eyes that are like slivers, like good slivers, that feel good when you slide them out of the calloused bottom of your heel. You know that kind? Yeah. He hasn’t got any grey hairs, which is too bad, because if he did he could justify his indigence and his clumsy pretension. Who has a name like Gus anymore, anyway? When I first met him I wanted to laugh. But then, miraculously, a few minutes later I was so devastatingly attracted I wanted to throw up. Or lick that magical space underneath his lower lip. It’s the typical repulsion/attraction that seems to be happening to me more and more. It’s worrisome. It is. He has a fucking beer gut, for goodness sake! And all I can think about is feeling it against my back.

“When we came downstairs at 1 AM” by Julia at her desk


Thursday, April 18, 2013
11:43pm
5 minutes
In The Hills
Josh Weil


we are looking for a good man to play us a good song. we want to dance and we want to dance out loud. we want this man to spin us a record, a vinyl, a historical moment. we won’t be able to pay him. we don’t have any money. we come in and out of rooms like ghosts trying to cross over. we fail. the light is bright where we bring it. where is this man? the one who plays the music of our souls, connecting, lamenting, refusing to compromise. does he work at a tiny fish booth in Little Italy? does he have blonde highlights in his hair and a green ring around his pinky finger from a bad metal ring? he knows what we want. we know he does. we told him in our whispered dreams last may that we were going to need this in a year. it’s almost time. we don’t have much else in the way of options. we had our hearts set on the good man playing us a good song. we waited, even. for a year minus 15 days. we thought he’d bring the fish sandwiches to us, play the song, and smile with his eyes closed as we dance a promise out in big block letters that read J-O-Y.

“Smear out the last star.” by Julia on Canoe Landing


Wednesday, April 17, 2013
5:21pm
5 minutes
Absences
Dom Moraes


Shake your head, weary as it is, let out the day, the worry, the flaws.
There is room on the pavement for a collection of stones, rocks, hard places. Shake your head out. Let the haird fall one by one. Dark eyes, circled fear.
There’s a pain in you. A pain. A pain. LaLa is the music. Playing to robots dancing. Your dark mouth, dripping sadness. Go on. A shake. Give it a little shake. Attacked by a stranger’s dog and tossed a Frisbee by another. Say YES. engage. You can say no any other day but today.
Shake shake. Ask for a soy substitute tomorrow. Shake it all off and out. Turn you head upside down to just hang. Let the issues take flight. up up and down down through each pore. Each opening.
Watch the room say goodnight to the light. It closes its eyes and drifts slowly, slowly. T3 headache cure. It’s bringing you to the ocean. It’s bringing you to the ocean.
Shake your head, weary as it is, let out the day, the worry, the flaws.
Let out the day. The worry. The flaws.

“Never seen by waking eyes.” by Julia on her bed


Tuesday, April 16, 2013
12:29am
5 minutes
A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky
Lewis Carroll


Only a dream or a lullaby. One your grandmother sang you. One your mother’s best friend cried about the day you buried her. It was a lot of picking up the pieces, and trying to remember. Trying to turn photographs into living incarnations so the room didn’t feel so cold; so empty. We escaped, the rest of us. The ones left to grieve. Escaped only in some ways, trapped in all the others. You said something about butterflies and visions. She’d be in one of those, maybe, or in an ice cream cone, or a baby’s laugh. No one had taken the time to agree on what she’d be and in what sign you’d look for her. Your father wanted butterflies. Your baby sister wanted angels because that’s what she thought owls were. You didn’t know. You thought both would be fine, but there’s a reason you couldn’t fully see it. Your eyes saw it slightly, but your everything else, your soul, saw nothing of the like. Dark and thick. You tried to make it out, to explain to everyone with words what words could not explain. Not a lighthouse, like her best friend suggested. Not a dove or a miracle. Just the sky. Maybe all encompassing sky would be the right one.

