Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Mr. Burns: A Post-Electric Play
At first I don’t think it’s a problem, but then I realize that it is a problem, a big problem, and so I call Dot.
Dot doesn’t answer, because she’s at chemotherapy. I instantly feel bad that I’m going to bug her about something as silly as a cinematic existential crisis. She’s dying. Nothing trumps that.
I resent the fact that the word T-R-U-M-P is now ruined, because before all of this baloney I really did like that word.
Dot calls me back before dinner, while the chicken breasts sear in the pan, and NPR plays from the shitty speaker in my phone.
“I can’t say I know what you’re talking about,” Dot says, in that way that she does, in that way that feels like chamomile tea.
“I see the slug-lines of my life, Dot!” I cry, flipping the over-cooked chicken with a pair of tongs she gave me. “For example right now, this conversation, it’s an overhead shot, lit dimly, with a score of sweeping cello!”
Monday February 27, 2017
From a text
Bobby makes Owen laugh, and that’s why
he keeps him around. Some people have
sidekicks and some people have acne
especially on their chins and foreheads.
Bobby has acne. Owen has
They weren’t always
friends, in fact, they used to be sworn
enemies, in the way that
nine year old boys
swear in blood and sticks whittled
with their fathers’ pen knives.
Owen asks Bobby if he wants a turn
with one of his girlfriends. Bobby
doesn’t know what that means,
politely declines. They are sitting
inside the slide in the schoolyard
where they used to go to school,
where they swore in blood,
made statements bigger than their bodies,
bigger than their dreams of the NHL
and running a non-profit that serves
both the hungry and stray cats
Sunday February 26, 2017
Dear Sugar Radio
When Heloise first saw Penelope, she knew that they’d been cut from the same piece of floral corduroy. It had nothing to do with the hands of the mothers that they were each holding. It had everything to do with their size. Both a head taller than everyone else in their Grade Three class, the girls became fast friends. Height aside, their physical features couldn’t have been more different. Heloise had jet black hair cut into a bob, with blunt bangs that ended just above her eyebrows. Her mother had the exact same haircut. They went every five weeks to the salon on 10th. Heloise’s eyes were brown, like her father’s, and she had a small mouth, which she regarded with disdain. Penelope had auburn curls, which she wore loosely braided down one side. She had her ears pierced, and wore small jade heart studs. They’d been a birthday present from her mother. Penelope’s mother reminded everyone of someone they knew. “I have one of those faces,” she’d say with a smile.