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 sits in a web of her own broken promises, trying to fit pieces - jagged edge to jagged edge. She feels the emptiness like a whisper in a crowd, it tugs at her and goads her, but it never tells her anything. Nevertheless, she knows the voice, she knows the score, and she will sit, fingers entwined, creating more lies to wrap herself in.
It started innocently. She lied because it was easy. She made promises she knew she would never keep - because it shut him up. And he was so shy, so innocent - a small pup of a man who used her untruths like a chew toy, worried them until the worrying supplanted the intent. To a point.
She smokes long, tall cigarettes, sending the smoke upward where it is chopped mercilessly by the ceiling fan. She looks out the window which looks into her neighbors' apartment. They never notice and they never do anything interesting. She watches flies circle the ceiling. One day, she finds the key that fits the leg shackles and smiles.
Now, there will be more interesting shows to watch.
Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out a lot of today 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, February 27, 2015
Friday, February 20, 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.
Smug ain't sophisticated, they aren't even related - and you're not always right, just because it feels so. And the wind doesn't always bring rain, it won't always bring snow. You got yourself tied up in these grand presumptions, and you wear them like armor. What's the harm?
You stand at the top of a cliff and 'oh shit' at the wonder of it, rainbow crevasses, but you're lying if you say there isn't a tiny bit of you thinking: but what if I ... "slipped."
Smile at the sodden cruelty, grin at the sly delusions. You want narrative? You bastard ... we have a problem, Houston.
Hands in the air, you step into the wind - hot tear of it against your face - you are flight, freedom, fuck-all. This is a BBQ smoke baptism.
There is soft music from the other side of the neighborhood, and you wish you lived there.
The brain moves so fast in free-fall. You are holding hands in the back seat while Tommy's Mom drives you home from the dance. You are standing on a stage, taking a certificate while you try to smile and everyone claps and you think: "I'm only nine and even I know this is ridiculous."
You are standing by your grandmother, knowing she can't hear you, but desperate for the right words, regardless. You are wondering how divorce can drain the color from everything - turn everything black and white. You are miles away, but you are also present.
The splash when you hit the water is rebirth.
Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out a lot of today 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
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.
Smug ain't sophisticated, they aren't even related - and you're not always right, just because it feels so. And the wind doesn't always bring rain, it won't always bring snow. You got yourself tied up in these grand presumptions, and you wear them like armor. What's the harm?
You stand at the top of a cliff and 'oh shit' at the wonder of it, rainbow crevasses, but you're lying if you say there isn't a tiny bit of you thinking: but what if I ... "slipped."
Smile at the sodden cruelty, grin at the sly delusions. You want narrative? You bastard ... we have a problem, Houston.
Hands in the air, you step into the wind - hot tear of it against your face - you are flight, freedom, fuck-all. This is a BBQ smoke baptism.
There is soft music from the other side of the neighborhood, and you wish you lived there.
The brain moves so fast in free-fall. You are holding hands in the back seat while Tommy's Mom drives you home from the dance. You are standing on a stage, taking a certificate while you try to smile and everyone claps and you think: "I'm only nine and even I know this is ridiculous."
You are standing by your grandmother, knowing she can't hear you, but desperate for the right words, regardless. You are wondering how divorce can drain the color from everything - turn everything black and white. You are miles away, but you are also present.
The splash when you hit the water is rebirth.
Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out a lot of today 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, February 13, 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 are limp thoughts scraping at her brain, ideas - forgotten as they are born - they flutter away like smoke wisps from a funeral pyre. She is frightened by everything. The doorbell rings and she tries to tell herself - probably the girl scouts ... the Mormons ... the postman ...
Everything ends soon enough if you ignore it. And she can't hold any of it - even the memories that erupt briefly and that she swears she will hold gently like a royal jewel. It's all runoff. It's all lost, regardless.
Time was when she was strong in mind and body. Time was when she was old enough to get through the day. Now, she sits rocking, pretending it's all child's play
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. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.
#2minutesgo
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 are limp thoughts scraping at her brain, ideas - forgotten as they are born - they flutter away like smoke wisps from a funeral pyre. She is frightened by everything. The doorbell rings and she tries to tell herself - probably the girl scouts ... the Mormons ... the postman ...
