these five minutes

“Union dues” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 02/14/201902/16/2019

Thursday February 14, 2019
9:53pm
5 minutes
From a tax form

Leftovers from dinner are cooling on the counter when Bill gets home. A half eaten chicken, steamed broccoli and cauliflower, brown rice. He packs things up in containers and puts them in the fridge, snacks on a few morsels of dark meat, works at the caked on rice with a butter knife. Margaret is in the bath upstairs. He can tell because she’s talking to herself and that’s the only place she does it. She hasn’t written in a long time, but when she’s in the bath and talking out loud it means she’ll be back at the book soon, that the characters are moving in her.

“It’s comfy and cozy.” By Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 02/13/201902/15/2019

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

Wednesday February 13, 2019
11:02pm
5 minutes
From a text

Those wouldn’t be words that I’d use to describe Max… More like gruff… and, and kind. He isn’t the touchy-feely type, right, like, he is a good guy but he keeps people at arm’s length. Might be because he was orphaned when he was young, betcha didn’t know that. Yup, his folks’ died in a train accident and he went to live with his uncle who didn’t have any idea how to raise a child. Poor guy. He’s a dreamer, like, he’s the kind of man that can wander around a city and not care where he’s going. Maybe he’ll end up in a bookstore or a sandwich shop or sitting on a park bench. Max likes days like that. If you ask him how’s he’s doing he’ll always answer the same, have you noticed that? He’ll say, “I’m still here…”

“It’s comfy and cozy.” By Julia in her bed

10:43pm
Wednesday February 13, 2019
from a text

Salesman sells the bed
well says that’s where it’s
comfy cozy and did you see?
It’s big enough for three..

We say we ain’t looking for a bed that fits more
than two,
just us we and our four feet
that’s what we like to do

salesman sells the bed by sayin’ you’ll regret it if you don’t try
So we go home right away
and try to conceive
that night

We were happy with our elbows
meetin’ in the middle space
our noses in each other’s mouths was our funny
little place

But salesman’ got us thinkin’ when he was sellin’ us that bed
That we could have a spot for two or one for three instead

“live life well” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 02/12/201902/15/2019

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

Tuesday February 12, 2019
10:10pm
5 minutes
From a mural

All she wants is to “live life well.” Those are her words. She chooses them carefully, her words, like her handbags, like her cantaloupes. She doesn’t think that she’s done this up until now, not the “well” part at least. She’s done the living and the life. Turning fifty was a big deal for her. She re-assessed in a way that she never had before – not when she went to graduate school, not when she had her son, not when she divorced her first love, not when she lost her second. What does it mean, to “live life well”? For her, it means a few days a week of waking up without an alarm; a walk in the forest with a close friend; eating the five dollar chocolate.

“live life well” by Julia at her desk

By: Julia 02/12/2019

Uncategorizedaddage, admit, advice, cheesy, daily, dip, excuse, justify, live, poster, print, reasons, sailor, sea, stars, testing, unedited, wrong

Tuesday February 12, 2019
10:05pm
5 minutes
From a mural

How many times can you ask me what you’ve done wrong. I can’t answer a specific action or thing you’ve said. I can’t tell you exactly the reason I’ve been testing you, pushing you away way way. I think for the most part we live life well. Live laugh love. We do whatever that cheesy print tells us we should be doing. The frame with a ballet dancer on it or something. Not that it’s bad advice, I mean, shouldn’t we live life well laugh love?

Okay, you have done nothing wrong. You’re the stars on the ceiling. You’re the real deal. The one without secrets. Me, I’m the sailor. I’m the one who took the job on the sea, see you, see you see.

“heart wrenching soaring n magical place.” By Julia on the 4

Monday February 11, 2019
6:04pm
5 minutes
Kits
Bill Bissett

Left my heart on the beach with the tide out

Sun dippin’ low givin’ glow to all the good neighbours

Those clouds, man, did they drink

I drank too like it might be my last sip and I swirled it there in my mouth, painting my tongue a kind of magic

Bear’s hands were holding the cups and I have the good eye so I took all the photos, freezin’ my hand skin as offerin’, trade, holy sacrifice

And then the red x pinged off the horizon and splashed us both diagonal, split us both in two cause then more of us could witness

Bear’s mug clanked my mug and we two stepped with the teasing foam as it came knocking on our boots, kissing at our toes

“heart wrenching soaring n magical place.” By Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 02/11/201902/12/2019

Uncategorized

Monday February 11, 2019
4:10pm
5 minutes
Kits
Bill Bissett

Apparently you’re not supposed to blow out beeswax candles. You’re supposed to snuff them with a candle-snuffer. I feel like a real rebel when you’re not home and I huff and puff that candle out. You’d be pissed. I tell you to eat more dates, take your multi-vitamin, drink more water. You roll your eyes and say that there are women in impoverished places who don’t even have access to proper nutrition and they birth perfectly healthy babies. I can’t make you do anything. At least I’ve learned that by now. It’s not like we planned any of this. We’d only been dating for three months, in fact, and then you were pregnant and I became obsessed with never becoming my father.

“We look forward to moving you!” By Julia on her couch

Sunday February 10, 2019
9:42pm
5 minutes
a Morrison’s Moving poster

It’s a dark room and you are sitting in it. All around it, waiting for something. You’re feeling a tingle of surprise and expectation. You will never fully get what you think you’re going to get. You are ready. All of you in your collective readiness is current. Is consciousness. You and all your pockets touching, phones buzzing or quietly, you and all your friction, candy wrapper anticipation blows the floor out of quotidian thought. You are all in the dark waiting for something. And there’s magic in that. It’s connection in the wings, it’s about to happen and we’re all a part of it. You and me and all of us in this room, gathered to share a thing with some other humans at the same time, while breathing. We remember to breathe, feel, in groups. We know the power of persuasion. We say yes.

“We look forward to moving you!” By Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 02/10/201902/12/2019

5 minutes, creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projecttripping, unedited

Sunday February 10, 2019
1:11pm
5 minutes
a Morrison’s Moving poster

I added some psychedelic mushrooms to my morning omelette. My sister went to chef school in Paris and learned how to make a real omelette. She taught me. There’s no going back. It’s omelettes almost every morning. Shrooms are only added on Sundays, though. Let’s not get too crazy over here. I also added chevre and fresh chives. I thought about texting Jess to see if she wanted to come over and get high together, but then I remembered the last time we did that she ended up fully clothed in the shower for two hours and the waste of water alone was enough to shut that idea down. Tripping by oneself is not for the faint of heart, though.

“Are you Joaquin or River?” By Julia on the 2

Saturday February 9, 2019
6:29pm
5 minutes
From a voicemail message

Hey River,

I miss you. I’ll start by saying that. I’m listening to an old tape of you snoring. I used to hate you for it when we shared a room. Recorded you one night to show you just how loud it was. Now all I’m wishing for is to hear you breathe again. I wouldn’t care if it kept me up this time.
I’ve been thinking about you lately. Someone asked how I was doing as if it hasn’t been a lifetime since you left. I fucking miss you every day. Maybe I should have said that. I said, Things are good for me. And they are, you know, most days. I’m working so much you’d be real proud. Wish you could see how much better my chops are now.
Anyway, I know you’re with me so I’m not here to whine. Send me a rumble when you think of it.

