Friday, April 11, 2014

2 mintues. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. No reason. Just ending the week in style.

You can write whatever you want in the comments section. You have two minutes. 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. 

Have a good weekend!

We'd sit on the roof and throw handfuls of rocks at the MUNI busses, jump the gap between the old victorians. Just a few feet, but it was a lot more of those feet to get to the ground. Got the adrenaline pumping. Parkour for drunk kids.

There was something about the roof. The Mission winds slipped into our mouths, and the words that came out were flighty, but not weightless. The ladder to get to the roof was the most dangerous part. It was broken and old and it didn't fuck around. We were whole, and young, and we didn't fuck around either. Or we fucked around constantly. Depends on which roof you sit on.

The view changes...

I got distracted by a small child talking at me. I'm going for round two straight out the gate. 

You were so sure that it would all work out. Why? Because everyone told you everything would work out. That's a con. That's 'find the marble underneath the walnut shell' shit. But everyone ends up saying the same thing and it gets ingrained ... it digs into your brain like a parasitic worm and soon you're telling people that everything is going to be alright even though you know different. And it feels wrong.

It feels like you're a billboard or some cheap advertisement for spray-on-hair. And then you think, holy hell, I live in a world where bald men can spray fake hair on their heads and not feel ridiculous. You judge people too much, you know that? I forget who we're even talking about, and I don't have time to check, but I do know there is a whole lot more judgment being doled out than we really need.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

The Swamp

He held the shoe box high above his head, swamp water up to his armpits. His spine tingled with the fear of the water, snakes, gators ... hell, who knew what all was in there? Cypress knees began to look like dinosaurs and, worse, like the things that lived only in his mind. The light was fading, and John was beginning to think he wouldn't make it. He didn't really care. Still, it was hard to be brave while shoulder deep in thick, green mystery.

He walked steadily. He put one foot in front of the other, making sure that each step was secure before shifting his weight. John had grown up in the swamp. He had been more sure-footed in his youth, however. Less fearful. Funny what the years do.

Seventy years, give or take. He wasn't quite sure, but he knew he was at least seventy. Doreen had always been the one who remembered. They had been the same age. John was always more concerned with people, with his work, with family - numbers annoyed him. He didn't like locking anything down. Can we keep this turtle, Daddy? The memory rose slowly in his mind. Anne. She was all power suits and business jargon, now, but back then she had been his partner, sun-kissed and always laughing. Daddy's girl. That sure changed.

He'd told her no. No, they couldn't keep the turtle. No way. It wasn't right. He tried to tell her how he didn't like locking things in. Like the numbers. No freedom in numbers. No safety either. He couldn't let her lock the turtle up. The turtle belonged in the swamp, not chewing lettuce in a cage. She had tried to smile in that tight-lipped way that almost concealed the quivering. Ok, Daddy. It had broken his heart. He wondered if that had been the beginning of it.

The sounds of the swamp were the sounds of his own heart. He didn't hear them anymore. Or they were all he heard. Something. They were a part of him. He knew that. They lived in him. The swamp ran through his veins. Sometimes, he wondered who had been in charge all those years. The trapper? The hunter? The fisherman? Or the place that made it all possible?

They had lived a good life for a long time. When Anne started to pull away, it seemed to loosen the bonds of everything. The swamp wasn't the same anymore. Money was killing it. Greed. Anne did not call him Daddy once she hit middle school. He'd spoken of it once to his sister, who had grown up in upstate New York with their mother. She didn't understand the big deal. And it wouldn't have been a big deal up north. But it is hard to accept that when you hear a girl yell for her Daddy, there is no longer a need to turn around. Dad smacked of distance. Which is exactly what it was.

The distance grew. Anne read books in her room and rolled her eyes at the things John loved. He didn't fault her for it. The world was changing.

He had talked to her not a week before. She couldn't come down, she said. Things were just crazy - she was so busy. John wondered if it would have been different if the roles were reversed. If Doreen had called about him.

Lost in his thoughts, John stepped into a sinkhole. He tried to pull his foot free. Tried to balance. To stay calm. He did not have the strength to pull himself up, and he began to sink slowly. He held the box as high above his head as he could - his chin went under and he held his breath. Slowly, the sun-cured arm descended into the thick murk beneath the surface.

No one was there to see it. An Arthurian perversion. The old man of the swamp. The sun dropped and the box hit the water, ashes spreading out on the surface in a thin film. Beneath, John was dying, but he was happy. He knew Anne would be fine. Better than fine. She always had been. He had always belonged to the swamp. And he had always belonged to Doreen.

There are many mysteries in the swamp, they say. Folks from up north smile and nod. The locals blanch and shake their heads.

Everyone has something buried in the swamp.

Friday, April 4, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. No reason. Just ending the week in style.

You can write whatever you want in the comments section. You have two minutes. 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. 

Have a good weekend!

The red turns to black. Or a kind of rusty, dark brown. Give it enough time and it'll turn black. Let it build up. When there are puddles ... that's when it happens. It's a tough thing to see the first couple of times. But you get ... what's the word the news yuppies use? Desensitized? Something like that. Me, I sense everything because I am the one the dark thing chose. It is a burden. I don't sleep well. I am always working, doing his bidding because  there's no doubt in my mind that if I didn't it would be terror, horror, red, then black. I can see it now. I have seen it. 