“Smear out the last star.” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Wednesday, April 17, 2013
1:02am
5 minutes
Absences
Dom Moraes


You fill me with so many secrets that keep me from being able to actually think about whether or not, one day, we’ll move to Belize and have a fruit stand, as partners (not lovers), as best friends, as allies in this almost-apocalypse. Let’s forget about the time I yelled like a woman who’d lost her legs, and the time that I told you I hated you more than I’ve ever hated anyone ever. It’s a complicated thing, this, and that, too. Yeah. But… You take me the way I am. You don’t add cream or sugar. You take me still rusty, still dirty, still clumsy, still wondering. You fill my belly with secrets that haven’t ever breathed before. I’ve never met anyone who has the courage to do this. If you were a man, or a lesbian, I would be so desperately in love with you, I’d probably die, because my heart wouldn’t be able to sustain the kind of beating it would do in your heavenly presence. I love you like that. Even though you aren’t a man. Screw it. Let’s go to Belize. I don’t care that we can’t afford plane tickets. We’ll hitchhike, we’ll walk, we’ll double ride on that ridiculous folding bike you just bought.

“Never seen by waking eyes.” by Sasha on her living room floor


Tuesday, April 16, 2013
12:23am
5 minutes
A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky
Lewis Carroll


The sky was grey, heavy, carrying the weight of Spring, of all that’s coming. The ground was soft, moist, just under the surface all the seeds whispering their “good mornings”. The trees were budding, but you had to really look, tiny pokes of green smiling “almost”. The train lurched, stopped and starting as they do, the people swaying, holding onto the poles, stealing glances at strangers they think they know. The bananas in the bowl were more spotted then the day before, perhaps desiring to be turned into bread, or a smoothie, over the point of being peeled and eaten. The mug teetered near the edge of the table, green paisley, given as a gift, found at a garage sale, separated from it’s twins, it’s sisters, many years ago.

“rigidity out of it” by Sasha at her desk


Monday, April 15, 2013
11:08pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Mark Twain

You slid down, back pressed against the wall. You didn’t know that Sondre was watching. You didn’t know that I was there, too, behind him, my breath on his shoulder, a premonition. The front door had just closed. Two men in uniform, spoke, muffled, we were supposed to be sleeping. Sondre was surprised that you answered. You usually didn’t, even in the daylight hours. Maybe you’d peeked through the curtains in the living room, that you’d got for a wedding present from an aunt on his side. I don’t remember her name. We hadn’t seen family in a long time. You slid down, back pressed against the wall. You didn’t let out a sound, but your face showed something I hadn’t seen before. And I knew your face so well, putting me to sleep, waking me up, scolding me for stealing an Oh, Henry! bar, singing me “Happy Birthday.”

“rigidity out of it” by Julia on her couch


Monday, April 15, 2013
11:44pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Mark Twain

Apparently if you throw in a half damp sock into the dryer with a bunch of your already wrinkled clothes, and leave everythin’ in there for at least 20 minutes or somethin’, it makes everythin’ when you take it out come all nice and smooth. No wrinkles. So I’m plannin’ to try this today but I don’t know if I’ll have time, what with Jerry’s mother comin’ to visit us. She needs the casserole dish to be perfectly situated on the table, I need to get us a table cloth or the woman will not sit down, and there has to be enough house plants all over in case she wants to ash somewhere while she’s standin’. So. I won’t have much time to do all the other domestics I said to myself I was goin’ to do. Jerry’s mother is a real house Lady. She knows how everythin’ is supposed to go, and why. But she ain’t have no patience when it comes to dust so I’ve been scrubbin’ every surface around here since last Tuesday, just in case the woman gets out some plastic gloves and tries to run some tests or investigation in my livin’ room. I suppose she has a point, cleanliness, health, all that. But she still comin’ into my house so I have to make sure I have enough chocolate covered digestives just to calm me down!

“she never stopped talking.” by Julia on her couch


Sunday, April 14, 2013
5:23pm
5 minutes
The Reader’s Write
Kesaya E. Noda


There was a stillness in the air.
The wind caught her stealing some sleep and blew her face awake.
She was staring into the future with a hundred tiny postcards of pretty flowers from Sedona.
The heart, the one she borrowed, sat in the mason jar by the window and collected light.
She was holding onto tomorrow with a tight, firm grasp.
If someone were to come and try to rid her of it, there would have been a fight.
Her eyes were heavy, her crazy stretchy hand skin was a bit chapped from the cold.
She wore tiny bells on her wrist so everyone would know that she was coming.
Told people it was a bracelet.

