“Space Womb” by Sasha at the casita

Sunday October 15, 2017
6:39pm
5 minutes
YouTube.com

I’ve got a Space Womb
What about you
Today she’s dripping
Brown red beauty
How about you
Today I light candles
In my Space Womb
She likes it warm
And dim
Today I eat and eat
Space Womb’s orders
Today I say
Don’t touch
To my lover
Space Womb is discerning
Moon is Waning Crescent
Space is close
Space is here
Space is in me
Like fire

“Protect the blood from attack” by Sasha on the deck at Knowlton Lake

Thursday October 5, 2017
7:12am
5 minutes
Chinese Tonic Herbs
Ron Teeguarden

In this quiet stillness of languid morning
Sun on the birches and maples
Dew catching the joke quick
I listen to the silence
She whispers in a language I’m only now just learning
Only will learn fifty years from now
Sixty years from now
A million deaths between now and then

My mother only just spoke
Leaves turning at a snail’s pace
Green to yellow to
How she’s prone to anxiety
Red and brown
Spoke bulemia
When the wind swoops
The echoes cling to the windows
I hush
Spoke silence in a language I’m only now just learning
Thirty six years between us
Somehow less distance
Somehow more

I want to know about the birds that build nests up high
Who are they hiding from
Where do their babies first learn that we are born
Alone and will die alone
Each day an expression of this intrinsicness
Each quiet and still morning
An opportunity to fly deeper
A wingspan promise to try again

“Lipstick on your arsehole” by Julia at her desk


Thursday July 6, 2017
11:33pm
5 minutes
Dry Lips Oughta Move To Kapuskasing
Tompaon Highway

Tamara Matthews you better have a good reason why you’re late.
I do, but you definitely don’t want to hear it.
Sounds like an excuse to me.
Alright, my butthole was bleeding this morning and I wasn’t sure if I was going to die or what.
Oh.
Yes. So. It’s fine now thanks for asking. I’m not, as it turns out, dying. I just wiped too hard, you know?
Thank you. I get it.
I mean it’s happened to me before, but less. I thought this was a hemorrhoid which is no picnic because when my ex-boyfriend had one once, sitting down made him cry.
Okay, okay, go sign in.
Will do, sir. Will do.


“receiving invitation” by Julia in her bed


Tuesday June 20, 2017
11:18pm
5 minutes
from an email

I’ve been bleeding for days and nobody knows why. 
Nobody knows why because nobody knows and I suppose it’s up to me.
I make the calls and the appointments, I pay the bills or I don’t.
This growing thing, this fleshy bump is getting me down.
Isn’t that ironic-If to you growing means up. It is ironic that to me growing means up.
My impulsive decisions are growing too. In.
When Sarah pierced my ears on the back of a potato I didn’t think they’d ever be anything but proof of my young nights.
There was blood then too, on the carpet.

“Wherever you are” by Julia on her couch


Saturday April 15, 2017
3:49pm
5 minutes
The Promise
Tracy Chapman


Remy shows up on my doorstep with blood running from his nose onto his once perfect white collared shirt. He doesn’t even notice the bleeding, or that his eyes are wide until I recoil from his touch.
“Krista,” he says, “I’m here, I’ve made it. Let’s get married.”
My heart does a back flip and lands with a thud. I haven’t seen Remy in 2 years. The last time we spoke he told me he was going to get clean. He asked me to wait for him.
Liz is waiting behind the corner with a baseball bat ready to knock him out. I realize quickly that he has already been knocked out-and the likelihood of him doing that to himself, knowing Remy, is high.