Love, Joaquin.

“Are you Joaquin or River?” By Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 02/09/201902/12/2019

5 minutes, creative writing, ongoing writing practice, poem, short poem, tiny poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectunedited, war

Saturday February 9, 2019
2:16pm
5 minutes
From a voicemail message

It’s a call to arms
the sound of three thousand
trumpets at dawn
waking the birds even
waking the sky

a war cry and

I’m nothing
in the face of this strength

I’m quaking in my combat boots
shaking in my conviction
or maybe that’s fear

Sand in my eyes
wonder in my belly
This is not what
my father said it
would be

Came home flag draped
and empty my mother
spoke his name only
in whispers until
she draped herself too

saying she can’t lose
another

“Speaking of hosting!” By Julia on her couch

Friday February 8, 2019
8:47pm
5 minutes
from a Wordplay call out

In the middle of the night it starts to rain. We can hear it pitter patter on the rooftop. You had asked for that. For more rain. To hear it tapping off the wood of the cottage like that makes us both better. This is a quieter night than some of the others. It is easy to fall back to sleep and dream. I wanted it too: more rain; more reminders of living.

“Speaking of hosting!” By Sasha in her bed

Friday February 8, 2019
8:46pm
5 minutes
from a Wordplay call out

I seem to be made more
of water than of bones
sinew muscle guts
I seem to be made of
salt water the amount
I am overflowing

My eyes are changing
colour with this
bursting with this
breaking with this
heavy heavy
Will you help me
to carry this weight?

You say that you
can’t bear the water
the sound as you fall asleep
that it’s been too many
nights in a row of this
filling filling flowing filling

I am helpless in the hands
of the drops falling down
filling falling flowing
it’s the law of this week
this week only I say
this week it’s like this

“How about just one email a week or month?” By Julia at Ocean Village

Thursday February 7, 2019
7:58am
5 minutes
from swimoutlet.com

There is a box of unopened envelopes in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. I remember it like that. You, I believe, think you left them in the alleyway with our old tables and laptops and extension cords.

I gave that box to you before I went away. It ended up being one whole year away. I didn’t see that coming either.

I even bought you stamps, I see now that was ambitious. Also a waste of money since I don’t think you thought to save those. To you stamps are miniature pictures of things you don’t need: a tiny boat, a maple leaf. To me they are freedom of communication, luxury items, covetable if I am without and in need.

I thought you could write me a letter while I was drinking an espresso at the bar. While I was sipping on Aperol Spritz or eating a tramezzino sandwich in Venice. I daydreamed about waking up to words thought up by you, about me, about us.

“How about just one email a week or month?” By Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 02/07/201902/12/2019

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

Thursday February 7, 2019
7:42am
5 minutes
from swimoutlet.com

I don’t want to cramp your style, that’s for sure. But… You know me. I’m going to worry! I’m sorry it’s true, but it is. What about a text everyday, we don’t even have to decide on the time or anything, just when you see fit, sometime between when you wake up and when you go to bed? No? Too much? What about an email, then… You’ll obviously be checking your email… Right? What about one email every other day? Come on! Work with me here! I’m your mother! What do you – … You’re seventeen, Chloe. You’re seventeen. What was I thinking letting you – … An email a week. An email a week… An email a week? No. What will I do those whole six other days?! How will I sleep?!

“bar brew belong” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 02/06/201902/12/2019

Uncategorized

Wednesday February 6, 2019
9:53pm
5 minutes
From Charqui’s flyer

Wanna meet at the new place, that hidden burger spot that opened up behind the cafe? I’d like to buy you onion rings and french fries and a cheeseburger or a bacon burger or I guess whatever you’re in the mood for. What I’m saying is… I’m paying. I mean, I’m treating. I want to get you a milkshake! Shit. This isn’t coming out right… I’m sorry. I… I was wondering if you’d like me meet me at the burger place? I’d like to take you out for a burger, and whatever drink or side you fancy.

“bar brew belong” by Julia at Ocean Village

By: Julia 02/06/2019

Uncategorized5 minutes, Beer, brewery, craft, creative writing, five minutes, friends, keg, laid back, short story, short writes short reads, these five minutes, tour, unedited, Writing

Wednesday February 6, 2019
6:40am
5 minutes
From Charqui’s flyer

I want to be one of those craft brewery types! The ones who set up kegs at events even though they’re awkward to lift for a body my shape-you know, arms not as long as my legs, like a regular human body.

I want to be the kind of woman who wears a toque to dinner and either after or before tests a new brew for our seasonal tap. I want to know what it’s missing and what fries would be best served with it. I never understood the complexities of someone with this life. They always seem to know much more about patience and slow and laid-backness than me.

I don’t really want to wear a toque to a restaurant but I want to know about beer! People with friends who know about beer seem happy overall: not much to hate or hold on to, fun loving, always drinking together, or going on brewery tours. I wonder how easy it would be to infiltrate a group of brewery besties…is it as simple as wearing my toque to dinner? Is it as easy as drinking beer and not saying a word about it? Then maybe I would naturally pick up what they know and they would be welcoming because the more beer and the more people drinking beer the better.

Once a woman I wanted to be friends with asked if I liked beer then planned an entire brewery tour. In one night! It broke my heart that I like it as much as that.

“such a confusing tableau.” by Julia at Ocean Village

By: Julia 02/05/201902/07/2019

Uncategorizedblown, childhood, choreographed, daily, dance, dip, five minutes, galumph, move, movement, nature, notice, outside, picture, play, poem, poetry, short writes, tableau, tofino, trees, unedited, wind

Tuesday February 5, 2019

11:08am

5 minutes

How To Change Your Mind

Michael Pollan

The trees are wind-blown sideways, their top leaves all leaning to the left.

In this scene they look like they are suspended in movement, choreographed effortlessly by the universe and all its majestic artistry. The tableau is alive and I am alive for looking at it. I want to know who I am to thank for these gradient skies and the sunrise and the reflection of my heart so clear on the morning beach.

I am not confused by nature’s vision. I soak it all up and dance along the shoreline with a galumph I haven’t known since childhood’s end.

These trees are reaching over their own bodies in a pose, held with grace, we stand moved.

The hurry in my boots has left for the time being. Stillness has sunk itself deep into my toes where the cold sat earlier, nipping at my thin skin. Here, I can stand here, watching the trees live on in the picture of their own making.

We watch like a monkey might leap out from this tight-lipped secret. Or a rainbow.

