Friday, February 5, 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. 

It wasn't her fault, not really. There was so much at stake, gut-ache, god, it was all so confusing. The lights and the hair, Momma, she don't care. And she don't want to be your puppet. Don't want to be your babydoll. No more Sundays at the mall. That's all.

It gets twisted when family gets competitive, it's a slow-growth sedative. It makes you do crazy things and think they make perfect goddamn sense. Buy another tiara? Why not. Earrings to match?


You betcha.

And it will catch her. That's the tragedy. In some lonely room, it will all catch up to her because she'll look in a full length mirror. And all she'll see there? Body. Smile. Hair.

She won't see a girl with a wry sense of humor and she won't become a woman who truly laughs. Because you needed bragging rights, and you tried to make it right. Right?


Right...

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

Friday, January 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. 

You don't listen. You never learned right. How come you never listened? Chasing some kind of fairy dust that only you can see? I know all about it. And I know all about the dolls and the faces you make in the mirror when you think no one is looking - lipstick smear, stiletto spears.

But you never listened. I told you, but the truth binked off you like a penny off a jelly glass - now, look what you got. You got a mountain of problems, and you're digging with a spoon. Jesus, almighty. It's painful to watch.

But I know you don't know no better, and the 'not listenings' weren't always your fault. I reckon I talk too much sometimes. Has a queer effect on folks. I can't control it. You made a human mistake. But I can't abide it. 


You still ain't listening?

Well, you got one ear left. And five seconds to blink twice.


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

Friday, January 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. 

They went to the beach - saw the tide pools. Jenny was ecstatic. Laughter rolled off her like the chunks off rock that they could see on the road above. Mike was not impressed. Not by the tide pools or Jenny's laughter or that the road had been a goddamned suicide run. Who knows when there's going to be a rockslide? Like playing the lottery.

The whole trip had been like this. I want a honeymoon. What do we need a honeymoon for when we been together ten years? I want to see the ocean. The ocean is just a big ass lake that smells bad, do you know how much money we're going to blow on this trip? We're not going to blow the money, we're going to have the time of our lives.

And so forth.

Jenny was about done. Done with Mike's complaining. Done with watching sunsets alone, while he smoked cigarettes and looked everywhere but at her, wiping sand off his boots like it was poisonous. She was done with the laughing gulls, done with sandcastles. Ironic, she thought, that this trip might prove their undoing.

On the last day of their trip, Jenny woke up alone. Panic. She ran through the rooms of the small cottage they were renting. Then she saw him. In the yard. Standing, smoking, but watching the waves intently. She stepped out into the damp morning and cleared her throat behind him. He had been crying.

"Honey, what's wrong? You can't be that miserable."

"Miserable? Hell."

"Then what?"

"I was just thinking - have been thinking - it shouldn't have taken me ten years to take you the one place you wanted to go. You've gone plenty of places with me. I been selfish."

She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I know. That's why I love you."

And they looked at the waves together. And they laughed with the gulls. And they played in the sand, like children, until it was time to leave. This time, they did not fear the rocks.

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

Thursday, January 21, 2016

Him

He was not cruel, he was empty - a vessel - you could blow across his head like a foghorn salute. It was not fair to hate him. Had he been sadistic, violent - had his passions erupted in bright, fluorescent heat. Had he smoked or talked about politics at dinner parties.

If he had done one damn thing, you could have justified the hatred.

He didn't though. He sat and sipped tea, calmly. You could not read him. So, you hid in books and ignored the animatronic abomination you sometimes called Dad. You didn't call him much of anything, though. Wasn't worth it.

That's the true sadness. What you took for vacancy? That was fear. What you saw as apathy? That was a frantic, scrambling scree run down the inside of the poor motherfucker's skull. He never wanted it. He didn't ask for it. He had tried to be noble. Now he smelled rust and saw the same child's head explode over and over and over. Sometimes he turned his Purple Heart ... over and over and over ... until it stuck to his clammy hands. His expression did not change.

He never even sneezed.

So, he became furniture, and that was sad. Possibly. Maybe it was destiny. He didn't believe that. One would assume.

You didn't know because you never asked.

Friday, January 15, 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. 


