Friday, September 30, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

He was a boy unaccustomed to feeling actual feelings and having original thoughts. He went to school, worked with the trainers, tried to avoid his parents with their perpetual scowls. He wondered why they seemed to hate everything so much. 

He wondered if that was what they were training him for. Hate.

Was it some kind of horrible inevitability? Would it come plopping out of him at an inopportune time, red and throbbing, dripping blood juice? Could other people see it - was he branded? Or was there still time to escape the iron?

The boy stopped dead in his tracks and looked into the sun until he could almost make himself believe the tears were from the bright light. He trembled and convinced himself the day must have turned cold. He did not smile because that had been left out of his training. 


#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, September 23, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

I know what a diphthong is; I often use ellipses. And I know. I'm gifted. And just too pretty. So ... lay down some witty lines you lifted; make sure those shits be witty. Too cryptic? I'm not tripping on it. Curbs. Broken sidewalks. Those are the shits that trip me up. And head-hopping, shop to shop, nope, put that one back - I don't like the pattern of his tie-dyed knapsack.

I have all the appendages I am supposed to have. So far. Don't get me wrong. Don't be silly. You're not seeing it right. I know that everything can change overnight. I could wake up right when I start to nod off. I could stand up too quick, spin the dizzy vertigo ballet. Cover the walls in crimson spray. 


I have this tiny invisible box that I keep my feelings in. Go ahead. Look at 'em. Poke 'em a little. They won't mind. They'll take what you got and return in kind. Just remember, I know what a split infinitive is - and I know what it isn't. And I know what I'm going to hear when you open your mouth. 

More television.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, September 16, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

BTW, I debated not doing it this week. But Rich would have thought that was stupid as shit. RIP, brother.



Of course the sun sets at a different time down by the water, glistening. You see them damn hills? They say there's gold, but I sure haven't found any. I've found wisps of time and goodness. I've lived years of horror over the years. And years of horror in a day. This isn't a competition, no, it's just the American way. And I'll bite my tongue as my daughter pledges her allegiance to something when she doesn't even know what that means. I can't wait until she's old enough to get my point. 

But there are so many things to be angry about, and you gotta glance at 'em sideways to see how it's funny.

See a woman in the ER screaming in pain. Feel the cold heat of the white. The goddamn white. Beds, shoes, clothes. Everything is white, and it's terrifying. And the woman is cold, shivering. And the doctor is twelve and you about shit yourself. And the woman's red dress stands out, stark. Like a blood clot. And she screams and it sounds like some kind of divine torture you don't understand. And you recoil, filled with a morbid fascination, as the doctor raises high in the air - fresh from the woman's vagina - a tiny Velociraptor, inert and silly in its plasticity.

And the doctor looks at you. And says: it's not real. And you laugh.

I know, you say. Ya maroon.


#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, September 9, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

You're so sweet it makes my teeth hurt, and it's artificial sweetener - shit's probably giving me cancer. I'd rather have a buck-toothed-wine-drunk smile at me than look at that fake, white bullshit you show off every chance you get. I know that smile - daggers, probes, death blows. And the rest of it. All lining that lying face around the clean, white smile. 

I'm tired of the smell of vanilla. Makes me feel like I'm in middle school. Or a strip club. Step your game up, or down. Real people smell alright, you know? You don't have to smell like Bed, Bath & Beyond to make friends. You'd do a lot better trying to have a genuine personality and some common goddamn sense.

You stand big, but you're so very small. The urge to squash you is strong, but then you'd win because you could bust out the martyr grin, your favorite. So, I bite my tongue and taste the blood, but I don't care. You're a giant fucking billboard, and I got more than enough blood to spare.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, September 2, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

This is my stop, and I want to get off. I don't want to ride on your train no more. You got such clear eyes, where did you get them? Your hands are so soft, how do you keep them that way? Your smile is a flashbulb, turn it the fuck off. It's too early. My head hurts. Don't you understand how one small thing can kill a man?