“such a confusing tableau.” By Sasha at her kitchen table

Tuesday February 5, 2019

8:11am

5 minutes

How To Change Your Mind

Michael Pollan

readying myself for this has become

unclenching my jaw

resting

loving deeply and truthfully

being clear about when it’s

yes

and when it’s

my days are a journal entry

a devotion

my mind is losing her sharpness

her edge

my heart is wider than ever

i wonder how you’ll love me

now that i’m new

how the sisters i drunk and

danced with will bear the change

i read in my nest

in the bed where she landed

page after page

gorging on preparation

i drink more water

eat more dates

look for soft things

find soft places in myself

that i wasn’t sure would arrive

they have

i welcome them

oh sweetness

stillness

opening

“her sarcastic curl of a smile” By Sasha at her desk

Monday February 4, 2019
2:28pm
5 minutes
Finders Keepers
Stephen King

Sorry it’s taken me so long to write back, D. It’s not that I haven’t been thinking of you, it’s that whenever I sat down at the computer to respond I couldn’t bring myself to actually hit send. I’ve deleted and re-written so many versions of this that I’ve lost count. Really all that I can say at this time is I’m not ready to talk. Grief is a strange beast, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes snarling, sometimes tender, and I’m doing my best to roll with it all honestly, and honesty for me right now looks like – I still need space. I trust that you’ll be able to understand, and that you’ll stop reaching out. When your name appears in my Inbox it’s like you’re knocking at my door, and I can’t have you knocking at my door right now, D.

“her sarcastic curl of a smile” By Julia at Ocean Village

Monday February 4, 2019
7:14am
5 minutes
Finders Keepers
Stephen King

It’s the seconds in between two very different things.

Before you decide, you have to know beside which two things you stand. Here, an example, and one for me that I can articulate, could be the same or maybe similar for you.

I stand here and likely always, before a Love choice and Delay choice.

There is nothing cheeky about me saying this now even though you might know me as someone who smirks in her sleep, protecting herself against what is absolute. I mean all of this. No sarcasm. No holy joke.

A Love choice is something that will only add to existing Love, creating more, or creating more opportunities for Love to be made. They are decisions that contribute, heal, help, celebrate, cleanse, trust..

Delay choices are simply the ones made out of fear of the existing love leaving the immediate experience.

“I just want a little privacy is all.” By Julia at Ocean Village

By: Julia 02/03/2019

Uncategorized5 minutes, beach, biblical, creative writing, daily, dip, edge, endure, five minutes, generosity, gift, heavens, humble, learning, love, nature, poem, poetry, protection, relationship, short story, short writes short reads, sky, snow, storm, these five minutes, unedited, vortex, wind, write, Writing

Sunday February 3, 2019
6:40pm
5 minutes
The Lovely Bones
Alice Sebold

You invite me to the pool but I think I should be alone now to sink in to myself. I cannot endure other people.

Tonight, however, my love, I have already learned the gift of endurance from you. Here is a chance to meet your appropriate edge, you said without saying. Did you know, Love, that it is further outside yourself than you once believed?
I am being given a choice in this pure calm before the storm: the heavens open and waiting for me to step into the light…
As the wind first hits, we are in a kind of gentle magic. The beach is long and inviting and so we step further and further away.
Soon it is beyond white. The sky seems to hold all of this force in the palm of things. Against this colour of night, the locusts of snow overhead rage through us and our simple jeans.
You stand behind me creating a home; a vortex around my humble body in the face of something so big.

“I just want a little privacy is all.” By Sasha at her kitchen table

Sunday February 3, 2019
8:11am
5 minutes
The Lovely Bones
Alice Sebold

You look at my face like you’re learning
every freckle every pore every hair by heart
and today I bury in the nape of your neck
unsure about the scrutiny
about the fullness of the love

I mash sweet potatoes and you hold
my belly through T-shirt and apron
growing bigger everyday
You wash dishes and we sing to
our daughter with us and also not
here and also there

It’s cold today and flurries chase
each other’s tails by the chickadees
on the balcony
It’s warm in here with the oven on
with the one-bedroom closeness of
this new season

“the two men ceased exchanging words” by Julia at Ocean Village

Saturday February 2, 2019
3:42pm
5 minutes
Marlarky
Anakana Schofield

Milo is not talking to RJ because RJ is hugely unreliable. He said he was going to be around for a call after Milo finished breaking up with Bex. RJ wasn’t around because he was at the bar drinking like he usually is, trying to pick up vulnerable women who are suffering from insane amounts of self-doubt. RJ likes being the one who puts them back up on the ledge. He likes being the soft thing they fall into. Milo is even more mad at RJ because he refuses to admit he was wrong. RJ never learned to say he was sorry, or that he recognizes how his avoidance of reality effects the people he says he loves.

“the two men ceased exchanging words” by Sasha on her couch

Saturday February 2, 2019
2:02pm
5 minutes
Marlarky
Anakana Schofield

I don’t talk to him anymore and I’ve found peace with that. It took time. I’m patient. I’ve learned how to be patient. I don’t talk to him because what’ the point. It doesn’t matter that he’s my brother. The only thing we have in common is blood, and even that’s debatable. We have the same mother, but I’ve always had a theory that his curly hair and jawline aren’t Dad’s, they aren’t anywhere, they are from – … Nevermind. I digress. I haven’t spoken to Tom since Christmas 2003. Mom insisted that Cheryl and I bring the kids to Saratoga Springs and eventually I caved. Cheryl was ambivalent, to say the least. We got there and had a nice meal. Everyone was getting along. Stella was starting to talk and Mom was losing it over how cute she was. Then there’s a knock at the door and my stomach felt like it was bottoming out. I knew it was him. Mom looked all pretend surprised and, “Who could that be?!” and of course it was Tom.

“unapologetic about her love of narcotics.” By Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 02/01/201902/04/2019

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

Friday February 1, 2019
9:32pm
5 minutes
Orange Is The New Black
Piper Kerman

Kiki loves narcotics like Hillary loves vodka like Jess loves psychedelics. I’m not sure about any of it. That makes me the weird one? Jess says that she needs to do psychedelics at least monthly to feel like herself. I wonder what she’d feel like if she didn’t. I wonder who she’d be then. Hillary carries around her booze in an Evian bottle in her purse. Sips it on breaks at work, in a taxi, at the gym. No one knows. No one cares. Breath mint after and she’s good to go. At least that’s what she says. Kiki. I’m not worried about Kiki but I kind of am.

“unapologetic about her love of narcotics.” By Julia at Ocean Village

Friday February 1, 2019
8:41pm
5 minutes
Orange Is The New Black
Piper Kerman

I met her the night we dropped MDMA and spoke with sweat and sweet and true and good
I was grateful for the peaks of love that kiss sunlight
So high the only thing we could do was see each other

The time before that we found cocaine on the bump of her key, the public bathrooms at every place we ended up: the bar, the house party, the tennis court, after moving a rustic ladder from the back of my apartment to her’s—wearing heels and dressed ready
We felt like we were made of arms

The same two of us, and deeper,
found a butterfly sanctuary on the day we were decided on being real joy

“never showed me where the wreck lay.” By Julia on the 99

Thursday January 31, 2019
10:09pm
5 minutes
Foe
J.M. Coetzee

Each one pointed to a different place of hurt
Here, the wreckage of the heart,
the spot where the rib cage was invaded, break and entering
Here, the spasm of the lower back,
deep breath a kind of torture
Acquitted somehow of all charges

I wanted to ask-Did I do this to you?
Was it by my hand you know this?