Sometimes you hide behind hairline stitches, gaudy flaunting, haunting radius. Sometimes bitches act like bitches. Nothing tripping, life is viscious. The teeth of the wolf are as sharp as the dark, or the long curving blade that will carve you apart. You are fuel for the nightmare, fire for the fury, you are wan and pallid, always so worried…

Sometimes you pretend to lend part-time credence – you smile, all the while, knowing wiling’s a pretense. You glide and you glimmer, glow bright and shimmer – and for one shining moment, the whole world grows dimmer.

You, repentance, repugnance, rejoinder, reluctance. You bastard of evil and macabre suffering. You beautiful heathen, so deft, so divine. You drink blood from the chalice, while sly nighmares whine.

You will suffer and dwindle, you’ll run out your spindle. But not me. I’m too quick.


I’m too fucking nimble.


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

Friday, January 8, 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 throws that look over her shoulder - brief pause, passes by. Your heart goes: "Oh shit!" Your brain is even more enraged. She is cut from velvet, carved from eternity - breathless, you watch her turn the corner and your eyes swim. You smell hot dogs and carcinogens. You hear sirens, laughter, arguments, car horns. She is gone again and your back aches. You age so rapidly, you start looking for a guy with a shovel. 

Just in case.

She saw you. You know she saw you. You wonder what she thought. You didn't want to talk either, but that is only because of the raw, sharp self-loathing you carry like a matador cape. Her reasons? No way to know for sure, but you can take a guess. 


A thousand snapshot memories swarm around you like wasps. 

You shake your head and reach for the cigarettes you quit smoking last year. The sky is dull and oppressive, the street is not large enough for you. Not because you are big, mind you - the street is not the problem. It never was. The problem was that you can't fill the street. You couldn't fill her heart with enough love. And you damn sure couldn't fill those shoes. 

The ones the guy before left. Hell, he's probably still looking for them.

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

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Too-Thin Skin & Shambles

The man was not as old as he felt; he felt ancient. He felt like a shrunken head. He felt like the back room of a natural history museum - dusted with time and apathy, largely ignored. He could smell himself slowly dying. That tooth-decay smell, plus the smell of old wool - it was a smell he knew well.

He knew he wasn't really dying, and it was a disappointment. Suicide by happenstance was all that was left for him. He could not leave by his own hand. He would not. He would not sully whatever goodness he had been able to create. Hell, his landlady would miss him, and that was enough. He couldn't live with the guilt. He knew he would never be able to die with it.

The man sat staring at a screen and thinking. Behind him, there were missed opportunities and procrastinations. There were brief bursts of laughter. Genuine laughter, the kind that reminds you of the ridiculous sounds human bodies can create.

There was no reason. His fingers hovered over buttons, and his brain stumbled across memories, bright and dun - he was tired. His chest was tight and his shoulders hurt and his eyes burned with a slow, simmering anger. He felt like a child, but it was undeniable - he wanted just a little bit of fairness.

The lip of the bottle clink-clinked on the rim of his coffee mug. He was out of glasses - had broken them all. Glasses are fine for normal people. His shaking fingers would not abide them.

He was too tired to look out the window. If he had looked out the window, he would have seen grey skies and wind-rustling bushes. He would have seen yards full of abandoned, neon-plastic toys. He would have seen his neighbor increasing the size of his newest car incrementally, one layer of wax at a time. Parked beside the double-wide.

He stood quickly and his head swam. He remained still for a moment, tried to enjoy the feeling, tried to remember when life had been made of smiles and dizzy dalliances. How long can you hold your breath? Push on my chest! 

Sweet blackness.

Sleep, when it came, was a respite. He did not dream. He closed his eyes to blackness and opened them to sodden light and a feeling of responsibility he did not want. So many things to do - he knew none of them mattered. Keep churning out bits of your soul and hope the devil will snatch them up, gather them. But it doesn't always work like that.

He hated.

It was wrong to hate. He had spent most of his life fighting small-minded hatreds, but now they overwhelmed him. He hated the kids who played in the alley, too loud, though he had once been just like them. He hated his neighbors for their laughter. He hated himself because he knew that every house in town harbored some kind of disaster, some creeping nightmare. He knew it. He was simply too tired to care.

