September 2011
36 posts
things in our eight bags.
We watched the shadow of a cloud retreat the windswept asphalt of our old street, wondering aloud how we’d come to this place. To a moment where our last wish was to push a crowded moving van into motion. How did we make it this far? The thought invaded me; I could only imagine it to be equal parts luck and foolish ambition. Nurtured from a handful of antique ammunitions we prepared at our...
Watchcarrie.
the eight go on a treasure hunt.
start at your front door, turn left and walk 50 paces, turn left and walk 20 paces, close your eyes and spin around four times, open your eyes, head straight 30 paces, take a 90º left and walk 100 paces, take a 90º turn to your right, walk 10 paces and then stop. take a picture, draw or describe what is front of you.
Jessie hides from her mother here. Crouching low, our palms balanced gingerly against the soft decay of a fallen evergreen. Echoes of wet gravel disperse from the base of her work-boots. A banshee, screaming down the driveway. Her face is flushed. Thrashing through a tall column of ferns, obstacles on the beating path. Her pursuit both impatient and irritated. Unprovoked and pointed. Our panic...
things that the (eight) eat.
Watch‘chinese food’ by john.
“I’ll consider it,” she sighed as she rolled away, drawing the white linens with her, a retreating tide beneath the young Sunday sun. “But, right now, I’m pretty loyal to this bed.”
Giggling to herself, she draped my arms over her belly.
“Well, maybe there’s some way I might change your mind?”
“For starters, I must admit, well, it could...
caitlin.
(eight) self portraits.
kellen.
I drove the 900-and-some kilometers from Peterborough to Rivière-du-Loup in silence. As the maroon Protege scaled the first exit, I began Patrick Watson’s Closer to Paradise, gently lifting the soil-brown blunt from the tight pocket of my denim. I missed Kristen, the devastation of my departure alleviated little by the fading green of an indian summer. In the motel bathroom, I...
michelle.
Cutting my Own Hair
On the edge of the bathtub with scissors.
In the kitchen with a knife, no mirror.
No mirror to help even things.
No mirror to talk to.
Outside under the sinking tree.
Felling the last lengths of beauty against the apples.
Against the apples, it all looks so over.
It grows back. They grow back to fall again.
I can’t remember the way I loved you.
When I...