“Original” by Julia at her desk


Saturday, April 13, 2013
3:45am
5 minutes
Mary’s Cracker box

She’s one of a kind
she’s got sex on her mind
she’ll beat and bruise you till you cry
she’s anything but nice
Saw your picture in a magazine and knew what she would do
didn’t wait for very long for her to go and find you
She was hoping you’d be just as submissive as your smile
But she wasn’t taking chances so she’d stalk you for a while

Original those girls who are almost criminal
She wanted to make your life hell
She wanted to bite like an animal

She was on the hunt with a mint leaf in her mouth
knew the fine line between fun and all that stuff she reads about
wanted to drown all her dreams in the tub for a midnight race and a down town rub

“Ich liebe dich” by Julia at her desk


Friday, April 12, 2013
3:16am
5 minutes
The Norton Scores
Edited by Roger Kamien


It means I love you in German. It means I love you, Dylan. I wasn’t trying to be weird but I thought if I learned how to say I love you in every language I could just tell you one day, you’d be impressed, and that would be that. It’s just. Okay, it’s weird, but Marissa knows how to say I love you in every language because she works at RIM and there are a lot of different people there. Anyway she told me how she learned them, memorized them really, then said them to her boyfriend, Rich, and he was really touched. Like I’m not going to give you the gift of languages and then pretend like that’s the only thing I’m giving you for your birthday the way Marissa did, but I just thought you’d think it was cute that I tried to learn so many things for you. But I also know how to say it in Mandarin! Why don’t you care if it’s in Mandarin or not?! I think that’s the coolest one. Do you know how hard it is to speak Mandarin?

“she never stopped talking.” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Sunday, April 14, 2013
9:23am
5 minutes
The Reader’s Write
Kesaya E. Noda


She never stopped talking. I imagine her, in her grave, six feet under, lips pursing into “No, no, no,” voice raising in shrieks of “Tuna was on sale for fifty five cents!” I wasn’t exactly happy, going to Winnipeg for the Winter, but she was dying and it almost seemed like a “I have to” situation. No matter how many times my father said, “You don’t have to go, Carlee,” I did. I did have to go. When I got there I had to take a taxi from the airport, which always strikes me as incredibly sad. For anyone but businessmen and businesswomen who don’t care either way, as long as they’ve got their mini-bar and their black Amex. The house was cold. “Granny?!” I called. I followed the sound of her voice down to the basement. She was pulling apart cassette tapes that had been my grandfathers. She was wrapping herself in the long strings of tape. “I wanna wear the songs, baby,” she kept saying, her wrinkly skin looking like crepe-paper. I laughed but then got concerned for the cold and for how long I suspected she’d been down there. It was a long winter. It was a long winter of tomato soup and hamburger mash, the only things she wanted. And black coffee.

“Original” by Sasha at her desk


Saturday, April 13, 2013
2:21am
5 minutes
Mary’s Cracker box

The smoke knew
So did the the fire
The heart heard
The call of the wild
I knew you were here
Before seeing your face
The original Love
The invader of space
You were taller now
Reaching up up and down
You weren’t smiling a lot
You had a too cool frown
You held a bottle
Of ice cold beer
You were keeping together
You were trying for real
I walked over to you
Heart beating so fast
The gallery was ice cold
I knew I would last
I said
Hi
You said
Low
I smiled
You frowned
And I turned to
Go

“Ich liebe dich” by Sasha on her couch


Friday, April 12, 2013
1:12am
5 minutes
The Norton Scores
Edited by Roger Kamien


When I started quoting the Scriptures and singing in German, that’s when they started looking at me funny. It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that I hadn’t showered or changed my underwear, it absolutely was unrelated to the shaving of my head. As a woman, shaving your head completely bald is the ultimate sacrifice. It’s the ultimate telling of the future. It’s the future of the human species, really. I never knew I had a beauty mark in the soft spot, where a baby finds her dreams. “Ich liebe dich,” I sang to the bus driver. He didn’t get it, or he was left alone for too long as a teenager, or he didn’t respond well to my bald head beauty mark. He furrowed his brow and asked me to step behind the yellow line.

