Friday, May 27, 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's going to ask you if the kids liked your new hair cut. You'll shrug, feel cold dread in your spine. An awkward silence will swallow the room; you will watch the walls spin, and you will feel them come closer and you will blink heat. Smile. Sure. And then the questions will start and you'll answer: nothing, nothing, nothing.

Because what do you say? It was like every new school. The nice kids pretended like you didn't exist. The mean kids were fucking mean. And there was one kid (there is always one kid) who latched onto you. A social anchor, but you both appreciated the kindness and felt bad about the whole scene. So, he's your friend now. 


And you've been marked. 

And no one mentioned a goddamn thing about the haircut because they just fucking met you. And, even if they didn't, they're not coming close enough. Not gonna happen. This isn't Florida and no one says y'all, and you sniff a tear and think about tall pine trees. You wonder. How many years of this? How many more before you lose your shit? It's like trying to hold down a dragon, the anger. It's not even anger, it's just energy - with no outlet. It calcifies inside you. 

But you'll get up tomorrow and put on your best poker face so no one notices shit. Haircuts, accents, that new-kid smell. You can blend in. You do it well. So, get pissed, spray WD-40 all over the garage wall and grab a match.

You gotta burn to to blend in hell.


ATTENTION, I WILL EDITING THE THIRD MATT STARK NOVEL ALL DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ TONIGHT! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in!

Saturday, May 21, 2016

Blue

It's a thick color, blue. You can choke on it - you can also get in there and dig around for ages; ain't nobody getting kicked out of blue. You can beat blue to death and hardly tell the difference. Other people might notice, but they're not inside of it - everything looks different from inside. That much, you should know. We should all know. Why we like to get drunk in maroon, velvet rooms. No?

Maybe it's just me.

I tried to kill blue. I don't believe in it, killing. I think it's ugly. An idea. A dream. A person. None of those things deserve killing, but fuck blue. And maybe I wasn't even trying to kill it as much as I was giving it an arena. Which is damn generous.

You know what those things cost?

I tried to wrap it up, you see. You understand. I'm sure you do - there are many of us looking out from inside blue.

Binding it was tortuous. For me. For you. For both and all of us and that guy in the corner. Fucking brutal. There was a flesh-piercing pull to it. The fire was fine, but the aftermath smelled of charred corpses. Yes, that's ugly. That's what it smelled like. There is a lot of true in blue.

I tried to free it. That was smart. That was real thinking. That was cigarette-dangling-out-of-lip noir shit. Everybody loved it. Shit was like fried chicken. It left you feeling greasy. But folks liked it and sometimes you give the people what they like just because. Because you feel like you're drowning when you're in the blue, gasping, your skin's gonna turn just that color. Choked-out blue.

I play with blue. You eventually have to. Or you snuff the whole palette, but that's a little extreme for most peoples' tastes. Acidic. Something repugnant where you can't really find a decent foothold - you can't really find a decent argument. You understand. It's like an obscene catharsis, that whorish hue.

I laughed at blue and I loved blue. Just the same as I have done with you. I have cursed and thrashed and curtsied and shimmied my way around blue so many times it doesn't even matter anymore. My hands are stained with it. I can't wash the blue off my hands, no matter how hard I try.

Until, one day, the blue fades. Gradually. From near-blackness to dark to the one you settle on. Baby. Look at the sky and it's baby blue. Clear skies today? Man, on a good day, my skies are baby blue. Because it's always there. On the horizon. A wolf with blood-soaked jowls.

Best to take a broader view, extend your reach, see what you can find in the periphery. Don't ever look it head on and you might just make it. For a while. For a night. And that's alright.

It has to be.

Friday, May 20, 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.

Eyes so big, I'd hate to see you startled - I'd never do it, never scare you, never pull shady tricks on you. You gotta know that. You got small town bullshit covering you like sawdust. Time to shake the dust. Where we're going the buildings are diamonds. The whole goddamn city is like a Christmas service - just louder. 

You won't believe it, baby. Ain't no fucking diner where we're going, and you're hands ain't gonna be all dry and scabby. You got those eyes, and that ain't all you got. That hair, like a smudge of sunset. Curves, but not too much. They're gonna love you. You're gonna be a star. The best kind of star. Low pro. They'll all know your face, but not your name. That's mine, Jenna. Only you and me know that. Once we get to the city your name is Angel. You are one. You know that, right? You'll feel more legit in furs, dropping hundred dollar tips one everyone you see. Trust.

