Friday, March 14, 2014

3 minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. No reason. Just ending the week in style.

You can write whatever you want in the comments section. You have three minutes. Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. 
So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'three' and encourage them to play. Have a good weekend!

It must be my fault, huh? You look at me with that squint-eye like you're staring at a goddamn explosion. Ashes rain from the sky. They are metaphorical, and we won't get into it. Point being, sure, it's probably my fault. But it takes two to argue.

There are little, quiet places I put aside during the day. I collect them and balance them against each other. Compare. I know that they will be waiting, I find comfort there. 

From time to time you have to step back and look up at the sky with your mouth hanging open. You might catch a few raindrops in there. Or snowflakes. Maybe a bird will shit in your mouth, but you'll still be one step ahead of all the other folks staring at the awkward ground.

8 comments:

  1. What’s three minutes when we lost an hour this month already? One hour of my precious time squeezed away by springing forward into oblivion and now into our new home where three minutes can actually mean unpacking two and half over-stuffed boxes. I think about multi-tasking but hear my father’s voice in my mind telling me to do one thing at a time. “Focus and use both hands or you’ll drop something and ruin everything.” Too bad everyone else these days can cook dinner, clean house, do laundry and walk the dog all at the same time thanks to the Roomba floor vacuum. Following dad’s advice makes me feel slow in 2014, and yet getting things done properly is better than making mistakes. Maybe there’s a secret to multi-tasking. As in, I’ll write a sentence and unpack something, then write another sentence after removing the bubble wrap while emailing my three minutes of writing from my cell phone to Dan’s blog, all while putting things where they belong? Dad?

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    1. I love this piece! Thanks for sharing it. And I can relate. AND I want my hour back, too. ;)

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  2. She sparkles when she moves, heels clipping along, curls bouncing. A gleam in a sea-blue eye that only he understands, like a language transmitted by axons and dendrites, rods and cones. A laugh that is like no other, the way she steals food from his plate. Can’t be summed up on the inside of a wedding band. There’s just too much to say. But the jeweler waits patiently. Maybe that’s part of his job, to wait out guys who don’t know what the hell to have inscribed. Maybe the jeweler should write some stuff, have it around as part of the package. Choose inscription one, two, or three. Three, definitely three, he thinks, turning the band around in his large fingers. He should have brought his brother. He always knows what to say, like when their mother died and he gave the eulogy, the words were so damned perfect he had everyone crying. Dude, he asks in his head. What would you write? What’s on the inside of Jessie’s ring? “Just the date,” he ended up saying to the jeweler. “And, you know, that I love her.”

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    1. This is an astounding piece of three minute flash, lady. Keep showing me up on my own blog. I don't own a bat or anything. ;)

      Seriously, this is fucking dope.

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    2. I don't know where the hell this came from, but thank you.

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    3. You captured that perfectly, Laurie.

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  3. Three New York minutes or three from someplace laid back where tanned tourists drink umbrellaed drinks and the white strip on their wrists once graced a watch. You tell me. Meanwhile I'm holed up here on the church steeple clock, my hands blue-numb from their grip on the hands grinding to the next minute. How I got up here is no mystery. I hate the way time passes, flies, doesn't come back. Time's up.

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    1. So glad you came by, Sal. Great piece as always. This "...the white strip on their wrists once graced a watch" is a fantastic image.

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