Friday, March 28, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. No reason. Just ending the week in style.

You can write whatever you want in the comments section. You have two minutes. 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. 

Have a good weekend!

They sat awkwardly, french fries splayed out in front of them, glistening on the red, plastic tray. He tried to think of something to say. She tried to remember why they were there. They both felt the excitement of the "date" while secretly wishing they were playing stickball per usual.

All the kids were doing it. Going to get burgers, sodas, going to movies. Jack and Zinny had been friends their entire lives. It seemed natural when their other friends pressured them into the date. I mean, it made sense. Except that it didn't. They had talked for hundreds of hours. They were closer than a married couple. But, with the french fries between them - along with the expectations they didn't even understand - they felt a million miles away.

(for the record, I cheated a little and went back and edited - I am a terrible person) ;)

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Duck, duck, goose.

It got my dander up, so we're gonna have to talk it out. Address it. No, not like a letter - like, we're gonna actually talk about it (and use fancy words that make our insides chancy - GERD). I got this feeling in my gut like it's all twisted up. Like when I read Where The Red Fern Grows and now I can never not see entrails hanging out of a loyal dog's gut. Man, I loved that book. I cried like a bitch. So did my mom. Not like a bitch, though. Don't ever think that I would call my mom a bitch! Cause I wouldn't. And she's not a bitch. And I don't call people I like bitches ... unless they are named Little Ann and they're smart and loyal and shit, tail-waggy.

It's all a lie, I don't like dogs.

I don't dislike them either. I just prefer cats. Dogs are kind of like really clingy chicks with Dad issues. The bitches. The dogs, I mean.

We all love to laugh. Especially at the expense of others. Why is that? I mean, I get the appeal of laughter, but I am more inclined to cry at the expense of others. Why? Cause I just got ten emo points, and one more power up gets me fingernails that stay black forever.

I don't really hate people. There's a few people I really don't like. But it's not like I want to do anything crazy like cram all their facial orifices with cat litter until they die like fucking dog bitches. That's something someone like me would never even think about. I think about wildflowers and Jesus.

I don't even know what's going on. Frankly, I'm offended. You should probably be offended, too. Don't blame me though. Blame Nancy Reagan. That may not make sense to you, but, trust me, she deserves to shoulder a lot of the blame.

I met a girl once who knew a girl twice as pretty as she was. And she was beautiful. It wasn't even that the other girl was prettier. They were just different. Like apples and tow trucks. Both gorgeous. But the one girl thought she was ugly. I told her she wasn't. A few hundred times - then I stopped. Some people you just can't reach. So you get what we had here last week. Plagiaristastic.

Duck, duck, duck, goose! What a terrible game. Musical chairs. Even worse. What the fuck is wrong with us? Why do we want to make one kid feel singled out for the amusement of the others? It's not right. It's not cool. I gotta say criss-cross applesauce because "Indian Style" is somehow offensive even though it just describes a way of sitting. Which, I get it, we don't want anyone to feel singled out and you're not supposed to say Indian anymore, even if it makes you secretly gleeful because it makes Columbus look like a retard. No, we gotta single out little kids. We don't worry about how real, actual geese feel about their shit being appropriated. Do you know how much abuse is endured by a wooden chair during a rousing game of musical chairs? You inhuman sociopath.

I almost died today. I understand, it's hard to hear a super loud motorcycle horn when you're driving with earphones in. You tried to single me out. Goose me. But I was quicker. So, duck you ... bitch.

Friday, March 21, 2014

Little Johnny

Little Johnny didn't know shit about why you were always mad, always drunk. Sure, you had reasons, but a seven year old don't see reasoning the way we do. You hated your job. The car was always breaking down. The bills were always late. Periods tended to come late in the Jackson household, too. Johnny wasn't lonely, but he sure didn't understand you, and you never even noticed.

So, now Johnny's all grown up and no one talks about it. You don't drink any more and it's probably for the best although there is a drab, presbyterian, uniformity to the days - that's new. Back in the day, things were exciting at least. Someone was always yelling or crying. Excitement is not always a good thing. Yet, these new still-born days seem to drag on forever... 

You're always working that lip. Like your mouth is a blind mole looking for the vodka tit. Like you've decided, fuck it, if I can't drink vodka, I'll just keep doing this until there's enough blood to drink.

Someday, Johnny's son will wonder about the whole thing. The strange distance. The odd affirmations. The sentences that are shush(!)ed before they even get started. There's no going back, and everyone knows that - they also know they liked things the way they used to be and, for the life of them, they don't know why. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. No reason. Just ending the week in style.

You can write whatever you want in the comments section. You have two minutes. 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. 

Have a good weekend!

There is gauze blocking the sun. It shows through, but it seems embarrassed. Like it's not doing a good enough job. I want to hug the sun until the worries that leap out in unpredictable fire spouts are manageable. I want to be right there behind home plate. You can do it, sun! Just keep your eye on the ball. Something tells me that would creep the whole solar system out, though. Still, you gotta feel for the poor thing, up there, trying to coat the world in golden solstice, while the haze just won't let it be.