Friday, July 3, 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. 

"Son, you ain't showing no kindness dawdling. You gotta pull the trigger."

Nightmare flashes, serge-scratch madness. Everything is dark. Open your eyes. Just tell him. He'll understand.

"I ... can't do it, Dad. I'm sorry. It's -"

"Son, I never have hit you, and I never will, but if you don't pull that trigger, I'll never look at you the same way again. You eat bacon like you're starving. You know where it comes from. You're old enough now. You can help with the killing. And you'll help with the rest - I'll teach you that knives aren't made for goddamn mumblety-peg. Next time we won't even waste a bullet. I'm doing you a kindness"

Sweat darts down between your shoulder blades. Looking into big, deep eyes and everyone knows. Everyone can smell the blood soaked into the dirt. Years of it. Everyone knows what the hook is for, hanging from the high beam. Even the fucking pig. Those big eyes: Christ, kid. Don't drag this out. 


"Dad, I really don't-"

"You won't eat. I'm goddamn sick of it. You won't eat meat in my house again until you stop this bullshit and act like a man. This is how we live. I ain't killing your meat for you anymore. You're old enough to help."


Look at the set eyes. Fair eyes, but cold. Always been that way. Always will be. Your arm heavy, pistol pendulum. Shot that gun a million times. Hell, it can tear a tree in half. Calling it a pistol is silly. Red face. Tired of feeling like the girl no one wants to dance with. Sister's upstairs reading and ain't no one ever gonna dance with her. This is important. This moment will change the trajectory of everything.

The gun is shaking, but you grit your teeth and hold it with both hands and start to squeeze. Gently. Slowly. There is love in this. There is so much. The whole damn world collapses and all the wars and all the kindness, all the mercy, all the mincemeat pies and mockingbird cries - everything in the world gets sucked in by the force of the explosion. The world implodes. Life explodes from the back of the beast's head. Thick, red slime. That's what life is. Really. You look up at the smiling face. Strong jaw, stubble. Sad eyes, even smiling.

"I'm proud of you, son. Let's go inside. It's a hot one, and I reckon Mother's made some iced tea. We can do the ugly part after the bleeding."

Slow turn. Broad back. Love there, but suddenly there's your cyclone brain. All the chatter. When's it gonna rain? Jesus died for you. Suzy doesn't love you, she loves Randy because he's old enough to drive. The kids at school are going to find out. He's going to find out. It's getting harder to hide. Whatever it is. This ... softness. 


Impulsive. Always impulsive. They'll say it for the rest of their lives. Try to make sense of it. It was just that goddamned pig. Something snapped. Let them think that. It will be simpler.

The old man will spend the rest of his life wondering if he even heard the second shot. He'll remember the sound of his own scream, but it will be a hollow roar. He'll never sleep right again. And he'll pay a neighbor to kill his meat. And everyone will understand. Finally.


That's called legacy. 

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

Friday, June 26, 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 say it's going to be fun, but I see that look in your eye. That sly smile wrapped around a pretty lie. My nose twitches, and I smell honeysuckle. I look at the dumpster flies and wonder, 'What the hell?' People smell weird shit when they're having a stroke. Right? I'm pretty sure that's right. God, I hope that's what it is. That's what I'm thinking. But then I smell a different smell. One that promises of slow, dark rivers and one more piece taken out of the life puzzle, slivers.

So, it'll be fun. Maybe. It'll be something. What else is there? Fucking hang out down by the reservoir, stare at the strip-mined misery that surrounds it. That card has been played so many times, hell, I've run out of rhymes. Smooth lines. There are no new girls, no new cliffs to climb. Pretty soon, we'll be out of time. It'll be fun or it won't or it will be nothing, but it could be something. There's only one way to find out, and the answer ain't down at the Rapid Roy Car Wash.


Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out some of today (working, no computer) 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

Friday, June 19, 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. 

Yo, talk louder, the whole neighborhood can't hear you. The way you slur your speech, girl, I can't wait to be near you. That mouth, those ruby red lips, hell the way you talk, it could sink a sailor's ship. And that tube top, shit, I didn't know they could be that tight. It's like the one tit's going left and the other can't get it right. Tell me another anecdote second-hand from Jimmy Fallon. You got those nails done up real nice, they make me think of talons. 

See, I don't understand, that's the thing, if everything's so low low. Why you standing on the corner shouting into a speaker phone, yo? Talking about how you're broke and won't get to party tonight, it sounds an awful lot like you're angling for a fight. But I don't fight sad washed up wrecks, and I've never seen one worse. It's like someone took the sow's ear purse, but did it in reverse.

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out some of today (working, no computer) 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

Friday, June 12, 2015

2 Minutes. Go! (road trip!)

Hey #2minutesgo crew! Same drill as usual. #Breaktheblog! Unfortunately, I am going to be away all day. Can't host and probably can't play. Work commitment. Good news? The awesome Laurie Boris is taking over hosting duties HERE. <- (click the HERE, jojo)

Have fun, and everyone have a great weekend!

Friday, June 5, 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. 

I could say that it was premonition, some wired-in special sense, but that would be a lie. I think. I don't really know, and that's been something I've whittled at for years - did I know or was it luck? And, if I did know, does that matter? Does it make it anything more than what it was? Less? Why does the possibility that it was mere happenstance make my heart flutter? My thoughts dance?

I will never forget it, I know that. A walk through the waking woods just like any other day, enjoying the smell of loam and leaf rot. Bird call. Then, it was right in front of me. He, he was right in front of me. Dirty, scared. A small boy. No one has lived within ten miles of me since I left the city. 

I put up flyers at the general store. I got on the radio and spread the word. I had cops and social workers and everydamnbody asking me questions, and I couldn't tell them nothing. And they didn't care whether it was pure coincidence or providence. That was all that mattered to me. At the time.

I put up with a lot in those months. Then, I decided to put up or shut up, divine intervention or not. And I never was lonely again. Except for the years I put that boy through college. When he graduated, he came right back home. 


Now, I don't walk the woods alone.

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out some of today (working, no computer) 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

Friday, May 29, 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 gotta put on your normal face, your normal clothes. Look at people like you know something about 'em - it keeps them on their toes. Don't go staring off into the distance like some kind of goddamned hippie. What's out there? Nothing. Here. Here is what matters, and all your devil-dreams aren't going to change that. 

You gotta play the game, that's what I'm saying. Toe the line, nose to the grindstone. No, I didn't say tie the noose to the headstone! Jesus, yeah, maybe it sounds a little similar, but that's what I'm talking about - that's the shit that makes people talk about you after church. 

I know it sucks, and it all seems stupid to you. I've been there, see? I've been caught in the riptide madness, tumbled in despair. I know. All the words that sound like 'noose' - there are a lot of them.

ATTENTION! I AM SICK AND WILL BE SLEEPING ALL DAY. #BREAKTHEBLOG !!!

Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Friday, May 22, 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. 

There is a stain on the ceiling that looks exactly like your grandmother, a big amorphous blob. The stain also looks like a space shuttle - sometimes it look uncannily like a cartoon head. It all depends on the light, the night, the things you did which changed your sight. 

You take deep drags of a stale cigarette, and your mouth tastes like a warehouse. No matter. You bathe the stain in cumulus puffs. 

This is all you have, and that sounds sad, but it's enough. The stain can't love you, but at least it never leaves. It can't hold you on cold nights, but it never yells, never raises a hand. The stain doesn't care if you go to work, get laid, get paid - it doesn't give a fuck. 

As far as the stain is concerned, you can sleep all day.

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out some of today (working, no computer) 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