And you'll stay with me. I got a penthouse baby. California king. You can see two bridges from my window, draped like tennis bracelets - like the water's the court and the net just ... bling. You wait 'til you see it. You can get high and stare at those lights for ever and ever. Now, come on, honey. Shake that dust. It's time to shake the world. 


There's just one thing...

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. 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!

Friday, May 13, 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.

Oh, goddamn, my teeth hurt - don't you know my teeth hurt, baby? It's like they're moving, grinding against each other, glacier slow. I can feel the heat. Don't look at me; I can't stand looking at the disgust in your eyes. You ride that disgust right on down the road, baby. My back aches. My knees are old church doors. You don't need it, baby. 

But shit if my mind ain't stale like bad deli bread. The 'too old, but this guy's an asshole so I'll cut off the mold and fuck him' bread. I can't get a spark, let alone combustion. And my eyes are weak, pupils tired of changing sizes, face tired of trite disguises. 

Let me glue my ears back on. Let me pick my ass up. Let me get my head straight. Let me shake the cold from my old broken limbs. Let me get a minutes peace so I can figure this out. I got leprosy of the mind, baby. You pass that over here, but we gotta be careful. Wipe it when we pass. I don't want you getting what I have.

I'm falling apart.

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. 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!

Friday, May 6, 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.

The lights spin the night, bright white. There's red and blue streaked through the fright, but all you see is that white so trite ...  it pins you down. Grounded. You don't understand the voices, and you don't care, but you know what handcuffs feel like and, suddenly, shit gets real important and you wish you'd studied more Spanish. 

You didn't.

And your mind mind falters, altered. Virgin Mother. Father of the Christ. Whatever the fuck. Satan, I don't care. I'll kneel at your altar.

The car is too fast and you feel the vomit coming, but you can't do nothing. Then there's screaming and someone hitting you and you think, kill me, just fucking kill me. Cotton mouth and speed panic. You beg yourself to stay calm. But you don't. 


You stay frantic. 

Until everything goes black. And the last thing you think? Silly really...

I should have bought the goddamn Chicle.

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. 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!

Friday, April 29, 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.

The sun dripped down the grand, green slope of the hill they called a mountain. They, the intrepid ten. Young, brazen – call them anything you want. Children. Men. It don’t make any difference in the end.

Or maybe it was twelve? Maybe a million strong, a mighty throng. And the rivers whispered your name in a soft, soft song. And the wind smelled of loathing...

And you clawed at your throat; you tore at your clothing.

The mighty thousand crested, rising high above the tide, in song. The million screaming multitudes – WE ALL THINK YOU’RE FUCKING WRONG!

Birdsong battles, pigeon rattles. Step to my parakeet; I’ll give you a pair of feet. Something lasting. But discreet.

Whisky neat.

Shit. You don’t think they’ll both fit, but I’d bet on it.

I bet on the climbing circus blasters. I rallied the troops to court disaster. I drank in the shy, elusive laughter. And I cried.

But not ‘til after.

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. 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!

Friday, April 22, 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 can hear him in there, grunting, dripping. I want to say, "get your fucking prostate checked!" I don't. I frown and think how this came to be, this giant midwestern cliche in my bathroom, dirt on the floor - I'm too fucking nice. That's it.

Your cousin is coming to the city? Sure, he can crash with me. But six fucking weeks? And I'm not even seeing her anymore. No, I'm seeing Hank, the red-headed cyclone who needs someone to stick their finger up his ass. Not me. I don't want to put my finger in his ass. My foot, maybe.

It's almost dark when the dripping and shower and bad renditions of Hank Williams stop. I've had a few drinks and I'm ready to say it. You gotta go. Three words. I'm ready.

He comes out half-wet with a towel around his waist. 


"Hank -"

He holds up a hand like a fucking traffic cop.

"Sorry to interrupt, son. I've been meaning to tell you something. I aim to do it now, but this isn't easy for me. I want to thank you. Hell, you been so good to me. You and Rose ain't even together anymore, but you didn't make me leave. I hate to overstay my welcome, but ... well, the divorce kind of fucked my head up. More than I thought. I'll never forget this. You've always got a friend in old Hank. And anytime you want me to hit bricks, you say so. I know how aggravating company can be."

"No, Hank. I want you to stay. As long as you need."

I said the words, but it took a minute to sink in - that I really meant them. I wanted him to stay. I smiled. We hugged, and then we got drunk.

When it hits six months, I'm asking for rent money, though. 

You can count on that. My benevolence has it's limits. 

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo