Friday, July 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.

The man's suit was mockingbird grey. Striped tie and shined shoes with a snatch of blue oxford in the background. You sat and watched and thought, I swear to God they're robots. Then a group of four strolled by in dark khaki pants and white oxfords with solid colored ties that looked like cheap silk. No jackets.

They even walked the same.

And something shifted. Just like that. One second, you're laughing inside. The next? Why do  they all look the same? Did I see that one before? Are they following me? Have they been following me my whole life? And tomorrow, Saturday, if it's warm enough that means it's cargo shorts and polo shirts. That's even worse.


Why? What do they know...


And shit. Like that. Backhand to the frontal lobe. Smelling leaf blower farts and wildflowers. Listening to the drone of the freeway. Feeling the heat bounce off the glass buildings. Right then, you realized that something is fucked up. With them. With you. With something


Don't ever trust a mockingbird.


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! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, July 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.

He looked at the old man's face and saw a twinkle in his green eye. The one that wasn't an opal  - the one that wasn't framed by thick, red scars. It'll grow son, trust me. But the boy didn't trust him. Didn't know him. He had been shuttled between houses and families and some were good and some were bad - this old man? He just seemed sad. Sad in a friendly way, but sad. And he was playing a joke on the boy. The dry ground wanted nothing to do with them until they were dead. The boy knew that. But the old man had fed him well and told him stories, so he figured he'd humor the one-eyed man. Respect his elders.

The boy dug with the small shovel until the man grunted. The grunt was clearly a signal. The sun overhead was hot and the boy thought, again, how stupid ... whatever, he'd been the target of worse jokes. Bigger bullies. He dropped the seed in the hole he'd dug. Poured the jug of water. A wide circle around the mound of dirt like the man told him. Then, they went back inside. The man had said something about fishing. It all sounded corny as hell.

Foster homes foster poor short term memory. When the boy woke up the next day, he was not thinking about the seed, and the man did not mention it. It rained heavy that week and they stayed inside for the most part, enjoying the sound of the drops on the roof, speaking rarely.

On a Friday morning, the boy awoke before the man. He went out back to start his chores, but his eyes were snatched by green. Clear as day, rising from the dirt, a sprout of new, fresh green. The boy turned with wide eyes, planning to get the man, but somehow he was already behind him. The boy wondered how long he'd been staring. Must have been longer than he thought. He hadn't realized his eyes were wet. 

The man laughed: See, son? I told you. I won't ever tell you nothing that's not true. You can count on that.

The boy repeated the words in his head; they were warm and soft. 


You can count on that.

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! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, July 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.

The grass tickles your neck and you tell yourself again that it's not ants and to chill the fuck out. You came here to relax, so do it. And that means you gotta stop thinking about being chill. Stop thinking. Watch the cloud spirits whip the sky into an imagination playground. Look for shapes, don't think about the grass-tickle ants - ants don't hurt you anyway.

What hurts is the collective insanity. That's what they were calling it, but it seemed too easy of an explanation. Insanity can be charming. Certain kinds of it. Or it can be intriguing. This? What can you call it? There may be a word for it, but you don't know it. A shade of sadness so dark it can shroud the world. 

God, if there's a word for it, you don't even want to know it. It must be heavy. The kind of word that sits in your brain, daring you to speak it. The kind of word you can never speak because it will change the shape of your mouth, the shape of your heart. Just look at the goddamn clouds. Unclench your fists. Relax your jaw.

Try to walk yourself through being human.


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! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, July 1, 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.

Being loud doesn’t make you more important, it makes you loud. You should know these things. Like how you should know what a good banana looks like. It’s not that complicated. It’s like you’re always bound in this first-love confusion. Everything sly, and all an illusion.

So, you think that loud means something. I get you. You’re so soft inside. Like jelly. Quiet like a half hour after last call. You’re fucking ridiculous, repugnant. I’m incredulous. If there was justice, you’d be pumped full of High Life and never allowed to piss. For eternity. Plus one.


And loud can mean all kinds of things. Muscular. Pretty. Entitled. Apathetic. Mean. Petty.

There are plenty of ways to be loud. It would probably be best if you shut the fuck up.

No one is giving out trophies anymore. You don’t get to giggle when someone says a word you don’t know. You don’t get to shrug and go: erp, terr’rists. Then watch the Kardashians ego fuck themselves on TV.

Are you simple?

You’re like the runt puppy that doesn’t have the sense to come in from a hard rain. Just stands there, turning in circles and wondering. Getting all kinds of wet.

Except people like the dog.

The dog is cute.

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! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, June 24, 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 traded my best shit with Joey because I just didn't care anymore. And he was always hopping up and down, wanting to trade this for that. A clean bolt for a nickel. Five bucks for a peak at his dad's Playboys. He wanted to trade everything. And he was never generous, but I gave up - like when the undertow grabs you and you just gotta swim with it until you can angle back in. Only, with Joey, I planned on swimming period - never coming back in. Live the rest of my life with dolphins or something. Not a solid plan, but I was thinking funny because I knew Joey had notions. 

People said stuff about Joey, but I figured it was rumors for a long time. Then, I saw him lift a few magazines and some candy bars down to old man Thompson's store. And leave smiling with the old man hollering after him, "say hi to your folks for me, y'hear?" And he didn't even keep all the magazines. And he didn't say hi when we saw his folks. And those magazines? Some, he threw right in the trash out front where old man Thompson was sure to see them at the end of the day.

I couldn't see the sense in that. 


Things got worse as summer drew out into a long, fiery, white blaze. The air smelled like dust, and I was ready to get doing something. I told Joey as much and he came to my window one night with a baby raccoon. No idea where he got it. I didn't want to know. I saw his eyes. 

So, I told him I felt sick, 'cause I did. And the next day I traded him all my stuff. And a few days later, Dad sat us down for the announcement. And that was the first time I was glad that he lost a job and we'd be moving. 

I didn't even say goodbye. 

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! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, June 17, 2016

2 Minutes. (of silence) Go!

After the tragic events of last weekend, I was once again shocked at how quickly some people want things to go "back to normal." I am not that kind of person. I've felt sick all week. I usually enjoy #2minutesgo, but the idea of even doing it has been weighing on me this week. On the one hand, I don't want to do it, and it seems tacky (a word that my Grandmother used with devastating effectiveness - it seems cheap, insensitive, thoughtless). On the other, I think it is a great outlet for the crew, and I'm sorry to take that away for one week. If I might make a suggestion... Use your two minutes to think of the families of those killed. Think of the young folks that lost their lives. Think about how you can try to keep this from happening again. Maybe it's impossible. Maybe it's not. Hug someone you love. Just love, period. It's the only thing that can stop senseless hatred.

We will resume as usual next week.

Friday, June 10, 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 gets to you; it does. You wonder if you got taught a different golden rule. Maybe it's a scam? Maybe they teach everyone something different? Or maybe there are just a lot of people who want to be treated like stupid assholes? 

I don't know. It's complicated.

It makes you want to dip yourself in tar and feathers and find a tall building to fly from.

See, you weren't made for this world. You poor, silly fool. No one actually does the things they say they're going to do. Not many at least. But there are some, and that's enough. They hang like bright, plump apples among the shriveled fruit of fruitless discontent. So what you had money; that shit got spent. Where?


I'd ask my friends, but I don't know where they went. 

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!