“Victory is ours” by Sasha on her balcony

Saturday June 9, 2018
9:14am
5 minutes
Victory
Charlotte D. Staelin

I’m not sure what to say about victory
or probiotics or the smell of the seat
in the back left corner of the bus

I’m not sure about jaw clenching
or the apartment across the alleyway
with the constantly changing people
and the lights going on and off

I’m not sure about eggs or dairy
and it no longer seems appropriate
to say that cheese is delicious

I’m not sure about the squirrel
digging up my parsley and the birds
that I’m feeding do you think
that will get in the way of them
getting their own food
in the future if I happen to move

“I’m from hard-boiled eggs” by Julia on M’s couch

Saturday, April 14, 2018
11:28pm
5 minutes
E 9th Street
Ricky Cantor

I’m from soft-boiled eggs on a sunday, little olive oil, salt and pepper
Dad knows his way around the simple pleasures in life
sneaks fresh figs across the border in September
stirs in the good grappa in his espresso instead of sugar
cares about if I know my times tables
I’m from fried eggs and anchovies in the summer time
visit the sanctuary in the back yard and do not move until the mosquitoes eat you
Dad picks cherry tomatoes from the garden and tosses them on our plates
he doesn’t sit with us on the porch while we eat
he is busy inside making the second course so he never has to say a word

“Then it went shooting back from the window.” by Julia at the studio

Tuesday April 10, 2018
12:45pm
5 minutes
Pope Hats
Ethan Rilly

I think it was a raven, you said it was a crow. Either way we’re both inside the house, close to the maple candied pecans, and not planning on leaving to prove the other one wrong. I love Sundays. You don’t make me put on pants, and I don’t make you put down your gingerale. We argue about which birds are hanging out on our back porch, but we’re not angry. We’re not anything that is not easy. Easy as Sunday morning, and Sunday afternoon! We’ve got scrambled eggs and chocolate eggs! We’ve got rich cheeses and no place to be-ses! When the sun sets we don’t miss the day. We say hello to the stars from the couch and we count commercials instead of hours. We put on something more comfortable than before. We’ve earned the night. We rest like it’s the last day before you leave again. And it is the last day before you leave again. We do not waste a second.

“I don’t want to sit” by Julia on the 16

Friday December 1, 2017
9:29pm
Overheard on the 16

I don’t want to sit and I don’t want to stand. You do the math. Tonight a friend charmed the crowd with her offbeat, non threatening quiet and her sex dripping metaphors. Mmm.
I was getting wet just listening to her talk about egg yolks dripping down the blender. And I thought of you. How one childhood fantasy and a couple thousand viewings of The Show Must Go On has lived inside me for decades and maybe I would like to finally see if you’re down. I think you would be. It was fucking gross but I have a feeling you’d be into it. I used to think about having eggs mashed all over me. I want to tell you more but first you need to sign off. You need to tell me one of your deep secrets. You need to prove that this won’t get wasted or chopped up into tiny pieces or used against me. I mean if I knew already I would let you use anything against me but that’s a BONUS. That’s for good little exhibitionists.

“astral projection, stress and depression” by Julia at her desk


Tuesday September 12, 2017
8:40pm
5 minutes
Binaural Beats & Healing Sounds on YouTube

I believe that some horoscopes are life changing and I’ve read them. I know they exist.
I am confused, however, that I can read something, understand it, find it moving, and then not be moved by it. I don’t know why putting perfect phrases, keys to the universe surely, into practice is so damn hard. All you have to do is realize your worth, allow your heart to express itself, decide what it is you’d like to do, and then do it. These are the simple steps laid out and yet I read them, but won’t remember them. As if I never saw the answers in the first place. As if I have to take the test day after day without having studied the material. Some days I am always guessing. Water? Do I need water? Do I need to flip an egg? Scramble it? Fresh air? Do I need to use the bathroom? Do I need to stretch? Vomit? Be so mean to all the good things? Do I need to cry it all out?

“Let’s get to breakfast” by Julia on her couch


Tuesday January 24, 2017
9:46pm
5 minutes
from an infomercial

I remember I got mad at him for asking for his eggs plain
It wasn’t difficult to see that I put thought into making his eggs interesting
I don’t know why anyone would prefer a plain egg
Isn’t the whole point of an egg to be a base for something else?
Like cheese?
Who likes regular, plain eggs?
After he wiped his mouth he told me he would rather his bare
I got mad at him for waiting till he was finished to say something to me
I was mortified
And I was disappointed that he would think it was okay to be ungrateful
at breakfast time
Because I had gotten up earlier to make the damn things in the first place
And that is why I hacked his dick off with a cheese grater
And that is why we are no longer eating eggs together
And that is why he is married to a woman who doesn’t argue
And that is why I won’t visit England