“you might think she was an angry woman” by Julia on the fun chair


Thursday April 6, 2017
12:49pm
5 minutes
The Birth House
Ami McKay


don’t hide your teeth
this world is due for a lesson
woman with fangs
woman with blood
the soft spun into a breastplate
of armour
is not made to protect weakness
woman with impusle
woman with growl

whoever decided to paint her
holding a flower
and said that
she wouldn’t hurt a fly
was hoping everyone would
be too stupid to question
whoever decided to paint her
mouth closed
was wrong about her weapons

“several thousand feet above sea” by Sasha at her desk


Wednesday March 22, 2017
9:45am
5 minutes
Traveling Mercies
Anne Lamott

“Boy you best pray that I bleed real soon
How’s that thought for you” oh Tori Amos
my fourteen year old self did not know the
weight of this waiting my fourteen year old
self sang this line at full voice full wave
crest and now sixteen years later I wait
for blood and we talk about bank accounts
and moving thousands of miles home

We’re giddy on possibility and the sweetness
of spring in the air and you pull me extra
close as we cross the street

“trying to teach them technology” by Sasha at her kitchen


Monday February 27, 2017
9:25pm
5 minutes
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
two girlfriends.
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
(Owen)
and running a non-profit that serves
both the hungry and stray cats
(Bobby)

“There’s a lot of blood in your lips” by Julia at JJ Bean on Main


Thursday November 3, 2016 at JJ Bean
7:10pm
5 minutes
Overheard at JJ Bean

I sucked her bottom lip slowly like I was trying to extract a stinger without disrupting the blood vessels. I wanted to taste her. I wanted to be gentle. In the hollowed buzz between us I could tell which breath belonged to her and which didn’t. I suddenly couldn’t stand the feeling of not sharing air. What had I been doing up until this point? Had I ever considered I had been hiding my truth somewhere deep in the shame of me–that tended to burrow underneath expectations and the holy grail of perfection? Had I even lived at all? We didn’t have anywhere else to be, no other versions of ourselves to uphold. I made a promise to only stop if she asked me to.

“comrade in arms” By Julia at her dining table


Sunday July 31, 2016
9:25pm
5 minutes
from a text

I asked Lindsey if she wanted to come to my sister’s citizenship ceremony and she told me she wouldn’t miss it. When I reminded her that it was this week, she told me it was a date. When I called her that morning asking what she was going to wear, she gave me a detailed description and helped me choose a necklace for me over the phone. So when she didn’t show up for the ceremony I knew something wasn’t right. I called her a million times and it went straight to voicemail. I was freaking out, trying not to let my sister see me. I had a terrible knot in my stomach. Nothing was making sense, the room was spinning, and I was struggling to stay standing. My sister caught my eye and looked concerned. She motioned for me to leave. I nodded, I ran, I stumbled out of the auditorium and into a burst of fresh air. When I saw Lindsey standing there I almost threw up. She was holding her throat so the blood wouldn’t spill out.

“I balance unlaced shoes” by Julia at Starbucks


Thursday June 23, 2016 at Starbucks
6:53am
5 minutes
Circling Before Landing
Mariene Crookshaw

Man puts on the radio, turns the dial so slowly
slowly
we hear bits and pieces of moments
and conversations
and music
and static
and we wait until he finds the station
he likes
he can put up with
that won’t make him crazy
He is responsible for us now
he keeps our spirits
in the switch of the dial
in the palm of his hand
In the corner
by the only
window
there is a bony girl in green and black
striped pants
who holds a paper
airplane up to the light
that was here yesterday
she is holding on
for
her turn
to dance
but the music doesn’t stay
the crackling continues
Her mother is lying two feet
away from her
her belly robbed in the
middle
of
the
night
the blood is slowing now
her eyes remain open
pointed at the ceiling
longing for
escape

“the nervous towns of Mars” by Julia on her couch


Monday June 13, 2016
10:22pm
5 minutes
The Martian Chronicles
Ray Bradbury


I don’t have words right now
not for the pain
not
for the other stuff
I have alien feelings
not happiness
not fear
something is in me breaking
as we speak
I would ask for
permission
to go home early
from all of this
try my lungs out
call to the wild but
there’s a scientist
waiting to take
my blood out
and I think
she owns me or something
Because my thoughts don’t feel
like mine anymore
they feel
like nothings floating
deep
and bobbing up for air
every
now and again
she tells me
stop trying
and I assume she means
everything
everything
everything
My arm is her best friend
my vein
is her guilty pleasure
she looks at my dancing
blue fluids
my
inside life
with fluorescent sparks shooting out
of her eyes
getting ready to keep me
from jumping out of
my skin
and into the world
beside this one
I tell her
They have much more
star-dust because it’s a destination
Not a curse
She says
and I know now
stop
which means
shuffling around while this
thing is in me
which means
talking
because I use
my hands
too much

