Friday, August 28, 2015

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'd think there wouldn't be much for me to do in the museum, being blind and all. Folks don't understand. See, if your eyes work, the museum is a feast of color and texture and all the other stuff y'all go on about. For me, the museum is a symphony. I hear old folks with their walkers rolling along. I hear groups of school kids running, shouting. I hear people laughing and babies crying. And then there are brief moments when everything is still. The sound of that stillness is like a tidal wave building. The tension is so thick, it chokes me up.

Sometimes people sing. You'd be amazed the way some people can sing. For instance, Hazel, who cleans up sometimes. She always says 'hi' to me, then she goes about her business, humming, singing little scraps of song. Just doodling. And it's beautiful. By God, it's so pretty sometimes I can't breathe.

I ain't saying I don't appreciate the sentiment, because I do. But while you're feeling sorry for me, I'm feeling sorry for you.


Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Thursday, August 27, 2015

DIY Novel

(You guys handle the imagery and whatnot this time.)

So, yeah. There's this guy.

Guy is super hot in a masculine/feminine way. He's also a Velociraptor. But only on two days out of the month. February? Don't think about it.

The rest of the time, he's super sweet. Totally.

There's this chick. She's kind of over the whole thing. Life. Ugh. Chore! She lives in a boring place where boring people live. She shops at Hot Topic, but tells everyone she finds all her "goods" in vintage punk rock palaces.

The dude just wants to live. Be a Velociraptor some of the time. Not hurt anyone.

Then chick's fucking Grandma dies. I forgot to mention. She's super close to her Grandma. Tragic.

This is when the chick wishes she had hip, urban, chick friends. She does not.

She listens to The Smiths. And Fall Out Boy. Then Taylor Swift, or someone who sounds like her.

She sighs a lot, and then she goes to the local 7-11 to get e-cigarettes and Diet Coke. Not Pepsi. Fucking Coke. Got it? Don't worry about why.

Sees dino dude. There is awkward silence fraught with apathetic, yet raw sexual tension.

Dude turns into Velociraptor, and the 7-11 guy goes for a shotgun.

Chick tackles him.

She channels the strength of her Grandmother who was a seer. Chick can summon shit. Sorry.

I totally forgot.

There's also the fact that she works at a goth bookstore which is a huge part of this. And she is recovering from a bad breakup with the school bad boy. She wipes her nose a lot. Dust.

He rides a moped. Fucking A. Bad boy pre-breakup, that is.

So, 7-11. Dude roars and roars.

Chick pleads with 7-11 guy. Because she knows. I mentioned that right. They have weird fucking common thoughts. They talk to each other with their brains. Trippy.

Now there's a weird subplot about a group of escaped mental patients who dress up like clowns and visit children's hospitals.

There's an EPIC car crash. No one important is in it.

Oh, it is important though because, in the next book, the dude might save her from a car crash. (This book better sell well).

So, the 7-11 is kind of like the climax. Slowly, with soft grimaces, dude turns human again because they got there just before midnight or some shit. After? I can't do math.

Then, there's a long view of the whole town and a guy who sounds like a drunk, British, Cowboy Morgan Freeman tells you a bunch of shit. Basically, it boils down to this: don't try to destroy what you don't understand. 

Then a comet takes out the whole planet.

Then, there is a weird dream sequence with TONS of making out and weird tongue stuff. Maybe a little boob. Over the shirt. Yeah. Apocalyptic. But you don't know if this is like the afterlife ... did they not really die? WTF?

Imagine some pretty scenic place where nice words live here. Then, you see a baby lying on a white sheet in a field.

And that's it.

(Ignore the typos!)

Friday, August 21, 2015

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. 

It's chasing you, and you can't run fast enough. It darts and squirts through window cracks and under the lips of liquor store bonnets. It is in the dark corners, lurking. Did you bring your invisibility cloak? Well, good. Except that shit won't work. Not this time.

You think you hear something, but you can't be sure. You think you feel something, and you wish it was her. You lean your head against a rough, cold wall and you try to sink, push your feet into the mud, which glitters with empty candy wrappers and broken glass.