“you can experience racism” By Julia on her couch


Wednesday September 14, 2016
11:06pm
5 minutes
from a tweet

Did you know that if you can think it, it already exists somewhere on the internet? Because it’s a dark and twisted jungle and some people don’t know how to find their way home after getting lost in it. Anything you can think of at all. Sure, it would take a little digging. You’d have to be good at searching. But for every good thought you’ve ever had, someone has beat you to one like it somewhere online. And for every bad thought you’ve ever had, someone has beat you to 10. At least. The ratios do not lie. We’re more alike in this life than we’d ever like to admit. My bad thoughts, fleeing, your bad thoughts breeding and burying their eggs all over the web. It’s the only place where there always exists someone more hurt than you.

“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…

“Her bedroom” by Sasha at Lit on College


Wednesday, September 11, 2013
10:49am at Lit on College
5 minutes
26a
Diana Evans


When she gets home she always changes into one of his undershirts and a pair of his boxers. Their seventh floor apartment is hot, but it's not even that, it's the cling of her work skirt and her pressed blouse, it's the stretch of her nylons across her belly, it's the heels digging into her baby toe. He's been asking her if she's seen his clothes, his underthings, and she shrugs. "I don't know, dude, probably that freaky guy at the laundromat stealing stuff from the dryer." By the time he gets home from work, the door to her room is closed, a fog of soft light whispering through the cracks. She hears him frying an egg and making toast. She hears him pop the cap off a bottle of Budweiser.

“Is there sauce on that?” by Sasha at Thom and Shelagh’s kitchen table


Sunday, June 30, 2013
10:17pm
5 minutes
Overheard by Julia on Queen Street

I’m just wondering if you have any gluten free options? Rice based? No. No, I can’t have spelt, there’s gluten in that. I don’t have an allergy, per say, I have a, a, a intolerance. Don’t worry about it. And where is the salmon from? It’s farmed? Oh. Okay. Do you make your tomato sauce in-house? Is there sugar in it? Are the eggs free-range? Where do you get them from? You don’t know your source?! (Under her breath) Red flag. Okay. Hm. Do you fry in canola oil? Vegetable oil? Hmmm… (Sigh). What was that? That thing that just went by? Is there sauce on that? Is there cheese in the sauce? No, I like sauce, but I can’t have cheese. I’m not meaning to be difficult, I just, like, have a sensitive stomach, you know? Sorry. So tell me again, what were the gluten free options? The dairy-free/meat-free/gluten-free options? Fish is okay. No, it’s not an allergy. I don’t need an EpiPen, I just…

“Flowers for Mama” by Julia at Second Cup


Wednesday June 5, 2013 at Second Cup
6:40pm
5 minutes
from the Public Sketchbook Project at Cafe Novo

She was sick, Mama was. On her birthday…so me and Angela decided to throw her a casual house party. Bedroom party, actually. Bedroom brunch. Mama didn’t want anything crazy or expensive, so Angela and I wrote her a silly song and sang it to her with her eyes closed while she clutched each of our hands. Mama loved when Angela and I got along long enough to make things like funny songs, and eggs by accident, which she coined when we were small. These eggs were half scrambled, half nobody knows. But Mama was excited by the fact that we didn’t chew each others’ eyes out while we did it. Angela and I have never really been close. Close enough that we fight, close enough that we know each other better than anyone, but we bicker. Probably because we’re the same, Mama says. It was Angela’s idea to get flowers for Mama. I wish I could take credit but she was always better at that stuff than me. She just knew when things would matter and when they wouldn’t. Mama loved the flowers, maybe most of all. Maybe more than the eggs and that’s what I was in charge of. Angela told me later, it was my rhyming that got Mama smiling the biggest. I didn’t correct her when she said that.

“behind the kitchen” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Friday, January 18, 2013
6:56pm
5 minutes
http://www.whiteonricecouple.com

I never remember how you like your eggs – over easy or sunny-side up. Sometimes I guess and sometimes I ask and either way I feel bad because this is something that I should know. My mother calls this kind of thing a “mental blockade”. You sit in your Study, tucked behind the kitchen like an inappropriately placed piece of chewing gum. But, you said when you bought the house, you needed a “Study” because that would make you a real writer. It had been six years since the travel book you wrote while travelling in the Miswestern States had been published. You’d done such a good job, you really had, but travel in those parts just wasn’t very popular right now. I decide on sunny-side up. I crack the eggs into the hot pan and they sizzle, like they should. I hear you laughing to yourself and it must mean you’re being productive. I’m glad for you.