Friday, June 13, 2014

2 minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. 

You can write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. 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. 

Come on. Let's go walking. To the smoothie shop - try the banana - ooh la la. 

The sun's cold shoulder pushes against the brightly decorated masses. You look, from far below, and they rise like towers of flesh, fabric, worry, and hypocrisy. They speak of things you understand but pretend not to.


I am not Ana or Elisia. Come on. Get your dog. My dog has a sweater. The sweater? Of course I didn't make it. I bought it at the mall. They have this kiosk that sells sweaters and beautiful, jeweled collars. It will be just the thing. Trust me. You don't think you need it, but you do. Do you see it over there, by the 'Orange Julius'? It's called 'Who Needs Self Respect'. They have free doggie treats, of course. It's a wonderful place. 

You look up just in time to see the shoe coming down. You don't fear it. You are far too small to fear things like shoes. You will slip neatly through the tread. No, you worry about flood and famine. You worry about what those tall freaks with their little animals are up to now.

Have a good weekend, and thanks for playing. Feel free to go again! See you next Friday.

37 comments:

  1. Bored and self-destructively curious, I seek him out. The photo doesn’t resemble the dude I remember. The photo looks like his father, a pyramid of a man with ham-sized shoulders and a bare, wrinkled scalp. The man now staring at me from my screen is similarly bald, the years roadmapped on his face like a mountain of trouble. The eyes are not the color I remember, a blue so fair he reminded people of a Disney hero. Maybe he had them retouched to show the proper gravitas for an artist of his imagined caliber. Maybe he has contact lenses to change the color, I don’t know and discover, with great relief, that I don’t much care anymore. He is someone else’s problem now, someone else’s albatross, someone else’s worst nightmare.

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    1. This is an awesome, evocative piece, G.

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  2. The boy is still standing on the corner staring off into nothing when I come out of the supermarket, struggling to lift a ten-pound bag of kitty litter from the cart into the trunk of my car. Why isn’t he helping me with this? Boys are supposed to offer to do shit like this for little old ladies, right? But he isn’t moving, the lazy ass kid. Why don’t people teach their kids better? I felt my shoulder pull from the weight, the same shoulder I’d hurt last year but never healed right. And he just stands there all slouchy, pants halfway down his ass, eyes glazed like his brains have leaked out from the hot afternoon. I will not deign to ask for his help, nor offer him money. I carry on with my business and drive away. Another one for the list, I think, checking him off in my head. No. He’ll be first.

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    1. I LOVE this one. The ending is so dope and unnerving.

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    2. Laurie, you're a writing machine. You and David. Awesome. And I think I know that kid. Get him, yeah, get him....

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  3. UNDER THE GUN

    A loaded revolver pointblank against a sweating temple is a very lonely business.
    We are the cartridge nestled like tightly wadded paper packed for the kill.

    Wordlessly we spin within the dark steel-blue chamber. Simultaneously we kill and we die. Somewhere a voice pleads a small mercy, but the trigger squeeze ejects us like rag dolls down the barrel. Yet not one dies. The temple still stands.

    In the morning under a day's rubble of star points and litter, the revolver cannot be found.

    #

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    1. I love this piece. "We are the cartridge nestled like tightly wadded paper packed for the kill." So good. As always.

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  4. Rose cradled her brother, jamming her thumb in his mouth to soothe him.

    “Come, come, Petey. Less of that, if you please?”

    The mewling bundle in her arms quietened, his teeth both sharp and persistent.

    “We’ll be no fuss. I promise you.” She grinned endearingly up at the overseer. “He’s got a new tooth coming through but he’s usually very quiet.”

    The grizzled man nodded once, sealing the deal. “ And I’m making no concessions for the child. It’s hard enough to get you down-and-outs to work a full day without folk griping about losing sleep.” He cupped his chin, continuing, “You’ll have to keep him with you too. We don’t run no nursery here, you understand?”

    The orphaned girl nodded back. “We’ll be your top berry-pickers soon, Petey and me. I swear it, Sir.”

    “Hmmph. We’ll see.” The overseer walked away, grumbling under his breath.

    “Come on, Petey,” Rose cooed. “Let’s go make some new friends.”

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    1. This piece has a really interesting and intriguing tone. Well played, my friend. This story could go anywhere.

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  5. The faint scent of my grandmother’s garden wriggles its way through the stench of my dumpster overcoat and finds my nostrils, thirsty for anything more than body odour, mildew, dirt, and car exhaust.

    Jasmine.

    I lift my forehead from my arms and rest the back of my head against the sandstone, stare at the muddling of humanity awaiting the bus not ten feet from my tin cup, scant with a couple of quarters and one generous toonie.

    Then I see her. The origin of the wondrous aroma. With each breeze that catches her flaxen hair and tosses it to and fro, a fresh hint of flowers seeps into my consciousness. Into my life.

    I stare at her golden locks, hope for a glimpse of more. She turns. Her eyes catch mine looking at her. Then a miracle. She smiles. At me. Smiles. Teeth and upturned pink lips and a slight gleam in her emerald-fire eyes.

    My face cracks at the curl of my lips. But I don’t bare my teeth. She doesn’t deserve that.

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    1. This is awesome. The last line clincher is like a slap in the face. The good kind. Bear with me, I'm ill. I love it.