I should have asked where else it throbbed, reminded you of your punishable naked
unwalled

“never showed me where the wreck lay.” By Sasha at her desk

Thursday January 31, 2019
1:36pm
5 minutes
Foe
J.M. Coetzee

Hunting for treasure like yeah yeah yeah I’m bored okay I’m bored. Jimmy made mistakes all the time and no one yelled at him must of been because he had those baby blues. I get a stiff leg every now and again and I’m not so quick to get up I need a minute nothing wrong with slowing down a little. I’m bored by Thursday and by Saturday I can’t believe that there’s still another day left in the week. Didn’t used to be that way I was a way cooler guy when I was younger enjoying the moment and all of that jazz. You see enough people lose everything get laid off get screwed over and you start to go what’s the point right what’s really the point.

“The coach was bullshit.” By Sasha at her kitchen table

Wednesday January 30, 2019
11:56pm
5 minutes
Created By
Richard Christian Matheson

It wasn’t my fault. Coach was bullshit. I tried telling Stevie and Jay from the get-go that Coach was a turd, didn’t know what she was talking about, didn’t know her ass from the ball… Nobody listened to me! We had a good reputation, man, I mean, we weren’t seven time champions but we gave Crescent Hill a run for their money every year! When Coach Peterson retired I knew we were effed. I’d seen Coach Jenkins sniffing around the court, trying to butter up the team, trying to use her jokes to make everyone like her. I’m not gonna fall for that shit!

“The coach was bullshit.” By Julia on her couch

Wednesday January 30, 2019
8:00pm
5 minutes
Created By
Richard Christian Matheson

So, it’s three days before the tournament, right. Everyone is freaking out, tensions are high. Nobody wants to lose, team is gearing up to represent ourselves as best as we can. So, we find out that fucking Brian is planning on putting his kid, Heather, in as starting catcher. Girl has caught a grand total of zero balls. Spends her time fixing her mask and trying to get up from a squat.
So all three pitchers, that’s me, Sara, and Cara, decide we’re going to meet with Brian to tell him we think he should start Christine cause she’s more experienced, and this is her last year before she moves up. It would be better for everyone. So we approach him like a flying V-determined. graceful. I’m in the front cause I’m the brave one.
Fucking Brian LOSES IT.

“I’ve got questions.” By Sasha in her bed

Tuesday January 29, 2019
10:36pm
5 minutes
From a text

I’ve got questions and most of them
have to do with how many times this
will break my heart

Don’t mean to lean heavy on a tired
metaphor we are all tired aren’t we
isn’t that what everyone says when
asked how they are
Tired?

Keep circling back to this again
and again the monotony but also the
surprise every time
and the break is still a break
is still a break

How many times can the same thing
hurt in new ways but not different ways
one of those albums where all the songs
sound like a variation on the single
on the title track

My title track is this tonight
and the other nights that have ended
as this one will

“I’ve got questions.” By Julia on her couch

Tuesday January 29, 2019
10:06pm
5 minutes
From a text

I wonder a lot
about the way you sway
the way you say my name
the way you drink champagne
You can say so much with such little pieces of you
I could have asked a better one than Why
It seems we’ve all become experts at that one
How is a good one
When is another
You’re not bigger than the ocean
but you act like it
I have questions about that
About the hours you keep
the thoughts you believe
the stories you yell
Bigger than the ocean
While still
so much smaller than this

“As the cab works its way” by Julia on the 2

Monday January 28, 2019
6:06pm
5 minutes
Hello, Goodbye
Brady Emerson’s

Cab driver is talking my ear off on the way to the airport. It’s 3am, he must be lonely. I am leaving this city and I’m not going to look back. Do I tell him that? Do I say, listen, I tried my best, I worked hard, I made out with a stranger on my softball team? I don’t know what else I could have done. Maybe committed to the white walls in my apartment, hung a plant or two on the balcony. I never did end up going to the Indian place I said I wanted to try. Do I say, listen, some cities don’t fit the way you think the way expensive shirts get donated to Goodwill when they don’t slim your shoulders as promised. Do I say, I am too tired and angry and mad at myself to talk to you right now?

“As the cab works its way” by Sasha at her desk

Monday January 27, 2019
4:01pm
5 minutes
Hello, Goodbye
Brady Emerson

As the cab works it’s way around the corner, I press my face up to the glass. Mama will make me clean it with vinegar and newspaper. She always knows when it’s me and when it’s Bailey. The dog doesn’t have to clean up after himself, but he gets put in the laundry room until he whines enough that Mama feels bad. Daddy packed a larger suitcase than usual so I asked him how long he’d be gone for this time. “Not sure, honeybunch,” he said, sad like the day Grampa Jones died. How he could not be sure, I don’t understand but I shouldn’t have to given that I’m only just starting Grade Four. Mama knows that Daddy might be gone until the snow comes, so she hugs Bailey in bed for a long time and I have peanut butter and jelly for dinner.

“The road ends at a washout” by Julia on her couch

Sunday January 27, 2019
11:13pm
5 minutes
Nomads
Poe Ballentine

I think all good things must come to an end sooner than we’re ever ready for them.
Why would we want the good things to end?
It’s hard enough getting the good things to start.

We were never really friends although I believed us to be.
I thought you liked me and I liked you in the same way and we were…good for each other.
It only took a thousand messages left without reply for me to figure it out.
You’re the kind of person who thinks offering yourself is all you need to do.
You’re the kind of person who thinks I would be lucky to receive your invitation to the land of zero follow through.
There can only be room for certain friendships now,
not whatever it is we’re doing.
We don’t need anything from each other and we never did.
I thought I did but then I got to know you and realized the
only thing I need from you is for you to stop pretending like
any of your empty promises mean something.
I won’t be around for that kind of shit anymore.
The next time I might not be as kind about the whole thing.
Maybe if you were as honest with me as I am with you we could save a whole lot of energy.

“The road ends at a washout” by Sasha in the bathtub

By: Sasha 01/27/201901/28/2019

5 minutes, creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectAlaska, fiction, five minutes, friend, goodbye, heart, home, short story, these five minutes, unedited

Sunday January 27, 2019
9:18pm
5 minutes
Nomads
Poe Ballentine

Dear P.,

I move to Alaska because I want to live at the end of it all, where the road meets the horizon, where the sun feels like a star and it doesn’t rain as much as it does here. I’m twenty seven and I don’t know my ass from my mouth, but at least I’m not afraid like everyone else is, afraid to leave home. “Home” is a word that feels strange in my mouth, foreign, like “Barcelona” or “beloved”.

I’m sorry that I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye. I know that was a long time ago, but I never stopped thinking about you. Riding bikes around the track at St. Mike’s, shooting the shit, pretending we were big shots. Alaska takes a part of your heart when you’re there for long enough. A part of my heart that’s shaped like you. P. I’m better now than I was then, in almost every way.