I'm passing cornfield after cornfield, and I want to stop and look. They don't all look the same. Don't give me that shit. They don't all smell the same either. Some smell like crap and some smell like sunshine. Some smell like the apocalypse and some smell like chamomile. They all sound like wind and song. Don't look at me like that. I'm done with you.

Your clear eyes and your soft hair and that little kink in your vacant stare. It's starting to make me uncomfortable. Not in an existential way, no, I mean I can't sleep at night because my brain can't find a cool spot on this jacket bunched on rough, old wood. The damn thing keeps turning all night. Flipping and flopping. I can't shut it off. That's why I aim to get off. Just like Aaron did - you never tried to stop him.


Sure, the sky's pretty once you leave the city. Sure, the clouds float higher here. Sure, I like the folks we meet and the smiles they pass us while we eat. The problem isn't them. The problem isn't you. And it's not me. It's those clear eyes and all the things they see.

BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, August 26, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play

Good Lord. (Not the sky one.) I don't know where I went wrong. It doesn't make a lick of sense, I swear it doesn't. I realize that the past can be a dark, dark corridor and I never claimed to be a saint, but I'll be damned if I don't keep meeting horrible people. And I try. I try to make the right call for myself and be there for the ones who don't have the strength to call out. And I'm not trying to be a martyr, nor noble. I'm just trying to be what my Nana called 'decent'. Why do there have to be so many assholes? 

And why do they drive such nice cars?

We need to mobilize a pacifist army. Get this shit sorted. Get the rewards to the good people and let the politicians and 'celebrities' worry about money all the time. I just don't understand how the system got so twisted. How stupid are we? You pay a firefighter enough to buy a decent house, but someone who fucks people for a living gets a Mansion with a royal garden in the desert outside LA?

And I got nothing against porn stars. Weird that that sprung to mind. Because I'd much rather round up a bunch of white dudes with nice hair, grey suits, secret atrocious appetites, and coke habits - roast 'em in the middle of town and then watch the real vultures feast on roasted vultures for weeks.

You telling me that a nurse should make less than the CEO of a company? Two minutes are not nearly enough to tell you that the person who picks your fucking food should live in a pretty decent pad. And be treated with respect.

Ya shortsighted bastards. Oh, and good morning. The drought is making me cranky.

BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, August 19, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

She held the report card like it had been dipped in a urinal. I could see the heat rising, the slight twitch in her lip that seemed to pull in the corners of the room - she was a magician about to yank everything. But. I'd. Still. BE. STANDING!!! No audience, no matter. And it wasn't like this was new territory. So, I waited, choking on the smoke from the scented candles she sold and therefore felt compelled to use.

My purgatory smelled like cinnamon apples.

"Jimmy..."

And she let that ride. Held it like a high note on a Casio keyboard. And what was I going to say? Sorry, Mom, there's this girl in my class and she stole my brain, twisted it, and then put it back - the damn thing don't work right now. Can't sit still. Can't concentrate.

Sorry, Mom, I'm more worried about getting my ass beat in the bathroom. If they gave grades for holding your piss all day, you wouldn't be this kind of mad/sad that makes me wonder if it would be different if Dad hadn't died.

The light in the room flickered when Mom threw the report card on the table. Everything stopped. My heart. The world. Evolution. Probably satellite signals and animal migrations. I flinched. I didn't want to, but I did. And then I closed my eyes so hard I saw red.

When I opened them, her eyes were thick with tears. Voice, too.

"Son, it's been a hard year. I hated school. Did I ever tell you that? Got tired of being judged. And your father ... I don't know, do they make human report cards? I still miss him just as much as you do, though. He drove me crazy, but I loved him."

I couldn't move, and I didn't think I'd be able to speak until the words were already out of my mouth.

"Mom. Let's order pizza. I'll buy. I still have that birthday money from Grandma."

And that's just how it happened. The pizza was even good considering the journey it had taken. It had done it's best.

I would have given it an A+.

BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...