The vodka was warm and tasted like blood. It hurt his teeth and burned his throat and he nodded slowly, embracing the pain. He let it slide off him, pulling sheets of too-thin skin.

He wondered how bad it would hurt. A stomach packed with medicine-cabinet poison. He cramped just thinking about it. He thought about heroin and it made his skin itch. It had been terrible. It was the only vow he had ever made. But how much worse was it than this? This constant fear and pain. This overwhelming sense of failure. At least heroin provided temporary escape.

He ran his hands through thick blond hair and lit a cigarette. He pulled the smoke deep inside him until he was sure he could exhale without choking.

*****

Down the street, Mrs. Jones put on her old-fashioned hat. It made her look like an advertisement for olive-green washing machines. She was smiling, and her stop-sign red lipstick was almost right. It was close enough. She smoothed the wrinkles from her black dress and called a taxi cab.

The ride was over before she knew it - not because it was quick, but because her brain was taking her back years and years. She saw a smooth-faced young man in a suit, clearly trying too hard. She had been cruel to him then, but he had won her over. His enthusiasm. His refusal to quit trying. 

They were married on the anniversary of their first kiss. He remembered the date, she did not. He was good about things like that. She was not. At least not while he was alive. Now, she never forgot their anniversary. 

She stood in the wet grass and tried to ignore the taxi cab glowing in the waning fog. She wondered if she should say something. She always wondered this, and she always thought it was stupid, sentimental. Something that would ruin a movie she had enjoyed. Still, she did it. He would have liked it. 

"Jeremy. It's me. Happy Anniversary."

*****

The man was drunk now. It was a casual drunk, though. Routine. More like becoming sober than drinking these days. He tried not to think about anything. He stared at a mildew stain on the wall. He hoped the black mold would kill him. He felt tears lurking and took another drink to chase them away. Sometimes, that worked.

He tried to stretch his jaw. It ached. His teeth ached. It was not the worst pain, however. The worst pain was remembering that he wasn't always the type of man who catalogued life's slights. He wasn't always the kind of man who bitched and whined. Hell, he didn't even have anyone to bitch and whine at. What good is a man who bitches at himself?

He wondered. 


*****

The driver of the cab was also tired. He watched the old woman and pondered. Who would visit his grave? Did it matter? And her. Who was it helping? The corpse? The woman? He took a long pull off his coffee and looked at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Back home ... there could have been love and dedication and everything he thought he wanted. Here, this taxi.

The doors locked and unlocked, but they never let him go. 

He was stuck in a web of indecision. He heard a knock on the glass and saw the old woman, her hat sitting queerly on her hair. There was something else, too. He tried not to think about it. She wasn't crying. She didn't appear sad. 

He was almost to her house when he realized what had changed. 

She was no longer wearing lipstick. 

*****

The man typed some words on the page. They made no sense. Which probably meant they were brilliant. He chuckled and drew a picture of a penis in the condensation growing on his window. To write or not to write. He knew it didn't matter - he did not know if this was a relief or another step toward desperation. He turned off his conscious mind and let the words bloom as they chose. He would never publish them. Never share them. He could type nothing but vowels and it wouldn't matter. 

*****

The City was God and God was the City and the City laughed at all of this. It was not there to judge. It was there to marvel at its marionettes. Pull the string toward hope and love. Pull the string until it is taut, fraught with worry. Drop the strings and watch the little puppets fall.

The City loved them all. 

This is a story about dreams interrupted. This is a story about birthday cakes and wakes. This is a story about gentle mornings and erstwhile earthquakes. You can look for some hidden meaning. Some insight into what it is to be human. You can search for clues and foil the bad guys or hunt treasure in a wooden ship. You can cheat on your wife and then hold her tight. You can even beat your kids if you do it right.

There are no good answers, that's what the man says. Everything decays.

Don't look for anything in this story. If anything, this story means that nothing means anything. This is a story of running away. This is a story that catalogues the creeping pains and regrets that haunt us all.

This is an abortion dressed up as a baby doll.

You can think it's all lies, and you can think it's all true. That's none of our business - us, we, these people. This broken cast and the players not represented. Steady to the last.

It's a fucking lie, not a word of it true. This is not a story about me or you.

Nighttime precedes mourning's due.