“I was acting like a” by Julia on her couch

Saturday January 26, 2019
9:42pm
5 minutes
The Only One She Told
J.E. McCafferty

Liar liar pants on fire
Said last time I thrived on dire
Fought my battles walked the wire
Fakery began to tire
All those people believing deep
held me up as the grim reaper
Wished I could have climbed much steeper
But I was a dream-catch eater
Held the wish to drown the mole
We couldn’t take any souls
I swear we tried, we did not know
Then god opened mouth and ripped me whole

“I was acting like a” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 01/26/201901/28/2019

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

Saturday January 26, 2019
7:23am
5 minutes
The Only One She Told
J.E. McCafferty

I was raised on goodness and beeswax crayons
Imagination prized and emotional maturity celebrated
and Self Knowing the greatest gift the greatest way
I was raised on expression and trust
hope and faith and that we can hold it all
we can know it all we can be it all we can do it all

I was a lucky pigeon
I have a privilege I sometimes I feel I
need to apologize for
Blue eyes means yes
Smile wide means yes
Not really but maybe sometimes

At least if you do your best
you’ll know
you’ll know that you did your best
and usually that’s good enough

lucky pigeon

“They say looks aren’t everything,” by Julia on the 84

Friday January 25, 2019
9:40pm
5 minutes
What to Look for in a Horse
Brett Elizabeth Jenkins

I want to see a person and not make any thoughts up about who they are and what they do and why they’re wearing what they’re wearing. I do make up some thoughts about some
people but mostly I thank myself quietly for being me instead of them. They are busy being them, wearing the shoes they wear, the big bright buttons on their slacks, the cool hat, the stupid shoes. I am not judging. Stupid shoes is not an opinion, it’s a broken ankle waiting to happen. What makes a shoe more stupid than its shape is where that shoe is worn. Managing a restaurant? Stupid. Walking the dog in a rainstorm? Stupid. The person I have no problem with. Or maybe I do. Maybe I’m one judgemental piece of shit projecting my unexamined insecurities on people just passing me on the street on their way to the grocery store. Looks aren’t everything. But it’s what you see. It’s what you notice. I don’t think the flower kingdom is going around saying, here I am, but I’m not just a pretty face, I matter, I’m important. Everyone knows flowers matter but if they self-claimed it they wouldn’t have time to simply live it.

I may have lost the plot a little bit here.

“They say looks aren’t everything,” by Sasha on the 33

By: Sasha 01/25/201901/28/2019

Uncategorized

Friday January 25, 2019
5:31pm
5 minutes
What to Look for in a Horse
Brett Elizabeth Jenkins

They say that looks aren’t everything but it’s easier
to get a job if you’re good looking it’s easier to find
a mate if you’re good looking the world is easier if you
are good looking so “they” don’t know shit
There’s nothing wrong with it survival of the fittest
or whatever it’s always how it’s been beauty is a commodity
and a wealth greater than wealth at least if you’re good looking
you are going to have people that love you
I’m not bitter I mean people say I’m a pretty handsome guy and
I’ve a girlfriend I’ve had one girlfriend I’ve asked a girl out
I’ve gone on a date or two

“law of human psychology” by Sasha at her coffee table

Thursday January 24, 2019
10:01pm
5 minutes
A quote by William Pickens

“Shit, it’s uh, it’s um… It’s – …”

Mika forgets her new phone number. She’d started to rattle off her old one and then stopped part way through. “I had to change my number because… You don’t need to know that, um – …”

After twelve years of the same ten digits it takes a while to update. Mika thinks about the brain and plasticity and how memory works.

She sees a flash of Kyle sledding. She blinks. She sees Izzy there, too, eating snow off to the side.

“Miss?”

Mika digs out her notebook. She knows she wrote her new number down in there.

“law of human psychology” by Julia at the bus stop

Thursday January 24, 2019
4:08pm
5 minutes
A quote by William Pickens

Lynn was excited to drop her psych classes and start taking theatre. She knew she belonged on stage, or with actors, or in a daydream maybe. She had never done anything for herself in her short life. Both her parents were doctors, one therapist, one orthopaedic surgeon. She was supposed to be a doctor too, and they said the field of medicine is up to her. That was all that was up to her. She started seeing the theatre kids around the halls, wearing black, singing in unison. Lynn didn’t remember the last time she let herself sing outside of the shower. It looked incredibly freeing! Maybe even spiritual. All this time she wished she could tell stories to audiences willing to hear them. She pictured herself being blinded by he stage lights and glowing from the inside out. If she left psych she would have to pay for everything else on her own. Lynn couldn’t wait to start working as a relief receptionist at the ESL centre to finally be in control of her own destiny.

“my Swahili instructor” by Julia on her couch

Wednesday January 23, 2019
8:16pm
5 minutes
Archipelagoes
Rochelle Smith

You can learn a new language at any age. You can learn one in your 20s, in your 30s, up till the day you speak no more. It’s not one of those things on the list that become impossible after celebrating a certain birthday. It won’t be easy, but it won’t be impossible. Some things on the list that become impossible after a certain age are the following: doing the splits if you are not a gymnast, birthing a baby, moving a couch, and pulling all-nighters. I purposefully did not include exact ages because every body is different and there are exceptions to even vaguely set rules.
I know for a fact it is never too late to quit smoking, or cut out certain issue-causing foods, or take up growing pot in your backyard. There is no limit to how much you can surprise yourself in this life— no matter how many stories you make up and believe.

“my Swahili instructor” by Sasha at her desk

Wednesday January 23, 2019
1:41pm
5 minutes
Archipelagoes
Rochelle Smith

All the other women in this class are at least fifteen years older than I am. All of them are recently divorced. All of them. There are twelve of us. I won’t make assumptions about divorce rates rising, but wow oh wow, it is a bit… alarming. There must be something about taking up a new language in a popular book or something. I’m going to Tanzania so I really need to get this, it isn’t a whim or a therapy tactic or something. I like Rebecca best. Out of all the Divorcees. She’s down to earth and talks about stuff other than child support and Brene Brown.

“What Jesus was doing” by Julia in her bed

By: Julia 01/22/2019

Uncategorized5 minutes, bible, creative writing, five minutes, home, jesus, scripture, short story, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited, Writing

Tuesday January 22, 2019
10:20pm
5 minutes
Love Thy Neighbour
Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove

Oh this again. He was trying to welcome me home, I believe. And sell me to church. All the right people, my people would meet me there. All the grace I will know is from Him. Gospel of John. I’m supposed to have read it by now. Maybe everyone knows I’m the kind of person to go running to scripture. Proving in words somewhere that the divine in me is seeing me. I have always been persuaded. I exist there because I liked being the vessel. I liked being the experiment, the data, the pioneer. Tell me what is best and I’m still the one who has to execute. I like being the one who walks into fire.

“What Jesus was doing” by Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 01/22/201901/21/2019

5 minutes, fiction, short fiction, these five minutes, Uncategorizedchild, church, fiction, five minutes, memory, short writes, stillness, these five minutes, unedited

Tuesday January 22, 2019
6:52am
5 minutes
Love Thy Neighbour
Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove

Sit still. Don’t fidget. Don’t pick your nose. Sit still. Sit stiller. Pay attention. Sister Judith is falling asleep. Don’t laugh. Don’t giggle. Don’t kick the pew in front. Jesus is watching. Mother is watching. Don’t elbow Russell. Don’t look at Russell. Russell is picking his nose. Ew, Russell! Sit still. Sit still. Hands to yourself. The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Stand up. Sing. Don’t sing too loud. Mother is watching.

