Friday, April 21, 2017

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.


Hunger

She looked into him with wolf eyes, but he didn’t see it that way. Maybe it was the noise from the jukebox. Maybe it was the bourbon he’d stripped his stomach with. All he saw were red lips and tight dress and possibility. I wasn’t in on it, but I knew the score. I knew he’d  leave with her, and I knew what would happen afterwards. His wallet would be a lot lighter. That might be it. If he was lucky.

I didn’t have a stake in the game, so I drank and let it dangle. I watched it flutter in front of me. And I wasn’t laughing, but I had one of those smiles. One of those hidden smiles because I knew and he didn’t. I could see the wolf inside the sheep’s cocktail dress.

I could see it all laid out before me like a straight flush. 



And it was a goddamn mess.

#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, April 14, 2017

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.

Beneath the angry sun, the old man sat. At his feet, there was an old dog the color of the sand. He nodded at the mutt and it nodded back. The dog was licking the man's feet. Trying to clean the blood from them. It wasn't working. 

The man had long ago run out of water and ambition. He had one piece of beef jerky he was saving, a loaded gun, and many, many regrets. 

He was thirsty, the dog was thirsty, but you can't drink gunpowder. He chuckled in spite of himself.

"Aren't we supposed to be put out to pasture, boy?"


The dog nodded.

"Not the middle of the goddamned desert..."

The dog whined and it turned into a low rumble. The dog was not scared, nor was the man. They were resigned to it. They were too tired to be angry anymore.

"Let's stop walking, boy."

The old man looked off into the distance. He had taken a half-assed shot at a jackrabbit earlier, but he had more than enough ammunition to end their pain. The dog thumped his tail. 

"You always did know what I was thinking, huh?"

The dog smiled and walked several paces away, looking off into the horizon. It was time for the old man to fix things. He knew the signs. The tight lips. The smell of resolve. The man would make it right.

The man pulled the gun from his pocket and looked at it. He sighed. If only it could be the other way around, but, then again, he wouldn't wish that on his dog. Or any dog for that matter. 

He aimed, closed his eyes. The dog did not move. He fired, but it took his several minutes to open his eyes and turn the barrel. 

#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, April 7, 2017

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.


Tell me to keep marching, but I won’t. I got Phil Ochs in my pocket, and we’re through with the fucking marching. I’m sick to death of it. I don’t want to be a good soldier; that was never my aspiration. I aspired to a certain honest dignity and that meant no marching. Not unless fish-related and on my terms. I don’t march for anybody but me. On that, and many other things, Phil Ochs and I agree.

I’m not going to get my gun. Not that I have a gun, but I’m not even going for the metaphorical quick-draw. I told you. I’ll go fishing. You make the cole slaw. Not because I said so – that’s like telling someone to march. No, just make it because it will taste good with the fried bream, and we can both do our part.

I don’t want to see the tomb of the unknown soldier. I don’t want to go back to Gettysburg. I’ve been there. I just wanted to sit in the grass, but they kept telling me it was greener from the blood spilt. Which seemed like a lot of bullshit at the time. Still does. I won’t address it. Lincoln beat me to it and did it better than I ever could.

I just want to do what I should.

And that’s a bold statement for a wannabe misanthrope to make, but you get what you get and you take what you take. If golf is a good walk spoiled - like Twain said - then life is an interesting adventure tainted by the screaming of hypocrites and liars. I don’t want to be thrown into that patch of briars.

I just want to hug my girls, love my wife, write, and catch a fish every so often. There’s not a lot of time for anything else. So, I'll fight my battles. Stop trying to enlist me in yours.

#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, March 31, 2017

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 wish the world had a big-ass volume knob, old school, like the one on your grandpa's belching radio. The kind you can use to silence everything with one sweep of the hand. I'm getting tired of turning the world down one click at a time. I'm sick of having injustice shoved into my brain - it's too damn loud.

If I see another phony smile filled with thousands of dollars worth of dental work, I might just have to send someone back to the dentist. I won't stoop to the level of the lying masses, though. 

Free passes or no. It's just not worth it. 

There are only so many hours you can spend, neck-cricked, staring at ceiling tiles and wondering. It makes you the wrong kind of angry. Not a productive angry. An angry that ricochets inside you, leaving vast areas of hurt and damage. You can't let the anger out, though. Got to keep it bottled up like fireflies that burn your retinas. Mutant fireflies. They burn like napalm.

Big suckers.

I'll stand and let the wind wash me, but that only works for the outside. How do I blow away the anger? How do I stop reading about terrified people living terrifying lives and then go about my business living mine? How can you do that? Doesn't it chafe at you? Aren't you rubbed raw yet?

I imagine myself at the top of a mountain, ready to fly. To stoop like a falcon and let the wind buffet me. Let it shake me so hard that I can't even hold onto a thought. 

I know I got on the ride, but now I want a refund for the ticket I bought. 

Snake oil, endless toil, polluted soil. Well, well. Haven't we learned a goddamn thing? My four year old knows more than most of the adults I know. Be kind. Clean up your things. Don't lie. Never, ever lie. 

That's the one I can't understand. The smallest transgressions leave me guilt-ridden for days. Hell, I beat the shit out of myself on a regular basis for things so inconsequential that even I know I'm being crazy, losing my grip. 