“Isabella (image dip)” By Sasha at The Common on Bloor


Thursday, April 11, 2013 at The Common on Bloor
2:06pm
5 minutes
IMG_1394
By Julia Pileggi

She’s made the hair like her own, like she always does, like she draws all men with beards because Bob has one. Sam will be seven in May. The night she was born was the biggest rainstorm we’d ever seen. Thunder and lightning. The power went out. The midwife held a flashlight for the doctor. Sam screamed for the first year of her life. I wondered how her throat wasn’t sore. We barely slept, Bob and me, taking turns walking with her, driving with her, singing to her, coo-ing in her tiny ear. I wrote more lullaby songs in that year than I’d ever dreamed possible. Bob and I would talk about tactics, bleary and grouchy, him twisting his moustache and me biting my nails, our nervous and tired habits. At one and a half, Sam calmed down because she started to talk. She had Bob’s green eyes and my wirey dark hair. We don’t know where her nose came from because neither of us had a ski-jump. I never thought I’d like being a mother. I never thought I’d be cut out for it… I mean, when people meet me they don’t exactly think – “she’s loving!” “She’s so kind!” “She’s born to be a mother!”

“I do the illusion.” by Sasha at her desk


Wednesday, April 10, 2013
1:07am
5 minutes
Women of Manhattan
John Patrick Shanley


The stars were dancing when he took his first step
The Macarena
Hands on shoulders in front
Bums shaking
He was trying to reach them
Trying to get to them
Always trying to climb
Before he could step
“No!” said his scared parents
Afraid he would figure out a way to climb over the fence
Afraid that he would find a way to fly up to those stars
Dancing
“Let us love you!” They said
But he frowned
He wanted to go to the sky
To skate the Milky Way
To tickle the cherubs
Waiting
His place wasn’t here
It was a mistake
He’d meant to take a left turn at the Horizon
And he’d taken a right
He’d ended up inside a woman named Betsy
Who ate peanut butter from the jar
Who said “Gosh!”

“Isabella (image dip)” By Julia at The Common on Bloor


Thursday, April 11, 2013 at The Common on Bloor
2:06pm
5 minutes
IMG_1394
By Julia Pileggi

Jumping time is any time! That’s what Mommy says! Mommy says so many things that I can’t even REMEMBER THEM ALL!! Ahhhhhhhhhhh! Mommy jumps. She wears her bathing suit in the winter time and then runs around in the snow because it’s FUN. I don’t have one with two pieces yet. Mommy says it’s not right for me. I tell her I want to run in the snow with my robe on! Pink and ripped but pink and perfect! Mommy says, do whatever your little heart desires. It desires cotton candy most days. Or CAMPFIRES with ROASTED MARSHMALLOWS!!! Yessssssss!!! I like it just me and Mommy. I can tell her I will not go to bed early and she will say, okay just five more minutes! And that is a nice thing she says. She also tells me to eat my vegetables first to get them out of the way! Then REWARD TIME with a Lindt Bunny! I tell her I want a real bunny and for Christmas she says, It’s looking good, baby! Got a good lead on a new friend for you. Someone for you to play with. But at Christmas I don’t get a bunny. I get a BABY BROTHER! Mommy’s so sneaky. I say, did Daddy come home and stay home long enough to help you make him? And Mommy says, Not quite, baby. Not quite.

“I do the illusion.” by Julia on her couch


Wednesday, April 10, 2013
1:07am
5 minutes
Women of Manhattan
John Patrick Shanley


I do the illusion well. I throw my hair in front of my face, sort of hiding the fear, the madness. There’s a spot on my forehead where if you shine a light directly on it, you can see what I’m avoiding. What I’m refusing to tell you even if I’m seemingly being honest. On the right side of my face is the mechanism, disguised by my eyebrow, designed to flicker ever so slightly every single time a dream of mine is being ridiculed.
My clothes are every day clothes. They are comprised of some fashionable items and mostly hand-me-downs. They hide what I won’t show anyone: a tattoo of what I really really want. The amount of money I think I should be earning. The amount of money I actually earn. The amount of money I dream about when I’m letting the grass grow green in my mind. My shoes, holding the soul…are lace ups, or boots, and the soul in each shoe is tattered and covered in band-aids from all the rubbing.