“I imagine him alive.” By Julia in her bed

Monday January 21, 2019
9:28pm
5 minutes
Stories We Keep To Ourselves
Bill Glose

I imagine him alive with dark hair covering his tiny little head
He has a perfect face
Maybe a few years from now he’ll need glasses just like you
His dark hair transforms into light hair later like mine does in the sun
You are holding him and cooing in his face and everything is sweet now
I keep him alive by not leaving him
That is my only job
I picture him loving me before he leaves home
Some of them only realize how much has been done for them after they build their bed behind walls that no one can wonder against
He is kind to insects and birds
He is funny because of you and only you
From me he learns how to hum
From me he learns how to weep
From me he learns how to stare into the nothingness past the room and bright noise
You smile extra hard these days

“I imagine him alive.” By Sasha at her desk

Monday January 21, 2019
1:55pm
5 minutes
Stories We Keep To Ourselves
Bill Glose

He’s running along the beach
He doesn’t leave footprints in the sand
He floats above like the sand flies
Leaving no trace
Making no impression

I’m watching him from a nearby
piece of driftwood
Back and forth he goes
One end becoming the other
Horizon becoming sky

He doesn’t see me there
Lost in the movement of his muscles
Found in the meditation of waves
Lost in the between-world wonder
Found in the bits of seaweed and shell

I call out to him
He doesn’t hear me
The ocean thundering before us
Dusk wraps around our shoulders
Takes us back to the center
Takes us back in time

“making dinner for my family” by Julia at Rivendell

Sunday January 20, 2019
11:08pm
5 minutes
The Other, Invented Man
Matthew Vollmer

I’m chopping onions to simmer for my man
Tonight we feast and I feed him and he wants me
Tomorrow I’ll surprise him with a new dish I’ve never made before and I’ll feed him and he’ll want me
If I were alone I would get resourceful
Start with one egg and see far I can stretch it
See how many meals one egg holds
If I have no one to please or impress,
no one a barometer for if I’ve gone to
the grocery store in a while or chosen something I was curious about tasting
When he’s home I put on the alien, the apron, the mask
I find a different reality
If I had a full family I would cook for them
I wouldn’t need to feel anything after that

“making dinner for my family” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Sunday January 20, 2019
9:43pm
5 minutes
The Other, Invented Man
Matthew Vollmer

I used to think that I’d be
keeping long hours in dank rehearsal halls
Poorly heated
Poorly lit
Weaving stories out of breath
blood bones
breaking beauty like bread

I used to think that success
was measured in letters
in selling out a run
in someone saying
“I saw myself on that stage
in that stranger”
“I know myself better now”

Now the sacred carrot
celery and onion
meets lentils and then broth
I spend Sundays in the kitchen
listening to Emmylou Harris and
This American Life
I lie down when I’m tired
and sing to my belly until
I drift off to sleep

Now I think that success
is having a fridge full of goodness
ready for the week
and that the stories we weave
at the table over steaming oats
the story of right now
is the greatest win of all

“poorly aimed prayers” by Julia at Rivendell

Saturday January 19, 2019
10:18pm
5 minutes
On Why I Must Decline To Receive The Prayers You Say You Are Constantly Sending
Tony Hoagland

Jesus apparently lives in my heart and has never left even though I left him. He’s also quite feminine, the woman tells me, “Read the gospel of John and you’ll see how feminine he is.” I am now the prodigal daughter coming home. I had to leave in order to grow myself and wonder out loud with enough spaciousness to find something. Now I am returning and this is good because I am looking for the truth and that’s where I’ll find God too. She wanted to leave the room while I confessed how I’ve rejected him, or how I’ve felt disconnected, or why. Then I told her I wouldn’t do it if she left and so I made her stay. Maybe she had something to do for ten minutes that really couldn’t have waited and she was hoping I was into counselling myself. But maybe she thought I was strong and wanted or needed the stillness.

“poorly aimed prayers” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 01/19/2019

Uncategorized

Saturday January 19, 2019
8:28pm
5 minutes
On Why I Must Decline To Receive The Prayers You Say You Are Constantly Sending
Tony Hoagland

I light candles nightly now
What am I saving the special for
I earn the tonic of beeswax
and glow the elements close
here as I stoke the growth
as I reach inwards and around
and down and up
Linking hands with the women
who have come before
the women who have bled
have birthed have braved
I lean towards the light and
aim my prayers seven generations
back seven generations
forward towards the centre of
the heart the centre of the earth
I blow out the candles before
brushing my teeth and turning in
the smoke washing my face
washing my day washing my hands
the sacred so close
the sacred everywhere
cusp of the full moon
swelling

“he fell like the rain,” by Julia at the Rivendell Cottage

Friday January 18, 2019
11:22pm
5 minutes
In The Beautiful Rain
Tony Hoagland

Her eyelids sank, heavy with dust
collected in the creases
So
many
damn
intricate
feelings
Sleep stretched out like a cat before her and she put her hand out to scratch under its chin
The night and all its bigger shadows
loomed in and around, sort of stalking
Her mouth a steady waterfall pointing ground-ward
He, on the other hand warmed up another cup of tea in the microwave
Flipped the pages of his book like punishment
Pushed the bed so far away
it
turned
into
the
couch

“he fell like the rain,” by Sasha in the bath

Friday January 18, 2019
9:04pm
5 minutes
In The Beautiful Rain
Tony Hoagland

She lifted her hand to her face
her hand the mirror that she trusted more
her face the face that she’d always known
She traced her nostrils and opened her mouth

He fell like the rain in the morning
and at night he gathered the fire to
close his eyes and trust the dark
Her sleep breath lifting him away

The laundry is on the couch and
needs to be folded
socks and T-shirts mixing cake
mixing bodies and story and dust

Someone will do it tomorrow
One of them whoever has time
and is feeling generous to the other
or to themselves

The recycling needs to be sorted
and taken out to the bins in the alleyway
where men with grocery carts pick through
all the after-thoughts all the forgetting

Hoping for a treasure

“I met Luke after my marriage ended.” By Sasha on her couch

Thursday January 17, 2019
10:17pm
5 minutes
The Ghost of a Boy
Piper Vignette

I didn’t mean to meet Luke. I was minding my own business. I was keeping my head down. Ever since I left Allison, to distract myself from the crippling guilt and regret, I’d become obsessed with Ayurveda. I read every book I could get my hands on. I mentored with an Ayurvedic doctor. I cooked lentils, rice, cauliflower. I cut out onions and garlic. I was in the co-op weighing red lentils for dahl and there he was – wearing wire-rimed glasses and a red sweater with worn elbows. He looked like he’d just woken up. He was staring at me.

“What are you gonna do with those?” He asked, a sparkle in his eyes.

“Dahl.” I said. I wasn’t interested in a flirty bulk food section exchange. I hadn’t flirted with a man since graduate school.

“I met Luke after my marriage ended.” By Julia on M’s couch

Thursday January 17, 2019
1:33pm
5 minutes
The Ghost of a Boy
Piper Vignette

You could say I manifested it; the end of my first marriage the way it is written. By that I mean death, and not
some fault of our own. We might have stopped trying. Stopped listening. Stopped seeing Love in the reflection of each other. I think we were lucky enough to preserve our relationship before it got so sad we committed any of those aforementioned acts of betrayal. I think those are worse than cheating anyway. Sex is something I can justify as “not personal”. But I suppose you’re right, if I claim to have manifested my late husband’s death. I guess that is a fault of my own I should be less light-hearted about. My intentions were that he would die and leave me while we were still in love. I didn’t know it would happen so soon or that it would work so well. If I believed in manifesting at all (before this) I would have made sure I had pots of money and enough hair product to last my entire lifetime. I would have manifested some inner peace.