You sing a song you've sung too many times before. The lyrics don't matter anymore.

If they ever did.


Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Thursday, August 20, 2015

Fishing Lies

The day was young, but he didn't know what that meant. It was something the old man said, but he said it with a black-toothed smile that couldn't be questioned. It was almost like a prayer, a celebration, sometimes tinged with wonder - rarely flavored by regret.

The boy had slept soundly, and his head was thick with sleep. His clothes were on the floor beside the bed, and he shivered as he forced his body into the cold, damp cloth. It was the only thing he hated about the cabin. Always cold. Never dry.

The heat of the kitchen was a welcome oasis. The smell of bacon and eggs awakened something in him. Even the smell of the coffee, which he did not drink, was some kind of wonder. Promise. Something.

"You sleep alright, son?"

"Yes, sir."

"No dreams?"

The boy always dreamed, but he knew what the old man meant.

"Nope. It's getting better, I think."

The old man nodded and shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth, small pieces dangling from the grey thatch of beard. He sprinkled some more hot sauce over his plate, and the boy's eyes watered. Their eyes met.

"You alright, boy?"

"I'm okay. The hot sauce..."

The old man nodded. They both pretended that they believed. There was an acceptance of half-truths between them. They cultivated these lies and wrapped themselves in the warmth, or semblance of warmth, they provided. Things were too cold, in general - they did not question their need. It was the same reason the boy did not object to being called boy, even though he was closer to a man than a boy. Besides, he did not feel like a man.

"Might rain light today, but I figure we'll get out there. Good fishing on days like today. You up for it?"

"Sure, sure I'm up for it."

They both smiled. Real smiles - the kind that felt natural on their faces, not the frosting smiles they wore most of the time. Nothing would stop them from fishing. It was something they both knew, an inside joke that had no punchline. They did not often hug. They did not talk about love, the love they'd both lost or the love they felt for each other - they did not let themselves open that door, it led to a darkness they could not revisit.

*****

He stood with the water pushing against his waders. He liked the feeling - it was a kind of encouragement. The old man was downstream, but every so often their eyes met and they both wondered the same thing - how could it be that they always looked at the same time, or were there times when anxious eyes reached out toward intent expression, concentration? There was a panic there. A panic they did not acknowledge. 

The rain started mid-morning, but it was a gentle rain - they were cold, but not cold enough to be uncomfortable. They were cold enough to know that dinner would taste better than a can of beans and some bacon has a right to taste.

The day marched toward evening. They caught fall fish and chubs. The old man pulled a small bass from the water and smiled, holding it up for a moment so the boy could see. As afternoon stretched, they began to disappear. Their breathing became shallow and silent. They could hear woodpeckers in the distance. They smelled the wet, life-smell of the land. They became fishermen, fingers gentle on the line, senses tuned into something that lived both inside and out. The old man had a name for it. The fish place. It was a place of safety, and it was something they shared - something they had always shared - a kind of meditation, though they would never use the word.

The sun was dropping behind the hills when the man walked to the bank and started back. They had covered a mile or so of water. It was time to go back. It was a good time, closure. 

Determined to fish until the old man was standing next to him, the boy cast toward a riffle that had eluded him for almost half an hour. Not anymore. 

It was a magic cast; he punched the fly through a crack in the leaves that overhung the water. The fly danced in the froth before swirling and coming to rest at the edge of a deep hole. The old man was beside him now. He did not look, and the old man was about to speak when a trout sucked in the fly. The boy raised the rod tip with a quick, firm jerk. The rod doubled over and the boy raised it over his head, eyes wide. They both watched the line swing from one side of the pool to the other.

They did not speak because there was nothing to say. The boy pulled in line when he could and it collected around him. The fight lasted several minutes before they saw the fish, a flash of silver in the water. It was a big one. They had both caught bigger, but they had sure caught a lot that were smaller. Their eyes met and they smiled. 

When the trout was finning gently beside his boot, the boy laughed out loud. 

"Well, I'll be damned."

"You got that right. Big, but hell, pretty ... I don't know as I've ever seen a trout that pretty. Like a little kid went wild with the finger paints."