“enables you to become the master” by Sasha at Moksha Yoga Vancouver


Friday May 13, 2016
9:20pm
5 minutes
The Curl Keeper Bottle

You ask for a pic but I’m not versed in this language of yellow smiley faces and acronyms if that’s even what you call them
I send you a photograph of my plate licked clean after pasta with tomato sauce and zucchini fried in olive oil with garlic
It confuses you and I wonder about how this could ever happen beyond this month this year this apartment
You ask for a pic again and I send you one of my mother as a baby sitting on a blanket with a woman who isn’t a relative
You send back a question mark just that a squiggle of black and a dot and I say
“It’s a baby! What do you want?”
I don’t tell you it’s my mother as a baby as that’s too intimate that’s too close that lineage too sticky

“Let’s discover our” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Saturday May 7, 2016
10:34pm
5 minutes
from a chef magazine

I get blood after losing seven litres in the cycling accident. I have no idea how many litres I lost but I know it was litres. I think it was “litres”. I never considered myself to be a spiritual man, but as soon as I had someone else’s blood pumping through my veins, I was. I was a spiritual man. I am a spiritual man. It wasn’t the blood, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was the act of getting the blood, that someone gave blood and now it’s in me, mixing with my own.

“biking in the rain” by Sasha on the 16


Monday April 18, 2016
5:19pm
5 minutes
Overheard on Yew

Macy is sitting in the bathtub covered in blood. All I can say is, “What the fuck? What the fuck?” She’s not crying or smiling or moving, but her eyes are open and she’s looking at me, eyes wide.

“What’re you doing here?” I sit on the closed lid of the toilet.

“I hurt myself, Jay.”

“What the fuck happened?”

“I hurt myself.”

“What’re you doing here, even? How did you get in to my apartment?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay. What, yes, okay…”

“I rode my bike here, in the rain, and I got hit by a big truck. I passed out, under it. Louise, she was driving the fucking truck. I couldn’t call the police. She was high. She ran, she left the scene, she… Someone called a fucking ambulance and I was…”

“in response to” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Wednesday November 11, 2015
6:11pm
5 minutes
From Performing Site Specific Theatre
Ed. Anna Birch and Joanne Tompkins


my mother’s mother had a strong jaw
my mother has a strong jaw
i have a
strong jaw
women like foothills
hips that lead to knowing
women like water
shoulders that feel the weight

my mother’s mother
all interruption
all control
all strength
all smoke
all ash
all sun
all dust
all breath
all power
all shame
all grace
all cherry tree
all candle wax
all salt
all curve
all language

my mother’s mother
a legacy of cabbage rolls
chocolate worship
picked the scabs on her arms until she bled
i pick the scab on my arm until i bleed
the story spins a web of then and now
my future daughter
my mother’s mother
my mother
my sister
the story spins a dreidel
marking roots
marking laugh lines
marking tear tracks
marking what’s good
what’s bad
the space between

“No not that fake smile!” by Julia on the subway going west


Friday, August 21, 2015
1:16pm
5 minutes
Overheard at a bus stop

Biddy and me make a pact to bleed each other’s blood and wear each other’s smile. I want to marry Biddy so I can be around her all the time and let her light wash over me and catch me in all the right moments. Biddy plays the violin and when she does the whole world stops. I do all the humming and Biddy plays so I can feel. She tells me that I’m most me when I open my mouth and let my heart sing out. She tells me she can see me growing into the person who’s taking better care of me. She tells me I’m the kind of woman who becomes more beautiful with age and experience and confidence and time. It’s my idea to combine our life force and Biddy smiles with her whole face because she loves all of my grand ideas. She snips a lock of her strawberry blonde curls and wraps it around my finger to remind me that we’ve got each other’s soul close by.

