“get shared and discovered” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Wednesday May 4, 2016
12:47pm
5 minutes
From the back of a pamphlet

“I want to write about female friendship, but no one publishes it,” Rhonda picks at the scab on her forearm. She just got a tattoo covered up. A rose covering a butterfly. “Fuck butterflies,” she says. I remember when she got that tattoo. We were eighteen. She wouldn’t shut up about the fact that it was her spirit animal and a “governing force in the journey of her life”.

“I’m getting more iced tea,” Rhonda stretches, standing up from the picnic table. The bench has made a line on her thighs. Her cutoffs are riding up. “Want some?” She’s in through the screen door.

“Yeah, sure,” I say, putting on more sunscreen.

“In just 10 months you have come a long way” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Tuesday May 3, 2016
10:53pm
5 minutes
From the Twitter account of the woman sitting in front of Julia

Grief looks good on her. At least that’s what people keep saying. Not directly, but that’s what they’re saying, under the tight lipped smiles. Mostly other women. Sometimes men, but it’s quiet, it’s less direct. She’s running every day, because she can’t sit still. Her feet shuffle when she’s at the table, opening the mail. She tries to write in the journal that her sister sent her from the New Age gift shop, but the pen won’t move. Meanwhile, her knees jump. She runs in the ravine, where the trees haven’t really changed since she was a child. She starts drinking all of her meals, unable to chew, almost unable to swallow.

“not quite ready for viewing” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Monday May 2, 2016
10:44pm
5 minutes
From leoawards.com

A: Hello?!

B: Um –

A: Hello?

B: We’re not quite ready for viewing yet! Please come back at –

A: Hi.

B: Oh. It’s –

A: Me.

B: I saw the “Open House” sign out front and thought maybe –

A: What were you doing in this neighbourhood?

B: I, uh –

A: Bob, are you following me?

B: No.

A: I’m at work. I can’t really talk.

B: I know, I just, I just wanna see the house. I want first dibs.

A: You love your house. I found you that house.

B: Mmm, I don’t love it quite as much as –

A: What is wrong with you?

“Snoop through” by Sasha on the plane


Sunday May 1, 2016
8:49pm
5 minutes
From a tweet by Toronto Life

“Snoop snoop be doo snoop be doo snoop be do be do be do snoop be doo snoop be doo snoop be do be do snoop be doo snoop be doo snoop be do be do snoop be doo snoop be doo snoop be do be do snoop be doo snoop be doo snoop be do be do snoop be doo snoop be doo snoop be do be do snoop snoop -”

“I got my mind on my money and my money on my mind…”

“Time goes by so slowly, and time can do so much – ”

“Umbrella ella ella eh eh eh – ”

“Snoop snoop be doo snoop be doo snoop be do be do be do snoop be doo snoop be doo snoop be do be do snoop be doo snoop be doo snoop be do be do snoop be doo snoop be doo snoop be do be do!”

“You’re shouting!”

“What?!”

“You’re shouting!”

“What?!”

“first on our list” by Sasha in a hotel room


Saturday April 30, 2016
2:19pm
5 minutes
From the PTC newsletter

The moment before the lights come up, my hands stop shaking. They’ve probably been going for three hours, save when I eat my dinner, which calms me. I imagine that I am flying above the audience, looking down at them, wings spreading as wide as the stadium. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel mighty. And then the lights come up and everyone is screaming and the bass note goes and it’s time for me to come in and my voice, my voice, my voice… A croak. A single croak like a frog.

“I’m flexible” by Sasha in Mississauga


Friday April 29, 2016
10:41pm
5 minutes
From an e-mail

We found ourselves in the middle of your kitchen floor. A key in the lock. Shit. Shit. I sneak into the pantry cupboard with flour and chickpeas and tortilla chips. I can’t believe I fit. I don’t understand. I hear his voice and yours, higher than usual. I wonder if he can smell the stress? The pasta?

He goes upstairs, heavy feet. You whisper to me, “it’s safe now,” and I almost say, “nevermind,” and stay in the kitchen and let it all blow up.

I don’t. I go. I walk the three doors down, from your house to mine. My wife kisses me. “What did you have for lunch?” she asks.