Everything ends soon enough if you ignore it. And she can't hold any of it - even the memories that erupt briefly and that she swears she will hold gently like a royal jewel. It's all runoff. It's all lost, regardless.
Time was when she was strong in mind and body. Time was when she was old enough to get through the day. Now, she sits rocking, pretending it's all child's play
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. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.
#2minutesgo
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Yellow
She sits, stiff in the square-backed chair. Beside her, rotten flowers send their offense to mix with the subtle smell of tooth decay.
She is old, certainly, but it is an oldness which transcends time - it is not the years, but the resignation. It is not the failings of her limbs, but the failing of old jokes, half forgotten hymns.
No one visits. No one calls. She doesn't notice, doesn't care, she scratches the yellow flakes from her oat-flecked hair.
It was here that it all started - here, the words imparted.
Dearly departed.
It has all turned yellow. The cushions and the curtains and the whites of her eyes. She is an old, yellow woman and sometimes that makes her smile. It is a twisted smile, full of yellow tooth, cracked like a gum-snatched phone booth.
The doorbell rings and she laughs. She has divorced herself from the world of doorbells. The world of gentle smiles. Wedding bells. She sees her husband's visage in an old snapshot and wonders who they both are. Some youngsters, familiar - but she cannot pull the memory from the yellow haze.
And this is how she spends her days.
She is old, certainly, but it is an oldness which transcends time - it is not the years, but the resignation. It is not the failings of her limbs, but the failing of old jokes, half forgotten hymns.
No one visits. No one calls. She doesn't notice, doesn't care, she scratches the yellow flakes from her oat-flecked hair.
It was here that it all started - here, the words imparted.
Dearly departed.
It has all turned yellow. The cushions and the curtains and the whites of her eyes. She is an old, yellow woman and sometimes that makes her smile. It is a twisted smile, full of yellow tooth, cracked like a gum-snatched phone booth.
The doorbell rings and she laughs. She has divorced herself from the world of doorbells. The world of gentle smiles. Wedding bells. She sees her husband's visage in an old snapshot and wonders who they both are. Some youngsters, familiar - but she cannot pull the memory from the yellow haze.
And this is how she spends her days.
Rabble
Rabble rouse the dark horse, cannon. Gentle Mother. Lies and vacant lots of memory. Dance. Feel it now, grab it while you have the chance. This is how the game is played.
Mach forward, blind warriors - called to arms they cannot bear. Left to a desolation devoid of care. Angel of Darkness, bless them, for they know not what they do. Angel of Mercy, bear them up so they may stand when the fighting's through.
It is a black shadow. A sliver of menace - but wrapped in forgotten jokes and shared memory. There is no light if you don't create it.
So, take this then. This green seedling, this sprout of new life, smelling of anise. Pour the dew in the blood-stained chalice.
There are not enough demons to expunge your wrath, even if you light the path. Hypocrisy, we're thick with it. Like flies. Like back-hand lies.
We feel the cool earth, smell the soil, rich, we skirt the men inside the ditch.
Time is a liar. That is a lie. Every word that falls, like blood, dripping from the page, every gentle hand entreating - don't you know what you're creating? A labyrinth you will never escape.
Mach forward, blind warriors - called to arms they cannot bear. Left to a desolation devoid of care. Angel of Darkness, bless them, for they know not what they do. Angel of Mercy, bear them up so they may stand when the fighting's through.
It is a black shadow. A sliver of menace - but wrapped in forgotten jokes and shared memory. There is no light if you don't create it.
So, take this then. This green seedling, this sprout of new life, smelling of anise. Pour the dew in the blood-stained chalice.
There are not enough demons to expunge your wrath, even if you light the path. Hypocrisy, we're thick with it. Like flies. Like back-hand lies.
We feel the cool earth, smell the soil, rich, we skirt the men inside the ditch.
Time is a liar. That is a lie. Every word that falls, like blood, dripping from the page, every gentle hand entreating - don't you know what you're creating? A labyrinth you will never escape.
Friday, February 6, 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.
