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 one minute. 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 'one' and encourage them to play.
One minute ain't a lot of time. Have fun! :)
Everything is cool and quiet underneath the water. The world above matters little, except if you're into breathing. I'm not. I think it's overrated. Like televised sports. Like expensive restaurants. You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to dive down deep, letting the water force me under until the pressure is too much and I am beer can crushed. Part of the water.
(Not feeling that one. Take 2.)
He wakes up with eye grit, rubs it in and then regrets it. He is a simple man, and he doesn't concern himself with such things. Preventing pain is low on the list of priorities. He stretches and dresses and brushes his teeth. He wonders why ... just why. Why everything? None of it makes sense. And none of it matters when the alarm yanks you out of that dream where you finally kissed Suzie at the Sadie Hawkin's dance. That dream may never come back. You may always wonder.
The sledgehammer takes care of the alarm clock nicely.
Its been bothering me for days. A memory, only not quite even that. Just a vague feeling that something wonderful happened but I wasn't supposed to tell. How can I tell when I don't even remember who she was? All I know is that it did happen and it was so wonderful I couldn't believe it. And in the cruelty of years, while I now believe it did happen I can't for the life of me recall the event or even who was there for it. Aside from myself that is. Maybe that is all there is in the end. Myself. What remains when everything else is gone?ReplyDelete
This is an awesome piece of introspective fiction, amigo. Bravo!Delete
The glare was too much for his bloodshot, booze yellowed eyes. The hair dryer blast of heat as the plane door swung open didn’t help the throbbing in his temple all that much either. As he ducked out through the hatch into the fierce white light, the instant shirt soaking humidity gave a clammy slap across the face, bringing with it the realisation that over indulging on the complimentary drinks had not been a wise move. He slung his cheap nylon holdall stuffed with odd socks, well worn t-shirts and a toothbrush, over his shoulder and descended the rickety steps down to the runway, negotiating the steps through squinting sweat stung eyes. It was apparent that he hadn’t really thought the journey through all that well, but then again: planning ahead had never really been a strong point. He'd not even brought sunglasses.ReplyDelete
Hey Anonymous, thanks for stopping by. I can't help but picture Hunter S. Thompson when I read this piece. Well in, my friend.Delete
Poor eyesight, a deep-rooted fear of sunlight and sudden flashes, an albino's life is not easy. It hardly lends itself to bright city lights or bonfires on the old homestead. I keep myself sequestered in what I call "my bedroom cell." I read there, write, eat, drink, but mostly dream at night when I welcome the fires that burn behind my eyelids in dreams of green forests, compassionate people, even misunderstood ogres who care little that this dreamer, though white as snow, possesses a soul dark as last week's blizzard -- harsh and self-deprecating, overwhelmed by life and its bright enticements I cannot accept. I detest flashes. They blind and rattle me. But I write them for my penance. I dash them off to show them all there is a kernel of courage inside me, a bravado perhaps, but courage nonetheless. I write flashes to say my deepest heart quickly, succinctly, and then throw the covers over me and let the dark summon the yellow brightness of spring dreams.ReplyDelete
Wow. I relate to this. And this is an AMAZING piece of flash. Honored to have it here, brother.Delete
Honored as well you gave me a place to post it!Delete
You're always welcome here, brother.Delete
I'm rarely on the computer at night, so I never see your flash invitation until Saturday morning. I don't want you to think I spend time preparing my quick flash before posting it. Like the others, I type it in a box like this one and keep typing till time's up...usually.Delete
Crushed cigarette butts cushion footsteps that approach the old door. Flashes of blinking neon announce "OPEN" to anyone who might care. The squeal of the hinges alert the person within. The walls are covered with framed yellowed paper displaying potential skin art. Avoiding eye contact, the visitor extends his hand holding an aging polaroid of a smiling teenage girl.ReplyDelete
"Sorry, friend. I still haven't seen her."
The visitor drops his head even lower, and turns away.
He will return tomorrow. Tomorrow might be the day.
Dang. I love it. Such vivid writing. Excellent piece, my friend. So much tactile description.Delete