Friday, July 31, 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. 

Don't look at me like that. I swear to God - you better stop, it's not fair. Not one bit fair. Just because you have storms brewing in your eyes, just because of that one chip of green - it doesn't work anymore. You used those eyes too many times. I have become accustomed to the bitter yearning they spark. Your eyes cannot hold me.

And I will yammer and stall, but don't think you can scale this wall. I've built shoddy ones before, I admit, but this one? This one is so tall you can't see the top. Not even with magic eyes.

In a second, I'll get up and leave, and that will be the last we ever see of each other. And the funniest part? I'd bet all the money I used to have that you don't even know what color my eyes are.

Thanks for stopping by! I WILL BE AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER ALL DAY. I'M NOT DEAD, I SWEAR! AND I WILL CATCH UP ON EVERYONE'S POST'S TOMORROW.  

#2minutesgo

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

The Button

Just push it. Stop thinking about it. Tinkering with it. It's not a hangnail. It's not lint. You're not going to know unless you try. And don't assume it's a one time thing. You may spend the rest of your life pushing that button, skin sagging, smelling like tooth decay - you may get one push. That's the rub. Ain't no one gonna tell your ass what the button does. You gotta decide for yourself whether you're the button-pushing type or not.

See, some folks won't do it. Just flat won't. And some people will talk a lot about how they think it's fucked up to put a button there with no explanation. Outrageous. And some folks will talk a lot of bullshit about how they could push the button, of course they could, but there's things and reasons and stuff. Besides, fuck it. Blah.

Then, there's people like me. I'd a pushed the button before you said, "Hey, look, a button..."

And that's not advice, son. Not by a long shot. I will say this. If you're going to pick, just fucking pick. Push it. Or decide you're not gonna push it. But don't spend your whole life wondering about it, haggling with your insides. It's not worth it, and it will eat at ya like acid. Fuck. It's just a button.

So, do it already. Or don't. I got no time to discuss it.

Need to find more buttons.

Friday, July 24, 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. 

It was always coming back to her. She couldn't make sense of it. She'd give it away, and then two weeks later someone would put a bag in her hands. Look at what I found down the thrift store. Thought of you. She'd smile and say 'thank you' - wonder if it was an insult or a compliment. Or neither. She wondered what it said about her.

She tried leaving it in the woods, but it was always on her porch when she woke up. She mailed it to a museum in another state and they were thrilled, until the petitions started - then it was right back home. With her.

She put pictures online. She buried it behind her house. No one wanted it, and some kind of animal dug it up out of the dark earth. It began to make her frantic. She lost track of the days - she'd sit, staring, wondering if this was her reward or her cross to bear. Were they the same thing? 

She'd cry and laugh, pulling at her hair.

They found her in her favorite chair, eyes locked open, staring. The cops followed her gaze and one of them laughed when his eyes found it. That's a hoot, I should take it for my wife. They chuckled. 

There was a momentary silence in the room, thick and sweet.

No, his partner said, if it was that important to her, she should be buried with it.

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

Thursday, July 23, 2015

Consequences

Don't speak to me of vague disaster, I was once like you. I sat, fingernails deep and pondered, thought myself righteous in my pondering. Tedious. It all seems so tedious. Don't tell me your lament, I've heard it - from rooftops high and from underneath the streets where the ragged people meet. Please look away when you lie to me. Give me that at least, the dignity - let us pretend that we are not merely broken marionettes avoiding the trash bin. You owe me that much.

Son, he said. Son, you gotta just get in there and bust some heads. Fucking grab some of that shit and fuck the people at the bottom of the pile. Never did seem right.

I get by, and I'm not here for your withering looks of dismal recognition. I'm not here because it's sloppy joe night or because of any sense of obligation. I am here because my life has become an exercise in resignation. Stagnation. And as much as you keep asking for it, I won't buy your salvation.

I believe in consequences.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Don't Believe It

This is the hour of the soft night tiding. Sharpened whet-stone nightmares. There are men, dark and brutal, lurking in the streets. It's all a question of percentages. And that eats at you, a small, niggling bother of an itch that you know is gonna fester because you need to figure it out. Why the taste of blood? What the fuck with the dream you can never remember? And the almost remembering driving you crazy?

And you think of her - wet hair, laughing. Her arms and her breasts and her laugh. Things had been alright. That's exactly what you'd thought. This is alright. And it was. Until it wasn't. Until night fell from the sky in crumpled Pabst flares.

The night will wait until you are ready to receive it.

That's some bullshit. Don't believe it.


Tuesday, July 21, 2015

See, here's the thing...

...right here.

You don't see it? And you expect me to show it to you? I'm not gonna do it. I tried, lord knows. You didn't want to see it. And now you do. Bully for you. I'll tell you a little bit about it. You can't put it in a box. It won't make your teeth whiter. It probably has nothing to do with international business, bankers, or the illuminati. But it might. It might be the soft glow of light that comes around the peaking corner of a morning window - on the right day. It might be something like that, but I'm not talking about it. It might have a smell. You can definitely hear it. It is a lost wandering trembling of love. It is bell chime and faith and charity.

It's none of those things.

That's why I can't show it to you. I'd need to give you more than just words. I have plenty of them. They swirl my mind into a dust devil. But the words won't do it. You need new eyes. And I don't deal in eyes. And that's a real shame, but that's the way it shakes out.

But, God, I wish you could see it. It's so beautiful, it's repulsive. It's so ugly you'd want to hold it forever, know it with your hands. You'd want to keep it inside you. And that's another reason.

See, here's the thing. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to share.

Friday, July 17, 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. 

The house was always quiet, but there was something about this particular quiet - unnatural, like the silence that follows a crash of thunder. It was a potent silence. You dropped your backpack by the front door and called out. Mom? Mom!

Cold pop in hand, you ascended the stairs to your room. The door was wide open. You never left the door open. The cold from the can slammed through your whole body and, sure enough, she was sitting on the bed. You took the whole picture in. Mom, pissed and crying, glass of red wine shaking. The bag of weed and the wooden pipe. That means she'd found the box. 

"I can't believe this. Cigarettes and marijuana. Your Grandmother died from lung cancer. You can't pass a goddamn class at school, but you can get drugs..."

"Mom, hold on -"

"Hold on nothing! Drugs! You brought drugs into our house. Why? Tell me. Are you mad at me?"

A million thoughts in your skittering brain, none will be your salvation.


"It calms me down, Mom. Sometimes, I can't sleep. I know ... I understand why you're mad, but you've never done it. It just makes me feel like things aren't spinning crazy, its -"

"I've never smoked crack either, Gerald! Should I try that?"


Surely there is something you could say, but then you realize it doesn't matter. You could talk for days and it would be like talking to a wall. Maybe worse. Talking to a plant. At least you can't be mad at a wall for being alive, yet ... empty. 

"I'm sorry, Mom. I know. No drugs. I hear you. It won't happen again."

The change is so fast and so dramatic is hurts. Too fake. Too practiced. It makes you look at the bag and wonder what she's going to do with it. Your chest aches with a tight frustration.

"Good boy. You're a good boy. Now, don't forget to take your Adderall. You have a history project to finish, and the Johnsons are coming over. I don't think I need to tell you what that means. He works in Admissions, Gerald. Admissions! Do I need to explain how important it is that you're at your best?"

Shadows flicker and you wonder at it, turn it in your mind and smile because there's nothing else to do. Smile and take your pills. Smile and shake hands. If you can't sleep, that's more time for homework anyway.

"No, Mom. I think I get it."

Grind your teeth and try to smile.

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