“super true to who they are” by Julia at Katie’s flat in London


Monday December 8, 2014
1:16am
5 minutes
from an interview with Annabel Soutar

I have been telling myself for one whole year that I am good and worthy and beautiful and enough. My life coach told me I should recite these things and try to remind myself that I actually believe them. I started trying to believe them one morning in April of last year because it was the spring or something and things seemed like they were being reborn. I wanted to be reborn. I didn’t want to hate myself anymore. I didn’t want to wish I was born of a different woman and therefore raised by one, believing I was just different and not the me I actually was. The process was a long one. I was not the me I actually was or wanted to be, but the me I had no choice in being. The dead me with crispy hair. The forgotten me with only 5 friends at my funeral. I had a lot of visions that I would never wake up. So I went to her and told her with my blood: HELP.

“Writing is so difficult” by Julia on her bed


Monday October 13,2014
9:33pm
5 minutes
A quote by Jessamyn West

It’s like opening every vein in your body but not at the entry points that doctors use to administer needles. You have to dig around in all the uncomfortable spots where the vein isn’t prominent, and then open it up from the inside and let the blood pour out. It needs to gush and splatter inside first before you’re allowed to open your skin–unfold every layer, peel it back, the old and the new, and let it fill whatever canvas is closest. And you have to do it vein by vein, one by one. And you have to do it by yourself because no on else knows where these soft spots live like you do, and you have to do it every time you want to express something real, communicate your feelings, and go to bed feeling like a positive change has taken place. It’s not easy. It is so difficult. But the more you do it, the more you know you must keep doing it. You must.

“We can help you” by Julia on Nicole’s couch


Sunday August 31, 2014
11:29pm
5 minutes
a TD bank envelope

We want you to feel at home, so take the robe, take it all! Make some eggs, make them all! Don’t feel like you can’t walk around freely. Walk around naked! We do it! We love it. You’re our guest, so please understand how genuine we’re being about keeping you comfortable. It’s our mission. We’re so genuine about comfort it hurts. It does! You need undergarments? We have those! Go through our drawers! You need any creams or lotions? All yours. If you’re feeling peckish there is a jar of gefilte fish in the fridge that we’ve all been poking at so have at it! We can help you shed your cloak of armour and guarded nature. We can help you love who you are because we love who you are! Wanna pick your nose? Go get that gold! Wanna read our diaries? Please do! Wanna nose bleed on all our white sheets? DON’T FUCKING DO THAT. BLOOD IS REALLY HARD TO GET OUT OF THOSE SHEETS. Anything else? Anything else at all? Go ahead! We want you to! We want you to open yourself up and get out of your own way. Judgement free. This is a judgement free zone!

“was just perfect” by Julia at her kitchen table


Thursday May 29, 2014
10:18pm
5 minutes
shutterbean.com

baby bruised me yesterday on my right arm. i said baby, it’s okay, it’s not your fault.
i said, don’t worry baby, it doesn’t hurt. baby didn’t mean to bruise me. i wanted baby to squeeze my arm as hard as possible because i couldn’t feel it in that moment. i wasn’t sure if it was still mine. i didn’t know if it had any blood left in it to keep it alive. baby squeezed and said, tell me when it’s too much. and i said, i will, i will. baby squeezed and i closed my eyes and felt connected to my body again. baby watched my expression and kept squeezing. i just breathed and breathed as if for the first time. i said, harder, or a little harder, and baby didn’t stop. baby pressed harder, my blood barreling down my veins again like the first day of spring. barreling down into my hand, my fingertips, flooding my limb with life and revitalized juices to keep me going. baby looked down and saw there was a mark. baby said, did i hurt you, tell me. and i said, you could never hurt me. you made me better. you always make me better. that was the feeling i had. like everything was perfect.

“wishing you” by Julia at the Sheraton in St. John’s


Saturday March 29, 2014
2:09am
5 minutes
from a tweet

She made sure she had lots of band aids in her pockets. She hated those blisters she got every time she had to walk for a little longer than usual. She wasn’t holding on to any of that gauze. It was a waste of time. It didn’t stick to her skin. She tried. The real issue was re-learning how to walk so her shoes didn’t rub because she couldn’t afford new ones that didn’t rub which would have fixed the problem perfectly. It was all about the pressure. And the angle. And the weight. And the other stuff. The other other stuff. She didn’t want a blood pool in her heels just because she was in desperate need of an ice cream cone.

