“a symbol of luxury” by Sasha at her desk

Wednesday October 24, 2018
6:52am
5 minutes
Fairmont Magazine

Polly wears her grandmother’s moonstone ring as a symbol of luxury. “My writing will never be ironic,” she says, hair in a high bun, wafts of brown around the nape of her neck. She imagines that she is being interviewed for an arty magazine by a smart woman in a black turtleneck. She’s talking to herself.

“I am obsessed with 19th Century descriptions of clothing and jewellery, and I will never tire of reading about how something or someone looks.” The interviewer, let’s call her Mia, she smirks.

“Would you like another cup of coffee?” Polly goes to the stove and fills the Bialetti with more espresso. She plays with her ring as she waits for the water to rise.

“a sleek white line” by Julia on her couch

Sunday May 27, 2018
10:00pm
5 minutes
Are You Really An Artist?
Leah Burns

You’re wearing all white and you’re okay with it. Say you’re going to go pump gas, fix your bike chain, eat a rack of ribs. Nobody tells you what everybody knows. A hundred wet wipes and a gallon of bleach. But the days are short and why wait. The nights don’t count so go to town. A bird could shit on your window or down the front of your jeans and the whole show can get cancelled.

You tempt fate like someone was paying you to do it. Hold up a mirror then disappear behind it. Throw your open wound in front of a shark. You try the rules until they’re broken and too tired to fight back. You invite disaster with every sway of your hip, every rainy day in April. When you walk back and forth you look like a q-tip or a sleek white line.

“She expected me to be in jeans” By Julia in Brooklyn


Friday, July 31, 2015
2:17am
5 minutes
from Sasha’s transcriptions

As if to say I had already fucked everything up for everyone, she looked straight down her nose at me and slightly shook her head. Not a full shake. Just enough to really shame me and make me wish I hadn’t needed to even come. Stevie was on the other side of the lounge and she was sending over her best “Sorry, Delia” eyes. I think at one point she mimed tightening a noose around her neck out of solidarity but even she knew she had no idea what hell I was in. Stevie happened to meet one of the suitors who liked her care-free, dress-code breaking, entirely beautiful, but way too young looking face and had told the monitor that Stevie was free to remain as she was. I on the other hand didn’t get so lucky.