The boy nodded and reached into the water, numb fingers finding the barbless hook - it slipped out like magic. The old man slapped him on the back, too hard, but it wasn't malicious. And there was no jealousy. This was communion. They stood and looked at the riffles that led to the big hole and, though they did not put it into words, they both thought the same thing: you never know where things will end up. How things will play out. 

They both jumped when they heard the sharp, city voice behind them.

"I got a look, that was a nice fish. Fish like that makes good eating."

The words sounded unnatural, as if spoken by someone learning a new language. They looked at the man, sized him up. His waders were new and his outfit matched perfectly. It was like he stepped out of the Orvis catalogues that came monthly, even though they never bought anything. They chuckled at the catalogue some evenings. They did not judge the man, but they did not appreciate his presence. The boy tensed, and his arms began to shake. The old man put a gentle arm around his shoulder and forced on a frosting smile. 

"We don't kill fish anymore. A man makes his own decisions, and I'm not preaching, but the fish is back where it belongs and we ain't starving."

The cardboard man chuckled. 

"You get tired of the taste?"

The old man tried to speak. Cleared his throat. Tried again. Coughed into his handkerchief, which had come out to stop the tears which only the boy recognized. 

"Taste's got nothing to do with it. Trout taste fine."

The man stood for a moment before waving a puzzled wave and moving on. The boy's breath was shaky, and silent tears glistened on his cheeks.

"That was a hell of a fish, son. A hell of a day. Forget about him. He'll break his rod and be back in New York by the end of the week."

"I know ..."

"You can't blame him - he didn't know."

The boy looked into the canopy of the forest and wondered if there was more beyond the sky, the clouds - he hoped there was, but he had his doubts. But it would suffice. The water, the old man - the fish, beautiful and proud. He had that, and that was enough.

The old man was thinking something along the same line - lying to himself. But it was alright because they both knew.

There are lots of reasons that fishermen lie. 

Friday, August 14, 2015

2 Minutes. Go!

#2minutesgo will be hosted this week by Laurie E. Boris: HERE
I am away for the day, so #breaktheblog over at Boris' place, huh?

Have fun, and see y'all next week. :)

Friday, August 7, 2015

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, with the shy smile - yeah, you - I don't buy it, just so you know. Shy smiles are bullshit. Don't mean nothing. You could have a gun under your shirt. You could be one of those people who thinks that the mothership is coming. You could be an investment banker. Makes my blood run cold. So, save it. Hell, it could be the shadow of a stroke.

It works on a lot of people, I know. And you may think I'm an ass - I might be one - but I know a snake in the grass when I see one. 


I'm not suggesting you stop. That's not my place. I'm just hipping you to the time you're wasting. Because all I'm gonna do is keep checking that my wallet is still in my pocket and my back's to the wall. I got a knife that opens like a jail-cell door.

Ain't no shy smiles getting the jump on me, real or not.


Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Thursday, August 6, 2015

Space

There is a bright red energy at the center of the room and, around it, little sparks of light dance with a luminescent rebellion. You look at that energy and it hurts your eyes, but in a good way. Like sunlight through closed lids.

Red, you know?

The strange thing is that there are other galaxies. So many. You can see them only in periphery - they are vile and strange places where outrage fuels the cells.

Comets don't do shit.

There's all kinds of stuff out there, though - a virtual junkyard amidst the real junk that's supposed to be there. That's twice the amount of junk. Thats a shit-ton of junk.

I'm just saying.

You need to look at the red center and try not to think about the swirling galaxies of angst. The dark, spinning madness that lurks on the edge of everything. You need to believe on some level, in some way, that that energy will, if not protect you, at least give everything a light, pink sheen. A gentle buffing.

You think I can't do it? I have done it. I will do it again, and, when I do, this time I'll understand that time is always in flux and everything is temporary except for the things which are permanent - the ones you should focus on. It's a simple thing to say, it's nearly impossible if you're doing it right, but someone has to do it, and, right now, you're just warming up the rocket boosters and space ain't going nowhere.

Blink twice if you hear me.