“like food processors” by Julia on her couch

Wednesday January 16, 2019
8:21pm
5 minutes
On Becoming A Cat
Emily Mitchell

In the middle of the night I hear you whispering sweet words into the pillow
They’re for me
I kiss you back to sleep
I stay awake wondering about the light dancing across the ceiling
I was tired before this and
now maybe it’s denial
The past few days have felt impossible
Each of our hollow seems to be bouncing off every surface in sight and you might not be rubber but I’m definitely glue
I wonder at the dancing light, the collective sadness seaping into my skin, the way waking up never arrives without a headache anymore

“like food processors” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 01/16/201901/19/2019

Uncategorized

Wednesday January 16, 2019
6:31pm
5 minutes
On Becoming A Cat
Emily Mitchell

I don’t know what to say when I see you
so I don’t say anything I don’t play that
game anymore the one that all the pleasers
before me pressed into my cells a cookie cutter
a yearning for love

I don’t want to say anything to you
when I see you so I don’t say anything
I feel my heart beating and the music
doesn’t distract and you must carry the
weight of your selfishness
that is your bag of rocks to shoulder

I don’t care about rudeness or pleasantries
in this space I don’t care about hurting
I care about honesty and being true to
myself and my belief that even a hello
can be a lie

“the host raised his glass” by Julia on the 4

By: Julia 01/15/2019

Uncategorized5 minutes, Beer, creative writing, engagement, fiction, five minutes, help, naloxone, overdose, party, short story, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited, Writing

Tuesday January 15, 2019
6:54pm
5 minutes
Notes on Surrender
Krista Bremer

Petra was a beer lover. She was the kind of person who knew better than to cheers another with an empty glass. Even if she wasn’t thirsty, she would pour herself a sip of something to seal the deal. On the night of Kat’s engagement she had already drank her share before the thing even started. Still reeling from finding her boss dead in the foyer that morning, she knew she would need a little help getting through her best friend’s party.
Dylan wasn’t the nicest guy in the world, but to leave the world lonely, just steps away from the Naloxone?

“the host raised his glass” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 01/15/201901/19/2019

creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectbirthday party, fiction, five minutes, marriage, short writes short reads, stranger, these five minutes, toast, unedited

Tuesday January 15, 2019
8:41am
5 minutes
Notes on Surrender
Krista Bremer

Adam raised his glass and I thought, ‘I don’t know this man.’

I do know this man. He’s my husband of thirteen years, but in these moments, in some moments, he’s a stranger.

That’s the weird part. No matter how well you think you know someone, there are still moments when –

“Thank you all for being here. I used to try to imagine what forty would feel like, what it would look like – ”

Bert chortles.

” – … I am so fortunate to be blessed by a beautiful family,” Adam looked at me, I smiled. “Mimi, you have done it again, this meal is stunning. Thank you.” People clap. Henrietta rubs my back. I felt like I was floating above these sixteen people, gathered in our dining room, at the table I set, finishing the meal that I chose, sipping wine that I bought.

“We cross dirt roads” by Sasha on her couch

By: Sasha 01/14/201901/15/2019

5 minutes, creative writing, ongoing writing practice, poem, short poem, tiny poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing project

Monday January 14, 2019
11:06pm
5 minutes
A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration
Elizabeth Alexander

A crow flies overhead
calling to her love
calling to her self
She is her own love

Wings spread wide she
soars towards the sun
an ascension
a wild flight
This flight of love

It’s dusk now
She’s reached where
she’s going
She lands
She settles
Sweet she calls
Sweet one she calls

On a dirt road below
A girl walks
Maybe five or six
She’s alone
She spots the crow
She smiles
She knows that crows
are as smart as her
but in different ways

Sweet one she calls

“We cross dirt roads” by Julia on the 4

Monday January 14, 2019
4:29pm
5 minutes
A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration
Elizabeth Alexander

Woman beside me: red nails that match her red boots. Noticed a red scarf and sweater too. All red. All showing.
Man beside her: grey coat, grey slacks, grey beard. He’s looking at her.
She’s provbaly reading this.
It was so foggy today the sun turned into a ball of white, outlined as if with crayon. You can drift into road on days like this. You can find yourself dissappearing without trying.
I can’t say I’m doing my best to be seen.
I think everyone in my life is sad right now and only some of them know to include me in that.

“endure burning” by Julia on the 84

Sunday January 13, 2019
5:55pm
5 minutes
A quote by Viktor Frankl

Yesterday my hair caught on fire in front of all the people I didn’t know. I am grateful. Everytime I let a part of me burn I watch myself rise from the ashes and grow longer in the backbone. That, and it’s nice to be reminded that I’m always saved in the 11th hour. My intuition pounds on the door of me and it sometimes takes going up in flames to answer the call.
How can I do more work around hearing the rap rap rap before I turn into smoke? After all, I was right about you, wasn’t I? I knew there was something off about you the first time I saw you blink like that. I hope you never try your hand at poker. Or motherhood.

“endure burning” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Sunday January 13, 2019
5:42pm
5 minutes
A quote by Viktor Frankl

I wonder what you’ve told them about me
about how I walk on my tip toes in the morning
not to wake you
about how I braid the tassels on my red scarf
I wonder what you’ve told them about my burning
my breaking my owning my betrayal
I wonder if they know what my face looks like
when I’m sleeping
The wild wild west they say
The Wild West
A story that we all know the ending to
My devotion will break me
I’m still alive
I’m still here
I’m still

I wonder what you’ve told them about me
and the sound of my whistle my voice when I’m singing
Torn up inside the will to survive the will to
Will I ever be able to forge through winter
Will I ever be able to stop laughing

“How are you feeling?” By Julia on her couch

Saturday January 12, 2019
12:27am
5 minutes
From a text

It’s been a year and some things are still buried in the yard alongside all the other bodies too cold to touch

I wonder sometimes if you’re waiting for me to wear an apology that doesn’t belong to me on my back—
Maybe thinking it’s owed to you or something. I have to try not to take that on at all because you can’t always get what you want.

It’s been a year and some days I think you don’t notice how much we’ve both changed. Some days feel like I’m right back where I started, eating lies around you to keep you up.

I don’t want to tell you how I really am. What I really think. I’m not sure if you deserve it.

“how are you feeling?” By Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 01/12/201901/13/2019

5 minutes, conversation, creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectconversation, dialogue, five minutes, reading, short writes short reads, siblings, these five minutes, unedited, Writing

Saturday January 12, 2019
10:42pm
5 minutes
From a text

A: How are you feeling?
B: Today. Shitty.
A: How shitty? What kind of shitty?
B: I saw someone who is too afraid to face me, who can’t meet me how I need to be met, and I was tired and sad and I saw someone, and it was –
A: Take a deep breath?
B: I’m fine. I’m breathing fine.
A: Okay…

B: How are you?
A: I’m good. I’m great!
B: That’s nice.
A: When you’re shitty, I can still be great. It’s not a competition.
B: I know. I’m glad you’re great.
A: Why can’t you just be happy for me?
B: I am!