“adapted for use” by Julia on the 29 going North


Tuesday, April 9, 2013
11:03pm
5 minutes
101 More Drama Games for Children
Paul Rooyackers


We’re trying this thing where we don’t stop touching at any hour of the day. Like every hour we have to at least be making physical contact, even if it’s just with our hair, or our pinkie toes, so that we can feel each others’ essence. You’d be so surprised. It actually has made us way stronger. We’re in sync, we know when to deal with things out loud and when to use physical touch to help things. We fight less. Way less. We aren’t able to sustain anger while we’re touching because it forces us to be involved with the other person, to see them, to feel them and remember they’re a love of ours. That they’re a human being with needs and sensitivities. If you’re standing so far away from someone and flailing your arms around and throwing hateful words, you can so easily detach yourself and stay mad longer. But when your ears are in direct contact with his ears, then it’s like, mind-blowingly different. It brings a sense of play to the situation so you can pull back and laugh at how ridiculous it all is, or was, or could be if you stayed the way you were staying.

“In all times and all countries,” by Julia at her kitchen table

Monday, April 8, 2013
5:32pm
5 minutes
The Three Muskateers
Alexandre Dumas


Someone’s laughing
Someone’s crying
Someone’s holding someone’s hand
Someone’s being born
Someone’s dying
Someone’s asking for help
Someone’s waiting to speak
Someone’s getting dressed
Someone’s answering a phone
Someone’s accusing someone
Someone’s celebrating something
Someone’s killing something…small…and with antennae
Someone’s swearing
Someone’s promising
Someone’s lying
Someone’s hoping
Someone’s yelling
Someone’s sleeping
Someone’s listening
Someone’s writing
Someone’s eating
Someone’s making lists
Someone’s remembering
Someone’s forgetting
Someone’s falling in love
Someone’s drinking
Someone’s needing forgiveness
Someone’s playing the whole day back in their minds
Someone’s creating

“As a last word” by Julia at her desk


Sunday, April 7, 2013
12:04am
5 minutes
How to Shoot a Movie Story
Arthur L. Gaskill and David A. Englander


Well isn’t it weird that he doesn’t look directly at you when he’s talking? Isn’t it..uncomfortable?
No. Honestly. I’ve told you, he has an eye thing.
A what? He has an eye thing?
Yeah that thing that his eye does. Just wanders, it’s not creepy.
But like, where do you look when you speak to him? His forehead?
No you look in his eyes like you do everybody else.
But one is always going on its own little journey. You can’t ever look at both.
I know. You look at the good one. The one that stays.
Do you think it has any feeling in it? Like if you poked it mayb–
Eww. Don’t say shit like that. That’s a human’s eye. It’s an..an eye.
Whatever I’m not into weird eye things. It’s not a turn on for me the way it is for you!
Shut up. He’s a good guy. He’s way better than most guys with both good eyes.

“All natural” by Julia on her couch


Saturday April 6, 2013
2:43am
5 minutes
Cameron’s beer coaster

Okie dokie! She said. She always said weird shit like that.
I met her when I was 9 and she annoyed me even then, but I also liked her. I didn’t have many friends. Felt like I was a friend failure since the only one I picked to hang out with was right nuts and needed to be put in restraints if she ate too many Gummie chews. I liked her because she was very sweet to the elderly, always drawing little pictures and writing poems for them. Old people are my soft spot. I really do love them. But it was her idea to go to the nursing home to perform the dance we made up to Madonna’s entire True Blue album.
That was nice. She had a good heart, but those phrases. Man those phrases. It was as if she wanted to convince me to use them too but it never worked. That’s something that will never rub off on me. Dumb catch phrases. And punny jokes.

