Friday, December 12, 2014

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 walks through the department stores, auburn hair tossed over one shoulder, tips tickling the soft skin of her ribcage beneath softer silk. She has a route for every store. Every time it's the same, especially near Christmas. She can get everything she needs from every store in the mall without passing the toys. She is not prepared for the elf that jumps out at her as she skirts 'sporting goods'.

"Picture with Santa? Not just for kids, Ma'am!"

She stops, and she can feel her heart thump, her hand open - feels the bag full of knick knacks and office presents fall to the ground. The elf drops to his knees, apologizing.

"It's OK ... I ... I don't need any of this ..."

She turns, but feels a hand squeezing the top of her arm.

"Ma'am, I'm so sorry. How about a free picture? Front of the line."

She looks into his glowing eyes, hovering above a desperate smile. Stephen would have been about the same age.

"Get the fuck away from me. Don't you ever fucking touch me again."

"Ma'am?"

The elf is scared, but he will soon forget. She won't. She won't hang the small stocking when she gets home. She won't try to brace herself. She won't look at old pictures and cry. She will get drunk. For weeks. Maybe until the new year.

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.

Friday, December 5, 2014

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. 

We're cooking with gas now, baby. Ain't no getting off the train between stops, folks will grab you like you're crazy: you can't get off the train here, man! The hell? Maaaaan, I can get off this train anytime I want, grab a passing tree, swing like a hopped-up orangutan.

The memory is parasitic, it steals from you. You wander through dark streets, clutching at snatches of neon and moon splash, alone, bereft. You're drowning in all these people and no one will even notice. Bounce down the aisles of a late night convenience store, drink the bright colors deep inside you where they'll add weight to the skinny nightmares which shroud your face.

I am memory, and I am the truest lie you've ever heard.

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.

Friday, November 28, 2014

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. 

Not again. It's not right - it's like one more backhand clap, false adulation. You race the race that feels like a chase? Steeple? Naw, they're running on flash boxes and Internet memes, son. Don't you see it? Can't you feel the hot sear of self-reflection reddening your fog-soft features; you look goddamn ridiculous. 

What's the point, what's the answer? What South American herb will cure your cancer? The lies are thick, like flies on honey - all kinds of boogey-man - call bullshit, money. Phoney. It won't surprise anyone, they're all waiting for it. You laid the bait and now it's running, unabated, shameless. How many years have passed by blameless...

Don't look to me for answers, I got none. I've never understood what made it run. They say it's one thing, but it's bullshit. It's not about love, it's not about hate, it's not about the things we create. It's about nothing and nothing is a blanket that covers us all. You think any of this shit is an accident? I guess you're just a dumbass. I'm cool with being a malcontent. 

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, if you enjoy reading all the cool pieces by the authors on here, check out their work. Many have written and published amazing things. Trust me.

Friday, November 21, 2014

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 sky is falling and winter's calling and there's still that smell coming from the basement. You're going to have to deal with that. It's not going away and all the Christmas decorations and "presents" in the world aren't going to change that.

Look in the mirror. Look at the dark holes of your eyes, sunken, shipwreck-scattered, flotsam, jetsam, you can't focus and you break the mirror.

It's like you're living three lives in four different dimensions - it's getting confusing, and the neighbors are getting more curious. Someone TP'd the house, but it could be just kids, but it could be just kids testing...wondering...

You just have to get rid of it. Stop putting it off. You have to exhume everything you want to hide and the revelation will set you free, put you back in the safe cage where you used to be - cozy as a mongrel-flea. That place was made for you and me, with one state-issued Christmas tree.

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, if you enjoy reading all the cool pieces by the authors on here, check out their work. Many have written and published amazing things. Trust me.

Friday, November 14, 2014

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. 

What would you like? Tell me how you want it. Served hot or open faced? You want a side of metaphors? You can add as many as you want. I know we all have our own tolerances and, lord, even allergies. I can add some vampires, but that's gonna double the price of your meal. Imagery? Sorry, we're out of that today. You're just going to have to eat in this static void. Ambience? Overrated. 

The other patrons? Well, I suppose. Yes, I know I control them, but I tend to let them do what they want. You what? Sir, allow me to explain. I'm not trying to be rude, but this is my place. I can press one button and the whole thing disappears. Or I could just 86 you. You'll take the hot, humid hermaphroditic life change with extra alliteration? Well, welcome, we're waiting for your order - in the mean time, grab a typewriter. It'll be hard to find in this open white space, but the search will do you good.


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, if you enjoy reading all the cool pieces by the authors on here, check out their work. Many have written amazing things. Trust me.

Friday, November 7, 2014

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. 

Petulant chainsaw grumbles blend with the odd glottal rumbling from beneath the old man's beard. He is old in body and spirit; his dreams are haunted by vague memory, aided by a whiskey lens - his dreams are old movies, missing frames snipped by clumsy popcorn pushers.

The old man gives two shits about the chainsaw and the chainsaw cares for nothing. Not the trees, not the deep, thick thigh tissue it seeks out in careless moments. The man and the chainsaw have little in common. The saw does not run on blood. It does not wake with fevered eyes. The chainsaw has never lost someone. The man has never cut down a tree. He has bitten deep into thigh flesh, but that was years ago - in a a dust mote tavern in Alaska, and even Jack London couldn't tell that story right.


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.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Pot Shots

That's just the thing, see. That's exactly what I'm talking about. You don't want to listen because you know that it's going to get big - bigger than you can even imagine. Like a million elephants smushed into a big, gray putty ball.

I don't even want to get into it. It's like talking to a wall - if walls could be lying, self-righteous asswipes. They can't. I like walls. You can lean on those things. Leaning on you is an invitation to prostration. That means I'd end up on the ground, this ain't about your ass, man.

Call the shots how you see them; everyone deserves a kernel of your wisdom wouldn't you say, Corporal?

I'm feeling sick inside. It's this spinning, whirling kind of sickness. It's like that ride at the carnival with the spider arms. Designed to make you puke, I reckon. Never did make sense to me. I'd rather shoot a clown in the face with a fancy water pistol.

There are so many bullies. So many bully pulpits. So many people confused when they don't really need to be. You may not see it. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. But that's all I'm giving you. From now on, you get the surface. I have presented too many things I loved, only to have them shot down by petty insecurities disguised as opinion. Not that you're not entitled to them. I'm just saying you can keep 'em; I got bigger fish to fry.