TJ & Sam by Julia at the these five minutes: writer’s workout at the Fringe Creation Lab


Sunday February 2, 2014 at The Fringe Creation Lab
1:03pm
5 minutes
these five minutes: writer’s workout

They were brothers–not really–well, really, but not really. Not blood. Just blood brothers in expression–when you open up an old paper cut, or scratch a patch of skin back to make it bleed–rub your wounds into each other’s and promise something of yourselves to the other. For example: I’ll always be there for you, man. Or: No matter what, bro, no matter what.
It feels like when two dudes do this kind of thing they also automatically repeat key phrases like the MSP on a triple A baseball team…Atta boy, atta boy.
It’s nice.
TJ and Sam were like that–only contrary to common belief, they didn’t say anything when their blood was mixing together. They both closed their eyes and just felt it. TJ and Sam had that kind of bond where they could sit in an open space with their blood dancing–with another guy’s blood, and feel a connection without having to say “No homo” just to ease the silence, the magic. They gave it its space–they gave their blood a minute before they said a single thing.

“I ordered a half sandwich” by Julia at The Holy Oak


Saturday February 1, 2014 at The Holy Oak
12:05pm
5 minutes
The True Secret of Writing
Natalie Goldberg


I had just spent the day talking to Olivia about her juice cleanse and how she felt invigorated by life and her own body and the new colour of her urine. I was half listening to her go on about it and half just imagining her peeing every seven minutes as if the juice was speaking to her through her urethra. That’s literally where my mind went, so when she asked me how mine was going I just said, “so great!” She was like, “where is yours?” And she meant my juice. She said it as she was drinking back a goopey red thing that looked more like period blood than anything, and I waited before I answered to see if she’d get those “strawberry wings” on her mouth…
“I drank my morning one at home!” I told her. I lied. I always lied to Olivia. Truth is, I had eaten an egg and mushroom tuna melt on marble rye and I was so damn pleased with myself that I didn’t even feel bad for bailing on our “joint cleanse”. She looked at me from the corner of her eye and paused. A little red period burp escaped her wet lips. “Oops! Excuse me!” I suppose her juice was speaking through her again…

“We’ve been expecting you” by Sasha at her desk


Friday December 6, 2013
6:57pm
5 minutes
a Welcome To Toronto lamp post sign

I understand that you’re practising honesty. I understand that when you woke up you smelt fear. I understand that you peed blood and now you’re terrified that you’re dying. I understand that that probably makes you want to fuck other people. I understand that I might find you under a pile of clothes you’ve been meaning to bring to Goodwill. Here’s my good will – I love you. I’ll whisper that and I’ll scream it, I’ll sing it to the tune of Someone Like You. I’m sorry but I’m not sorry. It’s overrated. “Sorry”. I’m over the pleasantries. I’m over the aromatherapy baths. I’m crunching road salt like Skittles and I’m saying “We’ve been expecting you” to Doubt.

“when he was only 16” by Sasha at Balluchon


Saturday, November 16, 2013 at Balluchon
1:12pm
5 minutes
Edge Studio DG Tour Script Selection

I bled through two pads, one stuck to the other. I stand up to get a book from a shelf in a row close to where we’re working and James says, “Uh, Rachel, uh, you’re, uh…” I know what’s happening. I know what he can’t say. I hadn’t even told him I was pregnant. He thought my breasts were going through a miraculous growth spurt. I mutter, “Oh shit,” and run/walk to the bathroom, tying his track jacket around my waist. The library is suddenly more quiet than it’s ever been. There’s a line. It’s the handicapped stall. I wait for a woman with purple cornrows to go before me. I smile at her and she looks at me like I’m the Devil. As soon as I get in, I lock the door and take a big breath. I pull down my pants and put my asshole make-shift diaper into the trash. I unwind a whole roll of toilet paper and stick it in my underwear, that are already ruined. I want to lie down on the floor and let it swallow me, one blue and white tile at a time. I don’t. I splash water on my face, flush the toilet, for good measure, and leave. I walk back to James. “Uh, what, uh… happened?” When he gets nervous his cheeks look like two giant cinnamon hearts. “I had a miscarriage.” I say, hollow and heavy. James’ cinnamon cheeks fall down his body and his face is white.