“adapted for use” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Tuesday, April 9, 2013
11:12pm
5 minutes
101 More Drama Games for Children
Paul Rooyackers


“With a name like that, you’re just asking for it!” He says, this dumb guy with the dumb haircut that all guys seem to have, with that dumb smile that’s really a “I’m coooooool.” “I didn’t choose my name, asshole,” I say, turning around, hoping that Jo will save me. She doesn’t. She’d gone to the bathroom, or out for a cigarette, or is in the alley behind the bar making out with Joaquin, her flavour of the month, sexy but rude, tall but skinny. “Damn,” I whisper. I face forward, face the wall of scotch, bourbon, whiskey, rye. I look down. I think about stealing the few loonies that are there, meant for the bartender, but she was a bitch so who cares. I do. I steal them. Dumb Guy notices and says, “Oh, so you’re that kinda girl.” I pause. I want to hit him but I don’t want to get kicked out so I pause, instead. “What kind is that?” “The stealing kind.” “NO way,” I say, sliding off the stool. “I saw that,” he whispers. “Those dollars don’t belong to you.” “Whatever.” I walk away. I go into the bathroom, graffitied and smelling of Comet and pee. “Jo?!” “Nope – ” says a voice, in a stall. I don’t apologize. Most people would. I’m trying to break that habit. I walk through the bar, a long and lean room, towards the door. Dumb Guy grabs my hand, “Baby, let’s dance.”

“In all times and all countries,” by Sasha at King’s Cafe


Monday, April 8, 2013 at King’s Cafe
4:12pm
5 minutes
The Three Muskateers
Alexandre Dumas


Henry wished that he’d remembered to wash the lettuce. When he saw how pretty Deb looked he felt bad that he’d rushed, that he hadn’t changed his shirt, that he’d bought a pre-made Chicken Pot Pie and claimed it as his own. “Wow,” said Deb, after her first bite, “you really know how to cook!” She looked so excited, so filled with genuine admiration for the trouble that he’d gone to. He almost confessed, but then thought about how he’d have to explain why he’d lied in the first place. “Thanks,” he muttered, “it’s just simple.” He hadn’t washed the lettuce because he hated having to put it through the spinner. He remembered her saying how she loved caesar dressing, but not the creamy kind, the vinaigrette. It was one of their first conversations on the phone, and they were talking about some of their favorite things. Deb: sleeping in; the smell of basements; caesar vinaigrette; rhubarb pie; sharp pencils. Henry: motorcycles; a new toothbrush; well groomed feet; sweet potato pie; the sound of traffic. She’d laughed, her Tinker-bell laugh, that’s what Henry called it. She looked less like a fairy and more like a queen. But she laughed like Tinker-bell. It made Henry miss Alice, his first wife, with her hearty, full, laugh. He had a pang, but sent it away with a bit of the pie.

“only the sound of the wind” by Julia at Saving Gigi


Friday, April 5, 2013
11:20a at Saving Gigi
5 minutes
Misery
Stephen King


Caught in a dizzy haze, I was waiting for you to come home all day. Kept running to the front window every time I heard footsteps-I thought it was you, you know. Thought you’d be back and we could make lunch together-or watch a show. But then my mind started spinning and I was caught in a dizzy haze. It made me feel almost sick but not enough to lay down. Maybe it was the missing of you–the absence of you that made me feel turned upside down. That or that I forgot to eat because I kept waiting to cook the cauliflower with you. I would have started without you, I suppose. It wouldn’t be too bad if I had tried to prepare some key ingredients. But I didn’t know if you wanted soup or if you wanted to roast it. I didn’t want to call just in case you were busy. So I was quiet for a long time – left alone in this rickety house with only the sound of wind to keep me company. You didn’t tell me where you were. Or when you’d be back. I panicked for a minute thinking you’d never return because you liked wherever you ended up better than being with me. I know, I know, that’s crazy. But I told you. I was caught there. In a dizzy haze.

