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. 

The sun splits the darkness right down the middle. You look up into the sky, but there aren't any words. And what words there are - such flighty, useless things - sometimes they are so heavy they can fall and pull the whole world inside out.

You want some kind of soothing 'hand on back' affirmation. You pick cherry blossoms from the ground, arrange them into different shapes. Everyone looks at you like you're crazy. Must be the smile. Strange, you think - this is the first fun you've had in years. 

She wanted you to remember. Or, more accurately, she wanted you to never forget. Fine distinction, I'll grant you, but when the sun is tearing the top off night, these kinds of thoughts make sense. Soon, they will be obliterated by billboard longing and then, as one final insult, they will pull the night shade down. But first, it will open and for a moment, you will see.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. And next week things should be back to normal. :)

#2minutesgo

2 Minutes. Go!

I was unable to be near a computer for the last few days. The awesome and talented Laurie Boris was kind enough to host #2minutesgo yesterday. You can check out the shenangigans on her blog:

HERE

BIG thanks to Laurie. :)

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. 

There's just this one thing, but I've got to say it - the letters may be weak, deflated - I'll pump those shits up until they're bound to pop. Rivulets of window water rebel against the small part of my mind that is awake, screaming whispers of revolution. Ain't no revolutions around here, son. We ain't talking planets or space trash.

I'm tired of hearing the sad laments of melancholy fools. I guess I should stop talking.

See, the trouble with the whole thing is that it's like a deer head hanging on the wall. Some will shrink from it, minds creating nightmare scenes of camouflage and death. Some will just be curious, gawkers at a drive-by, vicariously pulling that trigger, slow and easy. Some will taste the blood in their mouths, fascinated, but pretending apathy.They have their reasons. There's just one question you have to ask...

Which one will you be?

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

#2minutesgo

So Many Possibilities

She is empty, like the night. Deep and cold and sullen. There is a lingering smell of smoke in the room - always the smell of smoke, it lives in the cushions, curtains, clothes. She is melancholy. Her hands wring and her brow furrows and she dives deep into the lost, dark spaces. She feels cold fingers, hears sharp rebukes - wonders at them. She turns them in her mind and turns the bedclothes round and round. She is never at rest. She can never rest. Not now. Not ever. There are some mistakes that fade with time. Some fester, sitting inside you like a fanciful tyrant, reminding you how small you really are. Beneath her contempt, wrapped in closet-blackness, she holds her trump card, turning it slowly, wondering if she could find him. And, if she could, well ...

... so many possibilities.

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 suppose you want to hear about it; they all do. They all spit out little flecks of small talk, eyes flared and restless, waiting. I can smell it on them. Tell me. Oh God, please... I ain't God, and if I was I wouldn't tell you nothing. So, you got conflicting gossip. You got theories. You got a little curious bird who lives inside your brain with slick black feathers, yellow eyes.

I know how it must look, but it's not my job to help you through your restless nights. You can't sleep? Take a fucking sleeping pill. Have a nightcap. Stop worrying about us, we'll be just fine. Find another family to use for your dose of reality when the TV's broke. You think we're the only ones with a secret? Hell, you got some of your own. Mull those over.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

#2minutesgo

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. 

Ready to put it on, ready to ride - easy - greasy smile made of timid lies. I see you got your game face on. I like it. It's like a volcano ready to erupt. Like a building being razed. It's like birth and death - one long dream - fuck everything that comes in between.

It's not like anybody's watching and nobody's surprised. We've been waiting for the second CHUNK of the chunk chunk shoe. Dropping. It's a helluva show.

It's not really, a show, nor entertaining. It's just that there are so few glossy things remaining. So few opportunities to stare at tile grout, wondering, holy shit, it was then. It was one night and one girl and one song and it ruined everything. Deadly.

Well. Shit.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. BTW - my first short story collection is free until the fifth. Grab a copy. Tell a friend. Click HERE.

Going For Coffee

She moves in light, floral flourishes. I imagine that her words drift gently, like fall leaves. She speaks like someone who never wants words to harm - because she knows they can. I listen when she speaks to people. Her order, or a soft hello. I can see her right now, in a dark corner, her hand clasping a warm mug - the steam and the small, reluctant smile. She is the soft, warm center of everything. Tender longing - she is love.

Many hours have passed like this, my eyes flitting like skitter-bugs, trying to take it all in - I want to remember every second. The way she turns the page on a notebook or novel, with grace and reverence. She sees me watching sometimes, smiles; I'm sure my face reddens.

I burn for days.

She is almost always, but not always, alone. The cafe is the same for both of us. A solitary place to sort thoughts and enjoy the smell of coffee, shake the cold and damp or the cold and crisp - hell, shake the world off for a bit. She teases the corners of her hair - one of those absent-minded comforts.

Her smile in these moments ... my heart clutches. I have absurd thoughts. A man will break into the cafe, hell-bent on destruction. Despite the overwhelming evidence of my past, I will vanquish this man. For her. For myself. For the cafe.

I imagine her eyes, anxious, watching a storm build - delicious fantasies. Here, take my umbrella, I insist. Let me call you a cab, we can split the fare. Terrible storm coming...

What I will actually do is nothing. I will continue to sip my coffee slowly, refill it, and watch and run my hands through my hair, gray, though still thick as a child's. I will take my glasses off, wipe the lenses, put them back. Comfort. Little comforts. I will think about when no one had cell phones, and it will make me sad. No reason. Just old, I guess.

I will watch her write. I will watch her read. Sometimes, the exquisite reflection of prose is blinding. She is engrossed, and I stare. God, I stare. Her face shades grave concern, then a chuckle, then she is serious - worried - like the words are orphaned children and she must save them all. And I think, to be made of words! Oh, anything. I would give anything to be made of words and to light her heart, twist the ends of her hair. 

There are times I look at her and think: She is a lion. There are times when I look at her and think: She is a Killdeer, the broken wing a ruse. She is leading me. There are times - most of the time - when I think: She is human like me and we could sit at the same table if not for...

It's easy to say. My brother has no problem saying it. Never did. My whole life, I heard the refrain. Just fucking talk to her, what is she ... poisonous? Good-humored, still, it sliced me like a rusty blade, jagged. He didn't understand.

I could talk to her, and she would invite me to sit, and we would talk. I know this. She would even be kind. I know this as well. And - maybe - things would go well. I might be witty. She could tell me of her words and bathe me in the gentle smiles that bloom beneath the soft warmth of her eyes. Or maybe it would be awkward. God, that word. Soul crushing. Every joke would fall flat. I would end up staring, mumbling. I would no longer be able to find solace in the cafe. It would be back to the bar and the brandy and the boredom of that long, black space. No one to look at. No bright spot in the darkness, delighting in the twisting of words.

Something I used to think I could do.

I'll sit here and drink my coffee and be glad I have this. Appreciate it. And I will hope, as always, that some part of her knows that I don't even like coffee. But I won't ask for a thing; she has given me so much, already.