“finally after 32 years I discover music” by Julia on her bed


Saturday November 2, 2013
1:15am
5 minutes
Sheila Heti’s e-mail in “An email that’s an apology”
from We Think Alone, Week 18 by Miranda July


He didn’t know it but he knew it and it was building there deep inside his veins. Stirring up trouble blood in a couple major arteries. Whisking it till it’s true and thin and rotten and meaningful.
He didn’t want to ask any questions about it or see if anyone felt the same way. He just acted like it was nothing and went about his day doing his thing. His thing in the bathroom, his thing in the living room, his thing in the basement, his thing in the attic. He went about knowing what he knew with thin blood and a trembling mind, trying to play a constant rhythmic sound, or encouraging those sounds to play around him. But there it was every second without fail: the outrage, the catastrophe, the really perfect excuse, the dying plant on the windowsill.

(an image from National Geographic) by Sasha at the CSI Coffee Pub


Wednesday October 23, 2013
10:41am
5 minutes
National Geographic Photo Issue
October 2013


“Remember when you forgot your own postal code? That was soooo funny!” Lukas laughs. “Remember when you put all those sticky notes everywhere? With all those reminders? That was hillllarious!” He picks at a chicken pock scab on his forehead. “How many days til Christmas?” He asks. The scab is bleeding. He holds his finger to it and then tastes. “My blood tastes like perfume!” He holds out his finger to me, “Wanna try?” I pause. I nod. How can I ever say no to this boy? He squeezes his forehead and a red droplet appears. He extends his finger to me again. I take it into my mouth and suck, gently. Rose and lilac, lavender and mandarin. “That tickles! Grandma! That tickles!” I bite down and he squeals.

“containing all parts” by Julia on her bed in Baden


Sunday, March 31, 2013
12:41am
5 minutes
the Bonomelli box of Camomile tea

She had bit the inside of her lip. Hard. Felt the blood start to fill her mouth. Tasted the iron. Running her tongue across the chewed up flesh underneath her bottom lip. She sat there in the middle of her bedroom floor, dreaming of a better feeling than this…A worse one? Was there such a thing? Or was this anything and everything? She was making a vision board; an inspiration collage; a quick fix to her lack of discipline and drive…
She jabbed her pointer finger into her mouth and pulled it out quick. She stared at her finger, examining it, the red water colour slowly dripping down until it collected at the base of her palm in a puddle. She was lost in thought. Lost in a trance because of the rain outside her window. Because of the soft thumping of a distant headboard in a room nearby… but not close enough to decipher any of the words, or moans–only close enough to know they were good…
She grabbed a square of bright pink construction paper. She folded her bottom lip down and pressed the bite mark on to it. Little red flecks splattered out and across.

“PARK HERE” by Julia at Sambuca Grill


Thursday, January 17, 2013
5:14pm
5 minutes
The parking lot sign at College and Bathurst

Oh hi, nice to meet you, I’m at a loss for words.
Thought there would be an explanation for the greatness in friends that I have accumulated over the years.
No.
So I have no words.
Just being taken in by the silence and stillness of generosity, actually, if you must know. If you must not, then now you do and sorry I’m not sorry. A little, I am, but not for that. For that I am glad. Here you go. You should know what love feels like when it comes off the back of a selfless person.
It slides into you like lightening. Like an ice-cream cone melting in the mid-August heat. It just hits you, gets all over your clothes, your hands, your heart, what have you. It reminds you of something that squirrels probably know about but are hoarding way up in the trees so no one else can get their paws on it.
If you’re meeting me for the first time, this is what I would say to you. Not in words, remember, I’m speechless and kind of grateful for the pressure being lifted off my tongue to save lives and enter into a realm where responsibility is attached to my thoughts. I won’t say it, but I’d hold up a cue card with a picture of a girl’s face, you may know her, and underneath with one word that reads “soul-sister.” You don’t have to understand why she is, but she is, so just understand that she is in a way that makes me call her it. Who else would I call that?
Never had a sister growing up. She represents all the friends that became family. All the sisters that I have because I never was lucky enough to have them through blood.