What can I say, I was born into the middle of a cross-country guilt trip. 

But the lying. Is it that some folks don't have that inner cricket? Or is it more than that - a sticky wicket? Are we even playing by the same rules? Are we even in the same game? Does it matter? 

I think it does.

It takes a little man to attack with petty grievances. To lash out at those who have the audacity to try to tell the truth. The truth makes you uncomfortable? The truth makes everyone uncomfortable. That's part of the reason it's so important. 


Seems to me like there are too many folks happy being comfortable. And you can argue and try to dissuade. Shuck and grin while you plan how to use your vacation days. You can hold on and tell yourself that you'll be safe as long as you keep your head down. It won't work. We're all fucked. And I'm not burying my head in the sand. 

If it's going to happen I want to see it coming. Maybe then I'll understand.

#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, March 24, 2017

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 can get as mad as you want - hell, your head can explode and I'm not going to be able to stop laughing, I know that, laughing like the goddamn devil handed me a plate of fancy cheeses.

It will start off with a chuffing, a goofy grin I can't control. While you intertwine your features, yearning to be droll. 

Then a chuckle played off as a cough. Gentle. Soft. 

But there's a point where, Jesus Christ, you'd have to have no fucking soul not to laugh at that. A man puts himself on a pedestal so high. And I don't claim any physical rigor, but I'm two minutes quick on the flash fiction trigger.

So, that's why I'm laughing. That's all I wanted to say. It's like the whole world's goldfinches, and you're a mangy old jay. 

#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, March 17, 2017

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 couldn't stand the noise. The noise is what did it. And it wasn't even an awful noise - no scraping, screeching horror. Hell, he'd liked the noise at first, but it never stopped. It never fucking stopped. In white-trimmed sitting rooms with sheer window dressings and fancy couches, the noise ate at him, making him question his resolve, his sanity.

And he laughed and smiled with the rest, well-dressed. He presented a good public figure. He was loved by all, but, sometimes, in a twitch of moonlight, his mouth would twist - and you could see that it was winning. 


No one else heard it. That was the rub of it. He'd established that quickly and then clammed up so as not to sound crazy. He had to pretend that nothing was wrong. 

That he couldn't hear it.

And that is how we find him here, wrapped around a bottle of whiskey, naked, with both guns in reach - praying. He's damn near begging. 


"Something stop the noise."


#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...

Saturday, March 11, 2017

Mirrors

It's hard to see what you really look like. Sometimes, the mirror is forgiving; sometimes it's a magnifying glass for everything you hate about yourself. Sometimes, it makes you wish you could live forever. Sometimes it makes you wish that you were alone so you could drift off into an endless blackness, guilt free.

Those are the hard times. Because you know - you can smash the mirror and scatter the feeling. The shards will be so sharp your blood will reach the ceiling. And that's something. That reach. At least you leave a mark - until the landlord sends in the poor cleaning women with their buckets of bleach.

They won't get all the stains, but enough for another whitewash refrain. The new tenant will never hear the echoes of pain.

Then there're funhouse mirrors. They don't mean shit to anybody. They twist us up inside and out. Make us wonder what we're all about.

I'm gonna start carrying a hammer. Smash every fucking mirror I come across. Keep bitching, build myself a cross. Don't be cross. I'm in charge of me. And calling it your job don't make it right. Boss.

See?

Writing is a weird addiction. So much lost in the brittle friction. You open too many veins, and you never see the mirror straight again. That's the deal you make. Most times you lose. Occasionally, you win.

Is there a color blacker than black? I want the kind of black where I can't see my fist coming. I want to punch the walls until my fingers splinter. Sew my mouth shut so I can't talk anymore. You don't even know me, and you think I'm a bore?

Imagine how I feel.

Who's to know what's fake and what's real? Who's cares anyway?

Maybe this would all be easier if I could start over. Get super interested in college football or barbecuing.

You can watch football with crushed hands.

If you're reading this, you should hate it. I do. A grown man should have something better to do. Some kind of legacy. Something true. Something true that matters. Some garnish for the plate. I'd go back in time and get into real estate, but it's too damn late.

And the worst part? I'll tell my girls to do things that are meaningful to them. And they might end up in the exact same place I'm in, bitter and running out of time. But at least they could take their kids to Disneyland.

All the other kids go. And the adults I know? It's only a few thousand dollars...

Motherfucker, please. I feel guilty when I buy a burrito. Something tells me I wouldn't enjoy the Mickey they slip you at the princess show.

No mirrors for me. That's the lesson here. I want to be a hermit crab. I want to smell like seaweed and move from shell to shell so no one can recognize me.  Maybe go back in time and convince some corrupt "doctor" to lobotomize me.

I tried doing it myself, but it didn't take.

Let's take a moment, count the mistakes. Unable to provide for family? Check. Unable to grin when others do? Got that going on, too. And I never have been able to smile through the bile. Lord knows what that's cost me.

I've never understood why Van Gogh would cut off an ear. Seems insincere. I'd gouge my eyes out so I'd never see another mirror.

Don't sweat it. It's all a joke, and you don't get it. Neither do I. And that's fine.

Never trust a punch line.