“whose eyes are a thousand blind windows:” by Sasha on her balcony

Tuesday August 7, 2018
7:30am
5 minutes
Howl
Allen Ginsberg

He’s got a tight face. I wonder about plastic surgery (try not to judge, each to their own, I guess)… He’s expressionless, which is super odd given his job, given that he’s a self-proclaimed actor. I wonder how much he actually works. It might sound awful, but his eyes are hollow, like looking into them is very unsettling. I bet he pulled the wings off flies as a kid. Maybe still does. I bet he googles weird, really weird shit. You know those people who you see and you just know that if you went into their search history it would be worse than a murder show?

“Valid ID is required” by Julia on set


Saturday June 4, 2016
7:57pm
5 minutes
from a receipt

-You can’t come in here, it’s restricted.
-Restricted to what?
-Uh, employees? It says it right there, ’employees only’?
-So I work here.
-No you don’t, I’ve never seen you.
-Maybe I work when you’re at home sleeping, snuggling up to your body pillow, pretending somebody loves you.
-Excuse me?
-What, you don’t have a body pillow?
-Who the hell are you?
-I told you. I work here.
-Tell me right now or I’m calling the cops!
-The cops?
-Yes, you’re severely creepy and I don’t plan to be one of your next weird victims or something.
-My victims?
-Yeah like whatever your deal is, I’m not into it.
-I don’t know what you mean.
-Like your mind-reading, people-reading weird-creepy-psycho-shit.
-So you do have a body pillow?
-That’s it, I’m calling the–oh my god.
-Let me guess, you don’t have your phone.
-How did you know that?
-I told you, I work here.

“MADE IN ITALY” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Saturday October 25, 2014
7:12pm
5 minutes
The back of a room spray

It’s late. The rain’s stopped but the moon’s to blame now. For this insatiable urge to eat gelato. I pull on shorts and a tank top. I’ve been naked because it’s so hot. There’s a gelato place three blocks from the room I’m renting. I see him and I recognize him but I’m not wearing a bra so I keep walking. “Hey!” He calls. I stop. I don’t want to be rude. Fucking Canadian. I stop. He runs towards me. I don’t know him well enough for him to run. My best friend didn’t even run towards me when I got home from China and she hadn’t seen me in two years. He smiles. “You look like you just woke up,” he says and I didn’t just wake up but I’m disheveled. I’m not wearing a bra. “Where’re you going?” His eyes dart to my nipples, then to my lips, then to my eyes. Too slow. “Home,” I say. “I’ll walk you,” he says. My mind races with options – how can I avoid him but get to the gelato but avoid him? “No thank you.” I say. “It’s not safe for you to walk alone right now… You know how it goes with the men here…” “I’m fine.” I say. His face eclipses. His face changes. He looks angry. He starts to say something and then stops. “I’ll see you around,” he says. I wait. I catch my breath. I close my eyes and I think about my first real boyfriend, who took my virginity, who cried when we had sex because he was so scared of hurting me. Where are you, Steve Levine? Where are you now?

“By a man’s fingernails,” by Sasha on her steps


Tuesday August 5, 2014
11:09pm
5 minutes
a quote by Sherlock Holmes

He’s circling low
Like a crow
He’s staking his claim
And it’s your name
He’s turning his eye
You’re not sure why
He’s staking his claim
And it’s your name
He’s taller than most
He’s not one to boast
He’s staking his claim
And it’s your name
He’s a shoot and a score
He always wants more
He comes in the dark
And he makes his mark
He’s staking his claim
And it’s your name
He’s quiet as a mouse
He enters your house
He makes you a cake
But it’s filled with worms.

“I’d known better” by Sasha at the CSI Coffee Pub


Monday May 12, 2014 at the CSI Coffee Pub
2:07pm
5 minutes
Stethocsope
A short story by Ben Mauk


I’d known better than to suggest a visit to the gallery. I was the one that appreciated art. “It’s your birthday,” Jane said, “It’s your choice!” She never said what she meant. Women were so strange like this. I’ve never met a woman that says what she really means. It’s like everything is a puzzle, needing an expert mind to solve it. “Let’s get take-out Smoked Meat Sandwiches,” I said and Jane grimaced. “Really? That’s what you wanna do for your birthday?!” I paused. I breathed deep. “Let’s go the Coney Island!” She furrowed her brows. “I heard that it’s really creepy there now. Like super duper creepy…” “Let’s go to the MoMa?” She smiled. “Yes. That sounds exactly right. You could live in that place and never tire of it’s pretentious beauty.”