Impatient rain, intrepid, but inconsistent - it is this rain that will wash the blood from your mind. It is reckless, not the rain of quaint films. This is no Hollywood trickery, this rain sprints toward the welcoming earth like it is late for a bus. You can relate. You have tried to be like the welcoming earth.
You could give a fuck about busses.
You trip the switch that grips the glitch, some twitch - your eye seizes and you think, "well, that can't look good..." - but it's like the rain, no time to be vain, no time to wrangle with your epidermal armor. There is no time to wonder why sometimes you flinch when a gentle hand is placed on your shoulder. Hands can do so much, be so unpredictable - they are like the rain, and you remember ... hands, hot and wet and frantic. Fuck those hands, though they are already decaying. They will always live if you let them, the rain can't wash you clean.
This is a cataclysm. This is the slow, steady drip of copper down your throat. This is the vague fear that lives in the space between your ears - and will for years and years. It was all blackness, but it came back in drips and splashes, and there's no stopping rain - no stopping pain.
Let the rain come, disguised as beats from vacant drums. Take it as it comes. That sound on the roof is the sound inside your skull. It is the sound of an unstoppable force that can bring life, death, carve stone, destroy lives. You accept it or you don't.
Or you move to Palm Springs, but who the hell wants to do that?
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. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.
#2minutesgo
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.
Impatient rain, intrepid, but inconsistent - it is this rain that will wash the blood from your mind. It is reckless, not the rain of quaint films. This is no Hollywood trickery, this rain sprints toward the welcoming earth like it is late for a bus. You can relate. You have tried to be like the welcoming earth.
You could give a fuck about busses.
You trip the switch that grips the glitch, some twitch - your eye seizes and you think, "well, that can't look good..." - but it's like the rain, no time to be vain, no time to wrangle with your epidermal armor. There is no time to wonder why sometimes you flinch when a gentle hand is placed on your shoulder. Hands can do so much, be so unpredictable - they are like the rain, and you remember ... hands, hot and wet and frantic. Fuck those hands, though they are already decaying. They will always live if you let them, the rain can't wash you clean.
This is a cataclysm. This is the slow, steady drip of copper down your throat. This is the vague fear that lives in the space between your ears - and will for years and years. It was all blackness, but it came back in drips and splashes, and there's no stopping rain - no stopping pain.
Let the rain come, disguised as beats from vacant drums. Take it as it comes. That sound on the roof is the sound inside your skull. It is the sound of an unstoppable force that can bring life, death, carve stone, destroy lives. You accept it or you don't.
Or you move to Palm Springs, but who the hell wants to do that?
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. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.
#2minutesgo
Friday, January 30, 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 sun splits the darkness right down the middle. You look up into the sky, but there aren't any words. And what words there are - such flighty, useless things - sometimes they are so heavy they can fall and pull the whole world inside out.
You want some kind of soothing 'hand on back' affirmation. You pick cherry blossoms from the ground, arrange them into different shapes. Everyone looks at you like you're crazy. Must be the smile. Strange, you think - this is the first fun you've had in years.
She wanted you to remember. Or, more accurately, she wanted you to never forget. Fine distinction, I'll grant you, but when the sun is tearing the top off night, these kinds of thoughts make sense. Soon, they will be obliterated by billboard longing and then, as one final insult, they will pull the night shade down. But first, it will open and for a moment, you will see.
Thanks for stopping by! I will be out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. And next week things should be back to normal. :)
#2minutesgo
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 splits the darkness right down the middle. You look up into the sky, but there aren't any words. And what words there are - such flighty, useless things - sometimes they are so heavy they can fall and pull the whole world inside out.
You want some kind of soothing 'hand on back' affirmation. You pick cherry blossoms from the ground, arrange them into different shapes. Everyone looks at you like you're crazy. Must be the smile. Strange, you think - this is the first fun you've had in years.
She wanted you to remember. Or, more accurately, she wanted you to never forget. Fine distinction, I'll grant you, but when the sun is tearing the top off night, these kinds of thoughts make sense. Soon, they will be obliterated by billboard longing and then, as one final insult, they will pull the night shade down. But first, it will open and for a moment, you will see.
Thanks for stopping by! I will be out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. And next week things should be back to normal. :)
#2minutesgo
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)