Friday, January 13, 2017

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'm sick, but y'all have at it. #breaktheblog

#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, January 6, 2017

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 alarm clock pulled him out of bed reluctantly. There was the aftertaste of a dream, some simple scheme - he could feel the remnants of a smile lingering in the corners of his mouth. He wondered at it briefly before it poofed away into the cool, gray dawn. 

He pulled on a sweater and parted the blinds and greeted the day. The birds were not up yet, but he would wait. 

The envelope was on the table where he left it, his name in large, bold print. He looked at it sideways, felt a numbness in his chest. He smiled and thought of death. 


He knew what the letter would say, or at least the gist of it. All the lies, and all the things he'd missed, twisted. Reminisced. The corners of the envelope were Drill Sergeant neat, the paper pure white. He wondered if it had been delivered by hand one still, damp night. The postage stamp a ruse; had she been here?

He laughed out loud at this, but he wasn't sure why. He made coffee and sat in his old chair and tried to stop his brain from moving. He counted his breaths until he felt calm enough to approach it. You can't rip open a letter like that, so he slit it neatly with a pocket knife.

Inside there were fall leaves, pressed and preserved. And there were pages and pages. And he cried as he read. 


Because that's what you do when you get a letter from the dead.

#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, December 30, 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 forest canopy cut the sunshine, but it was too quiet. The animals did not like it. They burrowed into holes and screeched and sought out caves and dark places. The mottled light did not entice them - it seemed to be part and parcel with the irregularity. The ... something. A change in the air, perhaps?

The animals were not happy.


A young boy ran through the leaves, oblivious. The animals knew the boy and welcomed him, but they wondered why he wasn't seeking shelter, hiding - why he wasn't sharpening his claws. The animals enjoyed the boy's antics, but they did not understand him. 

In the thick of the forest, two men with hardhats smoked cigarettes. They were surrounded by old butts and empty coffee cups. They did not consider this littering; the whole thing would be gone soon enough. They were cold and wanted to be at home. So, they waited. When the men in suits showed up, and the papers were signed, they went home.

The younger of the two men took money out of the bank and headed for his favorite bar. The older poured himself a glass of bourbon and tried to hold back his tears. But he couldn't, and he rode them through the years.

He had grown up playing in those woods. He had kissed a girl for the first time in those woods. The first time he had ever gotten drunk had been beneath the benevolent boughs that cut summer light. He tried to unclench his jaw, but he couldn't. He could hear her in the other room. She was talking to the designer or the landscaper or someone. Someone who was going to turn their cabin into a magazine spread. He drank his bourbon and frowned.

She came into the room, and he was sleeping. She woke him with a kiss and a smile. 


"It's all coming together! I can see it. Wait until you see it!"

He nodded. She deserved this, even if the forest didn't deserve its fate. It didn't matter. It had been his mistake - he'd been trying to make up for it for years. He never could. The money would make her happy. Or something close to happy - the cabin would shine. It would give her something to show her friends. Maybe it would erase the memory of her public humiliation. Twenty years, but it still felt fresh. And he still couldn't forgive himself.

She would go to sleep. And he would take his shotgun to the woods. And the animals would know their fear was justified. And she would find a new man to live in the cabin - one who appreciated a good color scheme. 


And so, he left late at night. And he made the forest quiet. With a blast of light and sound that stilled everything.

The animals were not happy. They knew the old man, too. 


#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, December 16, 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 was a subtle terror folded in the creases of his subconscious brain. He rolled toward the campfire and pushed himself slowly onto one elbow. There was a flash of two eyes from beyond the fire - his stomach clenched, and he swore he could smell blood. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

He could smell blood.

He lay very still and his hand moved slowly to the gun beside his leg, inside the bedroll. The gun would do little except make a lot of noise, but it was all he had. In the moment and in life. The only thing he really needed. He also knew that, until his leg healed, every shot was life or death. 


He almost chuckled. Waste one? Or was it a waste? Or should he save it? The shot? His life? The questions were hard to answer because he didn't know. Couldn't remember. He just knew that he knew certain things. How to shoot. How to build a fire. How to find water. He could not recall his name no matter how hard he searched the corridors. His life was minutes old every time he checked - he was unmoored. 

And the eyes flashed.

He aimed the gun in the direction of the eyes and slowly pulled the trigger. The night exploded in a thunderclap of light. He blinked and tried to see, but couldn't. His ears rang. He had made the wrong decision. 


Now, he would have to find out what the next minute held in store...

#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, December 9, 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 work too hard, and I'm too high strung - I'm afraid I'm going to burn out young. And I remember when I didn't care, but it seems like a long time ago. Now, I want my daughters to have a Dad as long as possible. I knew a lot of girls who grew up without Dads. It's infuriating though, to find the medicine and then find out that the copay is so goddamn high. Guess I'll stay low. Easier to lift little ones onto your shoulders that way.

I've got a trunk full of long-expired Afrin and Mini-Thins. If you have a bottle of whisky, you can be my friend. I see him in dreams, sitting in the corner of a room, smoking. He wasn't happy. He was not-sad. Numb. There's a big difference. I've sold enough of my brain. Frankly, I'm surprised I can work a computer sometimes. I can sure as hell take back pain.

Sorry, Doc.


What I can't take is any more chances. I didn't see any of this coming. There was no Disney drummer drumming. There was freedom in the apathy. But it got damn lonely. So, I'll keep throwing away old shit when I find it. I'll keep that mental tape so I can rewind it. Remind myself that it wasn't fun most of the time. Most of the time it fucking sucked, but I convinced myself it was fine.

This? Hell, now things suck some of the time, but most of the time I'm styling. Coming home from a long day to three smiles smiling...

Yeah, this got sentimental fast, and that wasn't my intention. And I'm sure that there's still a lot of shit that I forgot to mention. But I got two minutes and my brain's still asleep. So, you get what you get. I'm going to try to keep what I can keep.


#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, December 2, 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 can bang your head against as many walls as you want - ain't gonna hurt the walls. Not if they're well made. Your head might hurt. Heads are made well, too, but it's like comparing cannonballs and cantaloupe. So, yeah. Stop it already. And quit looking for the most confusing trail through the forest. Stop sniffing for invisible gas leaks. Relax while you sleep. Hell, if your teeth were made of diamonds, you could bite through a lead pipe the way you clench that jaw.

Stop trying to play shit off like no one saw. 


You think they're that naive? You think there aren't more coherent lies to believe? I think you should focus more on the birds swinging electrical trees. You want a new car because your old one had bald tires?

What the hell are you going to do when you retire?

You hurt so much; you feel angry for no reason. Why are you so guilty if you did nothing wrong? You silly bastard. I'd like to cut you some slack, but I put my knife away. We can try again another day. Until then, you just keep putting one foot behind the other. Fake a pratfall. They'll love it. People crave that shit. And maybe it will shake things up a bit. Make them feel human.

You're a sad sight, wringing your hands like that. Pretending it's the cold because you don't want them to know. Hiding in drugstore shadows because you don't want anyone to see. Why don't you step out into the light? Let it be what it is. No one gives a shit. Period. And until you accept that, you're going to have weird dreams and heartburn.

Or go see your doctor. She has a magic notepad that fixes everything.


#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, November 25, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!