‘ONE DRY PINT’ by Julia on her couch


Thursday, April 4, 2013
11:55pm
5 minutes
from the cherry tomato carton

Harry sat at the bar hating his name. He couldn’t stop thinking about how old he sounded on paper–how British. Harry’s mother didn’t speak a word of English and heard the name Harry once while struggling to shop for what she called a “water go, pasta stop.” No one at the store understood her-except for a lucky encounter with a shopper named Harry who recognized her needs. “A colander?” He asked, helped her pay for the stupid thing, then smiled and said his name. She didn’t tell him her name. She was private like that. But she felt like she should thank him somehow for helping her the way he did when she felt all alone in a new country. And unlike any one else who’d buy him a nice bottle of wine or something, she named her first son Harry. Harry always hated his name. He orders a pint of Guinness and stared at it while thinking about his assignment due in the morning for English Lit. He shouldn’t have gone to the bar in the first place, but he was stressed out because his roommate, Ryan, had just gotten dumped by his long distance girlfriend. Harry wished he had a name like that. Ryan.

“As a last word” by Sasha on her couch


Sunday, April 7, 2013
9:26pm
5 minutes
How to Shoot a Movie Story
Arthur L. Gaskill and David A. Englander


I dreamt in Spanish, finally. I’ve been waiting for it to happen, wondering, wishing, for years. Since 2002, April, when the cherry blossoms filled the park. It doesn’t matter that that was the year we met, it’s simply irrelevant. I’d taken a bath before bed, a hot one, and I’d laid there until I was prune-y and half asleep. I’d drunk half a bottle of wine, cheap, given to me as a gift. “Never buy yourself wine, chocolate, cigarettes or marijuana,” my mother frequently told me. “But use each, in moderation,” she would wink. You’d taught me how to count in Spanish before we went to Seville. I didn’t want to have to rely on you to pay for things (even though it was my money) or negotiate. I was better at both. I would practise counting on my bike ride to work, while eating my lunch, making dinner. I didn’t like your hair short, the way you had it then, but I liked your clean-shaven face so… I was trying to be less picky. I learned more as we travelled through Spain, as we stayed with your aunts and uncles and second-cousins. “I want my last words to be this language,” I’d said, late one night, lying beside you, trying to only touch toes because it was so hot. “No, no…” You’d said, “Your last words should be in your mother tongue.” The beginning of the end, I suppose. The beginning of the beginning.

“All natural” by Sasha on her kitchen floor


Thursday, April 4, 2013
2:36am
5 minutes
Cameron’s beer coaster

VeeVee wasn’t the kind of woman who got her nails done. She thought spending twenty five dollars on polishing the endest bit of an extremity was the biggest block of baloney. It wasn’t because she lived through the Great Depression. It was because she knew the value of a dollar better than any person you’ll ever meet. She knew how to read the stocks pages of the newspaper but she was artist. She did all of her children’s taxes. Her name wasn’t really VeeVee it was Violet. But that’s what my sister called her when she couldn’t say her real name and then it just kind of stuck. VeeVee lived on the top floor of our house when we were growing up, in her own suite. She’d share some dinners with us, or babysit when my parents went out on a Date Night or to an Auction. She’s give us as many caramel candies as we could stomach, the only real “grandma” type thing she actually followed through on, but the whole time she’d say, “Don’t blame VeeVee when you get a bellyache!” And we didn’t. We blamed ourselves. VeeVee had been married four times. My mother’s father was a fisherman whom she’d met at the Market where she sold the jewellery that she made. She was their only child. She had seven brothers, though, from the three other marriages. VeeVee and my mother had a tense relationship. In fact, after one particularly bad fight, VeeVee packed up all her things and spent a week at the Youth Hostel on Hastings. She was eighty-two.

“only the sound of the wind” by Sasha at her desk


Friday, April 5, 2013
3:14pm
5 minutes
Misery
Stephen King


It was colder than we’d ever thought it would be. It was colder and damper. The kind of cold that sneaks into your insides, your lungs and your marrow. The kind of cold that’s hard to get out. The kind of cold where you cross your fingers for a bathtub, or a fireplace, or a hot radiator to sit by. There was only the sound of the wind. It might’ve been lonely, but we were there together, Papa and me, and there was nothing lonely about that. He’d grown up on this tundra, with this snow. I’d always wondered why he was sad, the sadness heavy in the air around him, coming out of his mouth. It was because he missed the ice, he missed the sky. “You won’t like it here,” he’d said on the phone, so many times. “I will! I will!” I’d said. “You’re there,” I’d thought.

