Friday, May 22, 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 is a stain on the ceiling that looks exactly like your grandmother, a big amorphous blob. The stain also looks like a space shuttle - sometimes it look uncannily like a cartoon head. It all depends on the light, the night, the things you did which changed your sight. 

You take deep drags of a stale cigarette, and your mouth tastes like a warehouse. No matter. You bathe the stain in cumulus puffs. 

This is all you have, and that sounds sad, but it's enough. The stain can't love you, but at least it never leaves. It can't hold you on cold nights, but it never yells, never raises a hand. The stain doesn't care if you go to work, get laid, get paid - it doesn't give a fuck. 

As far as the stain is concerned, you can sleep all day.

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out some of today (working, no computer) 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, May 15, 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. 

You've never heard this story before ... you want to hear it? Naw, you never wanted to hear nothing true, nothing real. You've got your head up an ostrich's ass - you always have - guess you like the view. Me, I like my darkness to be wrapped in letters, smells better.

So, I won't tell you the story because it's too evil. Too goddamned representative of the way the world is. Shame, 'cause there's beauty in the story, like this: "He sat in the dust-devil madness, cackling, spitting wonder and lost Bible verses into the voracious wind." 


You don't want to know, I know.

It tastes bad. Talking to you. That doesn't make a lot of sense, but it's true. It hurts the back of my throat, makes me swallow some kind of bittersweet frustration. I'd beat the story into you with a bat, but I think you could resist even that. God, it's a shame. It's not a happy story, but it's a good one. 


You would have liked it.

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out some of today (working, no computer) 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, May 8, 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. 

Cubicles are like cuticles; sometimes you gotta cut 'em. We got to think about the hive, see? This ain't about one individual bee - not about you or me. You gotta see it the right way - do you see what I mean? You and I are meaningless - it's all about the Queen. But don't take my word, I see your disbelief. Absurd! Look around you - do you see anyone else complaining? Anyone not smiling, yoke-choked. Straining.

Yeah, I know we're not bees. Bees are productive creatures. They make honey. We make money. But we're not making enough, and you know what makes it funny? Currency. Think about it. Currently, you aren't producing enough. Don't you know that the high ups need catered brunches? Do you think they care about the stomp-sound crunches? They're busy planning business lunches! 


Now, get on your knees and close your eyes. I want to show you some more things about bees. More things about hives.

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out some of today (working, no computer) 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, May 1, 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. 

It'll be fun. Hell, son, it'll be a hoot! You never liked that sumbitch, and I never gave two rat shits. So, we plug him. Plant him. Ain't no one going to know and ain't no one going to miss him - the cops ain't gonna be that concerned, you understand?

And we know what he's got and where it is. Nobody else knows - less you told 'em. You fucking tell anybody, boy? Good. You better not be lying. I'll plant two bodies in that corn field. I don't give a fuck.

What are you gonna do with your share, boy? I'm gonna get me a brand new suit, new shoes, haircut. Then I'm gonna get some respectable whiskey. Then, I'll find me a whore, boy. A decent whore who looks nice and talks like a goddamn lady. So, what you gonna do? Spend that man's money in your head. Think what you can do with $500...


Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out some of today (working, no computer) 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, April 24, 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. 

Let me hear you say it. Let the words fall from your lips like gentle atrocities. Cities will crumble. It doesn't matter because you know everything is relative. We're all related, brothers, sisters, distant, dirty cousins - so, don't sugarcoat it. We're family. 

I feel like you started talking before I was born and you'll be the last one at the funeral. Not because of any sense of duty, loss, decency. It will be all about you. And you might even wonder at why it's like that - justify it - isn't everything about the self?

Just out with it. We've danced around it long enough, parried sufficiently - it's time to thrust. I'll be OK, and you'll be OK. You feel cramped now, but the room will seem a lot bigger once the elephant is gone.


Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out MOST of today (working, no computer) 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, April 23, 2015

Sour

She is in the heat of you. The slow, sinking, septic, stink of you. She lives in crevasses. You smell of her, and her scent is abhorrent. You don't know this because no one tells you. So you drag this morbid train behind you, always ducking. She won't save you and she won't even warn you when the goddamn train is coming. You'll stand there 'aw shucks, Mable' and then you'll be fucking dog food. Coyote food. You'll be slime and mush and sickness like she is. Maggots.

She is not a Siren. She is not a warrior. She is not a succubus. She is malignancy and complicity and filth and she doesn't even exist except in your mind. She is knitting sweaters, somewhere. But not for you.

You hear her voice sometimes and you shudder because you will never recover from the blow dealt:

You woke alone in the bed. She came home drunk and disorderly and it looked like she'd fucked half the City because they had coke. And maybe she had. And it didn't matter. And that is the sadness. That is the concoction of revulsion that was created.

You will wake with the taste of her on your lips and you will, seldom, but sometimes, remember summer days when you were so happy it hurt.

Because the fall is worse the higher you climb.


Friday, April 17, 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 is a smell to them. They look with secret eyes, yellowed and dripping - there is the rush of wind in your brain and you wonder where it comes from. They aren't big. Short and sturdy like country kids, they'd look almost wholesome if it wasn't for their faces. 

The eyes are part of it; they are a sick malignancy. The smell doesn't help, it's pungency creeps onto your tongue and you can taste the blood. Still, it would be alright if it was just the faces, just the smell. You watch them writhe in the morning air and your whole body revolts - a thousand 'what if' explosions in your brain. 

Even as they begin to feed, you can do nothing but wonder. But the fear is gone somehow, replaced by resignation.

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out MOST of today (working, no computer) 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