A: Dad said that Ming is off dairy so we can’t do rice pudding on Sunday.
B: Good for Ming.
A: Ha!
B: She always feels sick. It’s good she’s doing some investigating. I’ll bring something else. I’m sick of rice pudding anyway.
A: But we always have rice pudding for dessert –
B: Yeah, and sometimes things have to change. Sometimes change is healthy.

“grateful to be where we are now.” By Julia on her couch

Friday January 11, 2019
12:06am
From a Christmas card

A garden preened to the high heavens mocks my morning walk to the compost heap left bubbling
I hate these neighbours and their tireless knees
How some people sit like that I will never understand
My mother didn’t meet her green thumb until her 60s so maybe there’s still time for me. Not sure why my father didn’t force me into the earth when I was young and curious. Some life skills I fear I may never own
My garden wouldn’t make sense anyway-a clump of rosemary, a hill of daisies
I have never been willing to look so far ahead into a year
It’s the same pill I swallow when packing my things even if only for the night

“grateful to be where we are now.” By Sasha at her desk

Friday January 11, 2019
5:03pm
5 minutes
From a Christmas card

You’re grateful I’m here. I can see it in the release of the line on your forehead, an inch above your eyebrows. It’s been disappearing slowly, and now it’s gone. Three days in to my visit. We haven’t even had sex. I have my period. We’ve kissed a lot. Made tuna sandwiches. Watched Seinfeld.

“Why don’t you move here,” you say, casually folding laundry on your bed. I’m knitting a sweater for Cassidy. James Taylor plays on Spotify.

“You know I can’t.” I look up.

You are grateful I’m here. You usually come to me because it’s hard to get away. My kids. The cat. It’s easy for you to travel. You have less baggage.

“You are my real mother, aren’t you?” by Julia on her couch

Thursday January 10, 2019
8:54pm
5 minutes
Life After Life
Kate Atkinson

I used to want Zia Vilma to be my mother cause she knew how to french braid, and make her own halloween costumes, and turn an old pair of leggings into a choker with a broken heart earring as the pendant.

She was the only one spent time with us, who played cards with us when we were little and begging to sit at table with all the adults.
She lit up when she saw us.

My own mother was a little different than she is now. She used to scream at us more then. She used to whip her eyes shut when she was yelling out all her demons.
I hated that face she made. I was afraid of it. she couldn’t look us in the eye.

“You are my real mother, aren’t you?” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 01/10/201901/13/2019

5 minutes, creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectBarb, five minutes, mothers and daughters, reading, secrets, short writes short reads, teenager, these five minutes, unedited, Writing

Thursday January 10, 2019
7:04am
5 minutes
Life After Life
Kate Atkinson

I knew it was coming. It was like when my grandmother used to know that it was going to rain. Her bones would ache. I woke feeling agitated, restless, cold. Nelly had been out late with Rebecca, and she slept later than she usually does. Even for Sunday. I made waffles and turkey bacon. I made a second pot of tea. She came downstairs rubbing her eyes, bun askew on top of her head.

“Morning,” she yawned, but there was a coolness.

“Honey… – ” I looked at her and she held my gaze.

“Rebecca said that Barb said that you have something to tell me?”

Fuck Barb. I can’t believe I used to trust that woman. Fuck.

I knew it was coming but then when it does it still feels like a sledgehammer, like a slicing, like open-heart surgery.

“skin hanging from a chicken soup bone.” by Julia desk

By: Julia 01/09/2019

Uncategorizedappreciation, assist, co-dependant, cope, daily, dip, household, hypothetical, leaving, left, live, lonely, lost, love, missing, notes, poem, poet, poetry, relationship, reminders, rhyme, solitude, support, unedited, without

Wednesday January 9, 2019
8:51pm
5 minutes
Tuesdays With Morrie
Mitch Albom

If ever you should leave me, leave a note in your hand
by the bedside where you slept with your mouth open and
if ever you should leave me, do not go before you say
what goes in your mother’s bone broth soup in case I get sick one day
Because without you I don’t know if I’ll be able to
go on in my usual cadence, whistling simply will not do
I will be sad and lonely, and the house will be so quiet
your laughter will not fill it, how I wish I’d learned to file it
If ever you should leave me, don’t forget to mention Sweet,
where all the toilet paper is in case there is none left by the seat
I will miss your generosity, and where you stored the sieve,
I’ll be so lost without you, I won’t know how I will live

“skin hanging from a chicken soup bone.” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Wednesday January 9, 2019
4:51pm
5 minutes
Tuesdays With Morrie
Mitch Albom

I make chicken soup with the bones of the seasons before
Frozen in Ziploc bag
Stacked with
forgotten bananas
pumpkin seeds
pine nuts
containers of squash soup

I make soup for the parents of new babies
and bodies that are tired and grieving
Bodies that are growing
Bodies that are strong
I make soup for my own lonely heart
and the lonely hearts peppered here and away

There’s been a lot of soup this winter
and pretending that candles are wood stoves
There’s been a lot

“A master-beggar art thou.” by Julia at her desk

By: Julia 01/08/2019

Uncategorizedattention, beggars, care, character, choice, choose, daily, desires, donation, fame, freestyle, freewrite, guilt, help, holy spirit, life, money, needs, pocket sized story, poem, poet, poetry, price, rap, rhyme, short writes short reads, spoken word, unedited, writer, writing practice

Tuesday January 8, 2019
10:13pm
5 minutes
Kim
Rudyard Kipling

I don’t want your money but if you send a cheque I’ll cash it
I don’t want your pity but if attention’s coming I’ll stash it
So many times I’ve said I wouldn’t stoop so low
but every day is turning me into a master at limbo
surprise yourself with pleasantries or avoidance or a feeling
never say never cause the holy spirit’s teething
wants a bite of my earthly flesh and all the lies I let in
this is how you get on your knees and pray for all the sinning
I don’t want your money but I’ll take it if it’s there
cause I don’t like to waste things like guilty almost care
I’d rather have your praise but I guess beggars can’t be choosers
I used to crave the fame when I was caught up with the losers
Now I don’t know where I am supposed to be going
Put the money in the hat and hope it don’t start snowing

“A master-beggar art thou.” By Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 01/08/201901/09/2019

5 minutes, creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectbaking, cinnamon buns, five minutes, Sunday morning, these five minutes, unedited, winning, winning over

Tuesday January 8, 2019
10:04pm
5 minutes
Kim
Rudyard Kipling

I make you cinnamon buns. I let the dough double rise and listen to Robert Plant and Alison Krauss. I make the filling (butter, cinnamon, sugar, salt). I make the cream cheese frosting. I whisper that you’re my little darling, and these buns are my little darlings, and in the quiet of this Saturday night, the world is my little darling. I’ll bring you the buns tomorrow morning, after I bake them, while they are still warm. You’ll be surprised to see me, but I’ll be holding a tray of the best damn thing you’ve ever smelled so you won’t be able to send me away, to refuse me, to ask me to go. You’ll invite me in. Coffee will already be brewing on the counter, in your red french press.

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