‘ONE DRY PINT’ by Sasha on her couch


Thursday, April 4, 2013
11:45pm
5 minutes
from the cherry tomato carton

We could cut slices of the tension, like cheesecake, moist and lemony. Instead we pretend. We’re very good at it. From the outside, no one would know. Actually, that’s a lie. Your sister would know. She would raise her eyebrows and say, “What the heck, you guys?!” It had all started when you came into the kitchen and I was eating a whole quiche. “What the fuck, Kelly?” You said. “I’m… upset -” was all I could say, a little piece of crust falling out of my mouth. “He’s dead, I can do what I want,” I continued, you shrinking your eyes so they looked so much less kind, less green. “You’re going to regret everything you’re doing, Kelly,” you said, like you were smarter than me, like you’d figured out the magical recipe of how to grieve well.

“no matter what she wears.” By Sasha at The Common on Bloor


Wednesday, April 3, 2013 at The Common on Bloor
3:47pm
5 minutes
from a quote by Anne Roiphe

“We need to get him to start meditating, Carmen,” he hears his father say to his mother. It’s their Monday night phone call. When they’d first separated they had only communicated via e-mail. Two years later, now that he was seven, they spoke, once a week, about how he was doing. They’d even braved parent-teacher interviews. Together. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. “He’s having trouble concentrating, Carmen,” his father said. Was he repeating himself. He imagined what his mother might be saying on the other end of the line, if she was raising her voice, if she felt vulnerable because he spent more time with her. His father was, “mmm-ing”. They were agreeing. Great. Great. His father laughed, “I know, I know. Last time I set the timer to twelve minutes and I didn’t tell him!” His father laughed again, louder this time. He had had enough. He went down to the kitchen, where there was another phone. He picked up. “Carlos?” Said his mother, “Is that you?” He couldn’t find his voice. “Carlos!” His father said, “This is a private conversation!” He held his breath. “Honey, I know you’re there…” Said his mother.

“from lips to hips” by Sasha at her desk


Tuesday, April 2, 2013
11:32pm
5 minutes
Sandpaper
Satish Verma


I want it to go faster. “Faster,” I say, breathless, breath high, breath low, breath on your cheek, in your ear. “Stop being so bossy,” you respond, sweaty, face so close I can smell your morning coffee, consumed quicker than a mudslide. “I’m not,” switch positions, I’m o top now, “You told me you like it when I tell you what I want…” You close your eyes. Are you tuning me out? Tuning into the feeling in your gut, in your toes, in your places I can’t quite touch yet. “Stop fucking talking,” you say, but soft, but slow, but almost warm. I think about why we broke up, how we broke up, your face looking like the full moon when we broke up. “I love you,” you say. Shit shit shit shit shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen, no one was supposed to fall, backwards.

“no matter what she wears.” By Julia at Sambuca Grill


Wednesday, April 3, 2013 at Sambuca Grill
3:47pm
5 minutes
from a quote by Anne Roiphe

My grandfather was a compulsive liar. He used to tell stories to anyone who’d listen. Anyone who wouldn’t–he’d lie even more. I used to wonder how my grandmother put up with him, how she trusted him, how she knew when he was being sincere. She seemed so happy all of the time. She wasn’t one of those closet sad people. No trace of pills, of depression, of long cords tucked under her bed. Nothing like that. She was genuinely content. Then I figured it out. She knew that everything my grandfather said to others wasn’t true; but he would never lie to her. They must have made an arrangement when they were young and in love. She was tough, I forget that sometimes. She was the one who made the decisions. She was the one that put him in his place. He loved my grandmother more than life itself.
I know this because he’d tell us when we were kids, “your grandmother is the laziest woman I’ve ever met.”
She baked for us every Sunday whether we saw her or not.