Friday, February 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.

Basically, 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. Play as many times as you like (doesn't have to be today, even). 

So, tell a friend. If you have one. If not, tell your enemies. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

I swear, I'm trying. The words coming in get drowned out. It's fucking loud in my head, you gotta understand. I know vacant looks aren't appealing. I know I'm sweating a little. There's a water mark on the wall and that thing says it all. I am tired and the building is tired and it's raining like hell.

I don't mind the rain, don't get it twisted. Rather fond of rain actually. And that's not just one of those pretentious things writers say. Poets, yeah, don't get me started on the poets. I have plenty of poetic friends. They like the rain, too. They don't like it when I make fun of their berets, though. 


  1. Sometimes it doesn't take right the first time. It doesn't take wrong. It's somewhere in the middle, standing, bewildered, wondering what to take or leave. That's the rub.

    Sometimes, it is enough to hear laughter through the crack beside the window. Sometimes the night is gentle and kind. These are good things.

    It is the days that hang on your neck, grappling with cord of muscle - the jaw-tight days and endless nights. Does anyone know how to fix this. I have plenty of zip-ties.

    I woke up to a freak out that smoothed itself - covered it's face in a bagel and hot tea. I guess I'll stick with today. Until tomorrow.

  2. I could feel it just behind me. The presence pushed me to move faster, winding through the back alleys and streets in the gloom of the night. My legs pumped and my heart pounded as I turned corner after corner, vaulted fence after fence. Yet I could feel it close behind me, almost on my heels.

    I turned halfway to look behind me, but my foot snagged on a board on the asphalt and I fell, tumbling forward. I felt hot burns on my face and my hands as they slid against the rough surface. The pain kept me awake and I tried to get up again, pushing up through the nervous fire and found myself trying to force myself through the mortar and bricks of a solid wall. Dead end.

    I stood there for a moment, my fingers flexing automatically as if they tried to find purchase to climb the wall. Between my gulps of air I heard it behind me. First a shuffling noise. Then, an almost musical voice wafting through the air and penetrating my ears.

    "I let my heart.... fall into caaaareless haaaands..."

    I slowly turned to face the horror ... the horror that was Mel Torme.

    1. OH SHIT, you have to fight the judge from Night Court now. Dope piece, my friend.

  3. The beeping weather warnings told everyone to stay outside, but she never liked to be told what to do. Besides, the trees dancing back and forth were too compelling, the energy too attractive. She slid open the doors to the deck and stepped out, quiet so her father wouldn’t hear. The wind kissed her cheek and lifted her hair. She raised her arms and tipped her face to the sky so she could feel it more fully, the cool, damp currents fluffing the bottom of her t-shirt. It felt so close, like she could taste it, the drops of fine mist in the air, the low pressure, the porch creaking in protest as if each board were huddling in anticipation of disaster.

  4. I couldn’t see what the fuck he was talking about. “Over there!” He points. Then he pushes my shoulder hard enough to spin me around. “Over THERE!”
    “WHERE?” I don’t see anything but miles of endless dirt, rocks, and unrelenting sun. “You’re seeing things. Put your hat back on, dodo.”
    “I am not seeing things. I tell you there’s a White Castle straight ahead. Can’t be more than half a mile.”
    “A White Castle, huh?” Shaking my head, I grab hold of his arm in case he finally does fall over dead in the middle of the steaming blacktop.
    We go maybe fifty feet like this. I should feel like I’m dragging him but I don’t. And then I smell it. Goddamn if ain’t the smell of heaven itself.

    1. "I grab hold of his arm in case he finally does fall over dead in the middle of the steaming blacktop." I love it. The whole thing, but especially that line...and white castle... ;)


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