A Very Big Stage

He was vaguely aware that they had stopped moving. He had not eaten in days. Nor had he drank more than the condensation that dripped through the cracks in the trunk. He was not in his right mind, but he was not in his wrong one, either. He was in a new mind. A dark, cold place that he had never known existed. Until she'd been killed.

Fire. Supernova. Pain. The bandana over his eyes had become a torture. Still, after being yanked out of the trunk, he found himself, eyes open, blinded by the desert sun. He closed his eyes, and it was still too bright. He covered his face in his hands and they laughed, said something in a language he did not understand. He was beginning to hate the sound of it.

He knew that they weren't going to kill him. If they wanted him dead, it would have been easy and they wouldn't have risked driving with a man in the trunk of their car. He knew what they wanted.

His eyes adjusted slowly, they still hurt. Every part of him hurt. The car did not have good suspension, the road had been hard, the trunk was not large. He felt a weary silliness come over him and the next thing he knew, he was sitting at a table, facing a large man in a military uniform that looked like a Halloween costume. They were alone in the room, but he could hear guards shuffling outside.

"Are you ready now, or do you need more hunger?"

He gulped, eyes darting, mouth aching with dryness.

"And you are thirsty. You must be careful. Hunger is something. Thirst will kill you. You don't want to die. Just tell us."

"Tell you what?! I don't know what the fuck is going on! I work at the goddamn DMV! I don't know anything you would want to know. I don't even know who you are."

"This is shame. We want to help you, but you do not want to help yourself."

The man sighed, ran his hands through the tangle that sat atop his head.

"I'll talk. But I've been in a trunk for a long time. Please let me walk. Pace. Please. I'll tell you everything."

The man in the uniform smiled. The pacing began. He was so weary that he couldn't walk a straight line and kept bumping the chair, the desk. The man in the uniform smirked.

"The government knows what you are doing. They have known for years. My name is John William Jackson. I am known in the underworld as Bayou. I know what you want to know. You want to know about the installations. The satellites. The other operatives in your country, yes?"

"Yes, good, keep going."

The man in the uniform put his feet on the desk, shiny black boots, no wear on the soles. The pacing stopped and a dirty arm pointed out the window. The uniformed eyes followed.

"That's North. Correct me if I'm wrong. There are strongholds all around here. There are caves and mountains and subterranean offices. Most of the effort, however is focused -"

A slight flit of the uniformed eyes. It was enough. He dove over the desk, driving the fountain pen into the man's throat, covering his mouth with one hand. Too loud. He snapped the neck and fell behind the desk. With all his might, he shoved the desk across the room - the heavy mahogany stopped the door from opening. It was a heavy desk, but he knew he did not have much time.

The 'general' had not been wearing a gun, but there had to be one. He checked the drawers, finding nothing. Then, he saw it, leaning against the wall with an umbrella and a cane. You've gotta be kidding me.

He snatched the Kalashnikov and sat in the chair. The top part of the door exploded and two men came through the dust. They were dead before they hit the floor. He sprayed the hallway with bullets. He knew that the deaths would cause chaos, the men were probably running ... they wouldn't get far. Already, he could hear shouts. Commands. Chopper blades. None of them would survive.

Two years setting it up, risking, betting they wouldn't kill the bait. Now, it was done. He would take some time off. Go fishing. He had more money than he needed. The Americans were clueless, and he was tired of trying to sound like he was from the midwest. He imagined himself as a kind of Robin Hood. A stagecoach robber.

On a very big stage.

2 minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. 

You can write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. 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'm not interested. I'm not satisfied. You stand your statue stand, I'll go someplace where pigeons won't shit on me. I'll watch the puffs of pollen explode with each lick of wind. I'll double check the box with every letter I send. Sure, I've never lost one - but it ain't about making sense, it's about sleep. It's about those moments where I am tugged from it - yanked back like a near-drowned, rip tide surfer. Back into the waking world, shaking in the dark.

I don't fear the big things. Cancer. Death. Poverty. I fear the small assassins who live in public restrooms. I fear the things I said 20 years ago and I await my comeuppance. Tuppence. Feed the birds. There is nothing in this great wide world impresses me as much as a bird. They seem free. Maybe I'm wrong and there's some great bird hypocrisy, flighty autocracy ... but I doubt it. 

Thanks for stopping by! See you next Friday. 

Morning

The morning wakes slowly, with small dark sounds that fill and swell with the promise of a new day. It starts off shyly. A few car doors. A gentle good morning whispered between neighbors. The call of birds, rallying the world with their chirpful cries. Morning is what you make of it. Me? I imagine that the trees are the conductors, guiding the morning toward an evening crescendo.

2 minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. 

You can write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. 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's a sublime redundancy to it. You smile, grit teeth, think about the things you did back when you were whole, before your brain decided enough was enough. Over and over, day after day. You smell vanilla and you feel hot, sweaty rivulets run down your back. You are suddenly cold, but you don't know why.

She's standing right in front of you, and she's yelling like a drunk hooligan. You laugh, and that is absolutely the wrong thing to do. That's why you do it. She stops and stares at you, great fire-lights of hate and fear radiate from her eyes. You don't know how she does this, but it scares the everloving shit out of you.

You shrug, shoulder your bag, and leave, knowing you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what the fuck happened and not getting any answers. No rest. Probably for the best. Keep telling yourself. Maybe someday you'll believe it.

Thanks for stopping by! See you next Friday. HEADS UP - my folks are visiting, so I won't be commenting as promptly as normal. But I'll be back. :)

Simple

It's as easy as falling off a skyscraper. As easy as Pi. You walk in late at night, dark clothes, you don't move fast and you don't move slow. Become an invisible droid, one who skirts the edge of night without leaving a trace. An apparition.

There will be a big to-do when they find out. Huge. Practice your shocked face. You're going to need it.

2 minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. 

You can write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. 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 amp is cutting out. You adjust the tape that holds the kink in just the right position, wipe sweat on your forearm. Something hits you from behind, but it's not heavy and it doesn't hurt. 

The sweat is a problem because it makes playing the guitar like trying to wrestle a rake covered in oil. And the smell. At least it's your smell. Which sort of covers up the couches, salvaged from alleys, soaked in bum piss and worse. 

There is a group of dudes who just keep staring at you, but fuck 'em, you'll deal with that later, they can't get close to the stage. The stage is where the drunk folk dance, laughter and anger rolling off them, waves of pleasure and fear and cheap perfume. 

The guys from the back come up and you stop playing. Let the fucking kids dance. Just let 'em dance.

Thanks for stopping by! See you next Friday. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. 

You can write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. 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. 

Along the road, bright lights flash on and off, the sensation is much like being in a bad rave. It is disorienting, and it doesn't match the soundtrack in his mind. He has cast back, past college, past high school, he has gone to the small, thatched place in his mind. He thinks about it and he looks at the kid who lives there and tries to find some commonality. 

The kid worries too much, but he just wants everyone to be happy. Tension has a smell he recognizes. A sweat, fear smell. He doesn't know how much more he can take. The anxiety is overwhelming even though he doesn't have the words for it. 

His mind sticks on one night, long past. After practice. Dark. The police stopped him after a mile or so. He explained that no one picked him up. The cops were empathetic and took him home. No one mentioned that he had to walk home most of the time. No one mentioned much of anything.

He shakes it off and keeps walking. No one will pick him up this time. 

Thanks for stopping by! It's independence day here in the states, so I apologize if it takes me a while to respond to each piece. I will. Have a lovely weekend.