“would be more accurate.” by Julia at Sambuca Grill


Thursday, December 27, 2012 at Sambuca Grill
5:56pm
5 minutes
http://www.thesartorialist.com

No, a shit-hole would be more accurate. I told Rich that if we had to stay away from the city for eve one night, I would only do it if we could sleep in an actual structure. I told him hotel, motel, or condo, pick one. Now of course, given the option, Rich would choose a hotel too, but since he was convinced that this was a camping trip, of course he’d have to go ahead and pick the dingiest and most degrading motel in the history of the universe. He pushed open the jammed door to our room and I swear to you that dust mites multiplied. He was all chummy, trying to get me into a good mood, but all I could see were what appeared to be blood stains around the bed, and the fact that the mini bar looked like the last time it was stocked was 1993.
“Nice, isn’t it babe? I chocked on the cloudy air. I said, “Hurry up and die already so I can run off with all your money.” He laughed, pulled me into him, and kissed the top of my head.
“Ugh!” I said. “We’re already starting to smell the way the walls feel.”
“You’re being a baby.” He said to me with a smile. “Don’t worry about your nails, we’ll get you some new ones when we get back to the city.”

“acute and chronic conflict” by Julia at Sambuca Grill


Monday, November 26, 2012 at Sambuca Grill
6:16pm
5 minutes
Public Outreach Guidelines for MSF

Andie: If I die before I wake up, what would you do?
Ben: Are you being serious?
Andie: Yeah, I’m curious. Would you cry?
Ben: Yeah.
Andie: Really?
Ben: Why wouldn’t I cry, I can’t cry?
Andie: No, it’s good. I’d want that.
Ben: I know you would
Andie: What do you mean, “I would?”
Ben: You love the drama of everything. If someone’s not crying you think they’re not sad or happy or embarrassed or whatever you are when you cry.
Andie: Do I cry that much? Don’t answer that.
Ben: Yes.
Andie: Sorry okay, I’m hot blooded and passionate. It’s the way I was programmed.
Ben: Would you cry if I died?
Andie: In your sleep?
Ben: Does it matter? Yes. Any place or time that I die, would you cry.
Andie: I don’t know.
Ben: What?
Andie: I don’t know. I might turn into one of those hysterical laughing people. Or the ones who just go mute when they’re in so much shock. I might never talk again.
Ben: You would cry. You of all people would…have to!
Andie: But I’d be so broken I wouldn’t be me. I’d be the person who can’t cry.
Ben: I don’t like this. I think you should just cry.
Andie: Don’t you see? It’s better if I don’t. And then I never fully deal with you. And I carry my sadness over you forver. Until I die. Of a broken heart. Because of you.
Ben: …Alright, fine.

“acute and chronic conflict” by Sasha at Cafe Novo


Monday, November 26, 2012 at Cafe Novo
2:55pm
5 minutes
Public Outreach Guidelines for MSF

We sat side-by-side and Jeremy tapped his foot. The couch vibrated. I put my hand on his knee, our signal that he’s shaking things. He kept doing it. I removed my hand. “Jer…” He looked away from me, towards the wall, towards a picture his mother had painted us for our first anniversary – a bluebird playing in a birdbath. He’d been fired from the plant in August and was looking fatter, sadder and balder by the minute. I didn’t want to say that it was okay, I made enough to support us until the New Year, I even made enough to buy him a gym membership and therapy sessions. We speak different languages now, now that he’s fatter, sadder and balder.
“Jer…” His name reminded me of what he used to be, how he used to feel, what he used to smell like – bright, firm, cherries and warmth. He looks at me and hold my eyes, lacklustre and dark. “What?! Why do you keep saying my name. What is it?” I stand up and prick my finger on the cactus we have on the bookshelf by the window. A small spot of blood comes. I’m thankful for it. I suck my finger. Jeremy sighs. I taste iron and DNA and disaster.