“Orange County wild fire” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Sunday November 26, 2017
9:41pm
5 minutes
From an Instagram post

Vivian isn’t sure if anyone will remember her name. This is a big fear, taking up the space between temples, up neck, across shoulders. Fredrick suggested that she take some sort of weekly class, and at first she said that they didn’t have enough money and then she came around. Fredrick is virtuously patient. That’s the main reason she married him. She also very much likes his hands and feet. She parks near the entrance and checks her face in the rear view mirror. She isn’t sure what she’s looking for – salad in her teeth? She hasn’t eaten salad since last Tuesday. Fredrick was surprised when she chose a pottery class because she doesn’t like getting dirty. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to do,” she said.

“with one hundred hands each” by Julia the VPL


Thursday March 16, 2017
6:20pm
5 minutes
Age Of Bronze Betrayal
Eric Shanower


Hold me like the sun is going down for the last time–
like the nights are long
like the mornings are extinct.
Keep me alive under a dead moon–
under a baren sky
under a hurt wing.

With one hundred hands you will know enough
how to close the door without waking me
how to prepare a tea without asking me
how to teach my skin what it’s worth.
With one hundred hands can you memorize my scars–
how the thick one reeks of curiosity,
how the raised one is a reward for the brave?

“You’ve had them for about 12 days” by Julia at Bump And Grind


Friday January 27, 2017
5:43pm
5 minutes
Syllabus
Lynda Barry


When you hold up your twisted hands you forget that somewhere sometime ago they were new, and they were good. You wish the light wasn’t so damn revealing. You wish that old adage about knowing something like the back of your hand could stay true. You wish that you didn’t care about what they looked like, but they still feel like they are meant to be a reminder of vanity’s curse. The rain stings them more than you thought it would. Your daughters grabbing them to dance with you in the kitchen sting them more than you wish it would. You wish you believed in God for the days where reason doesn’t seem to be good enough. You wish you could open a jar without the help of your son, or the two dollar electric can opener from the Salvation Army.

“Ready to rock?” by Sasha on her couch


Friday May 27, 2016
10:01pm
5 minutes
People Magazine
March 2016


Holding Grandma’s paper skin hand
A priest talks about forgiveness
Jesus
Bread
Her fingers are long
Knuckles like burls
I lean in close to smell her
Baby powder and drugstore perfume
Make up that is long expired
She doesn’t stand to sing anymore
On her perch
The Pew
Queen Bird

“A woman staggered into” by Sasha at her desk


Thursday April 2, 2015
4:12pm
5 minutes
Focus
Daniel Goleman


She felt a tiny bit bad about it but not bad enough to change.
Add an extra zero here.
Photocopy a signature.
Scratch this out and add that and BOOM!
She’s walking in those shoes she’s been eyeing since Christmas.
She’s picking up the tab at lunch and brunch and happy hour.

Martha wonders what’s changed.
“Where are you getting all these new clothes?”
She whispers because Mr. Boss doesn’t like when they talk about lady things.
Mr. Boss likes it when they keep quiet, keep pretty, keep working.
“Gifts,” she replies, licking an envelope.
It slices her tongue,
the kind of cut that won’t stop bleeding,
that makes her question her choices.
She wraps toilet paper around her tongue in the washroom,
looking at her hands,
wondering when it was that she got so pale.

“Walking and talking” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Tuesday January 13, 2015
11:42pm
5 minutes
Brave New World
Aldous Huxley


Open hands
She puts a green pea there
Near the life-line
Near the river leading towards me
Drifting like snow
Clean
Better than before
Riper with age
Avocado on the table
No other fruits or vegetables
Walking and talking
Like rain
Anyway
Back to the point
She puts the pea on her tongue
Lets it rest there
Let’s rest there

“Speeding through space…” by Sasha on her couch


Wednesday October 29, 2014
10:02pm
5 minutes
Leaves of Grass
Walt Whitman


There you are
Speeding through space
Reminding yourself of your favourite childhood mug
The one with the small red flowers and the round handle perfect for your thumb
There you go
Leaving again
Not looking back
All of your best things stored in boxes and taped with tape
Stacked
Maybe dusty now
But who knows
There you are
Shaking hands with a man dressed in grey
Looking him in his eyes and trying to see if he’s telling the truth
He’s telling the truth?
There you are
Making jokes like you know the language here
Putting your hands in your pockets and feeling for change
Telling me that you’ve never been so in love
Whistling a song your father used to sing

“Auditions for the part of” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Saturday, September 6, 2014
10:03pm
5 minutes
from a tweet

He has a scar on his hand
the kind where you can see the stitches
the kind that looks like someone drew it there
with white-out

He has lady hands
which undermine the scar
I guess
His nails are longer than I’d like
But no one asked me

He has pock marks on his face
I wonder what it says about his teenage years
I wonder if they hurt
I wonder if he stood
bloody-faced
Wanting to shed his skin

He scratches under his left eye
I follow his fingers
His eyes are brown
Darker than when he first arrived
Darker than his childhood
Darker now that time is heavy
and the moon is full

“Absolutely everybody gets a little something” by Julia at Bull Street Gourmet and Market in Charleston


Monday April 28, 2014 at Bull Street Gourmet and Market
1:23pm
5 minutes
Slaughterhouse Five
Kurt Vonnegut


Toni-Marie-Belle, she said with a crispness in her voice. She should be expecting me in five minutes from now. She sat down and pretended to care about the Garden and Gun magazine that was staring up at her from the coffee table. Ooh, she said out loud, in case someone was overhearing her moments of mostly silence in this waiting room. Love this one. She leaned back breathing out heavily, trying to suspend the air and she exhaled slower than she had planned. Toni-Marie-Belle, she said again under her breath as if she were trying to convince herself that that was in fact her real name. Someone approached her and asked if she wanted water or anything while she waited. She shook her head and at the same time asked, Sweet tea but mostly unsweetened? The small garden gnome lady cocked her head to the side and examined her for a brief moment in time. It means half and half, she told the confused lady. Right, the lady said. Right, yeah, okay.
The garden gnome lady walked away muttering something to herself in a way that was incomprehensible and yet totally audible.

“Nothing to do” by Sasha in her bed


Monday January 28, 2013
11:46pm
5 minutes
Free and Easy
Lama Gendun Rinpoche


There was nothing to do but watch you go. I, biting my lip and begging my tears not to fall, and you, a strong back with a blue coat and your ponytail turning grey. I hadn’t noticed. I guess I wasn’t paying close enough attention. It was terrible when the door didn’t even close behind you, when it stayed ajar, questioning whether or not I might follow. I left it like that for a long time, hours and hours. Finally, I got up from my place on the floor and closed it and locked it and thought about how far you’d be. Maybe in Prince Edward County.

You’d told me that you’d never seen hands as small as mine, that they looked like they belonged to an eight-year-old boy. I took it as a compliment. I’d always wanted to be good at T-ball. You’d told me that when I was born, you thought that you saw an army of ancestors walking towards you every time you looked at the horizon. You laughed when you said it. You thought it was dumb now, but then? Then, you’d thought it was a powerful message about my green, green, branch on the family tree.