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    2. Thanks JD. I've had this seed of a short story in my head but hadn't planted any words yet. This is the first bloom :)

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  6. Her helmet rolled back off his head, its securing straps feathering the wind as it flew off, crashing to the road with a terminal crack.

    “Come on, Floyd! You too!”

    Floyd glanced sideways toward Eleanor, her long russet hair flagging out behind her as they both sped down the hill. If only he could let loose like her. She always seemed so carefree and so self-possessed.

    He unbuckled his straps and shrugged his head free, his protection forgotten in the spirit of the moment.

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    1. Dammit ... Her helmet rolled back off HER head, its securing straps feathering the wind as it flew off, crashing to the road with a terminal crack. :D

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    2. Typos are part of the 2 minute game. ;) I feel the wind in this one. And so much more. Glad you're a regular now, brother.

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  7. The Preacher's hand was hard, steadying the small of his back. And Bobby Mason struggled to find his footing, his feet sliding in the mud. The brackish water swirled and he thought he might puke from last night's drinking, but the sun glared too bright to be denied.
    Do you renounce Satan? " the preacher bellowed.
    "Yes!" bobby hollered for all he was worth.
    "And all of his works?"
    "Yes, oh jesus, yes!"
    And the precher pushed him under and the muddy water swirled until there was only the cool and the darkness and Bobb thought it strange that his sins were washed away.
    The hand was gone and he released him and before he could forget the sound, Bobby heard giggling as he rose toward the light.

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    1. This is an awesome piece. I would have expected nothing less. Well in, T.

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  8. I'd been summoned to the dorms mid morning. The floor nurse and I stood outside my friends door each concerned for different reasons. Jerry and I had spent the evening at my place playing guitars and smoking dope out of a cool chamber pipe he had made from brass fittings and an old can of Constant Comment tea which we filled with ice cubes. When the day nurse called me to tell me Jerry hadn't made his night shift the night before, had called a doctor but was incoherent on the phone, and was not answering his door... well I was a little freaked about what we might have been inhaling the night before. Despite repeated attempts by others to get Jerry to unlock the door, at the sound of my voice movement could be heard in the room for the first time. A shuffling gate followed by a sickening thud against the solid core door. Then we heard the lock mechanism of the door release followed immediately by the sound of a body sliding down the door, ending with another awful sounding thud when it reached the floor. We had to push with all our strength against the door to push his body far enough to allow us to enter the room. Jerry's eyes were glazed, his pupils dilated. Glassy. His speech was impossible to understand. “Don't worry, bro. Paramedics are on the way. Be here soon.” I couldn't think. I was torn between my concern for my friend and guilty fear that whatever was happening to him may well happy to me next. We were only nineteen years old for Christ sake! What is going on? As I looked at him, helpless on the floor falling into unconsciousness, I couldn't help but wonder if I was looking at my future.

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    1. Wow, this is an intense, brilliant piece. And a very familiar one for anyone who has walked the road less stoned.

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  9. She sensed him behind her, his cologne and his animal musk giving him away.

    “Adam,” she said, already anticipating his touch.

    Adam's arm looped around her, pulling her into him, his readiness resting hard between her buttocks. “Kirsten,” he snarled, his half-growl causing the down on her neck to rise. His stubble then rasped against her skin and her knees turned into taffy..

    “Adam,” she said again, her thoughts already racing ahead. “Please don't stop...”

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    1. The tension and drama pack a wallop, man!

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  10. “I thought cerise would be your colour,” Giles murmured, laying the brush against her chest. “You being a red wine drinker and all.”

    Sasha sighed, arching herself against the bristles. “You could paint me sky blue with pink polka dots for all I care. Just keep on doing that until I tell you to stop, darlin'.”

    “You've got a deal.” Giles continued with his art, his quick strokes laying lashes of colour diagonally across her back and stomach. He crawled closer and then continued, kneeling beside her. Circling and then spiralling inward, his brush flicking more and more lightly as he reached the more sensitive areas.

    “I do believe that I'm as well red as I've ever been,” Sasha chuckled. “And me being a major in Modern English as well.”

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    1. Ha! I love this. Glad I don't have to be part of the clean up, but great piece.

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  11. I stood up...not wanting to sit next to him any longer. The thought of his knee brushing against mine made my flesh crawl. There was something about him that I didn't trust.

    "All you have to do is sign here. I'll take care of the rest." Even his voice brought chills.

    I nodded, leaning forward I wrote my name on the line he pointed to. And that was that. The new car was mine.

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    1. Ha! Nice reveal at the end. A new car can be a terrible curse...

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  12. I'm not good with numbers or this shit would be a lot easier. Life, I mean. I can't do math, and large numbers of people make me feel like a boot-kicked pup - sad and lonely and a little confused.

    Time moves quickly, but my fingers are faster. That's what I tell myself, but I know time is a metronomic nightmare. Every breath is one breath closer to the last. And I wouldn't even care except there are more people involved now. We have increased our numbers.

    I carry on and carry on, and I bitch about stupid things I can't remember the next day. I am the stumbling drunk in the mascot costume. It smells like vomit, sweat, and mildew in here. Someone please let me out.

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    1. Other than the 'good with numbers' thing, I think I fully understand.

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  13. The white fog line on the right side of the road twisted and turned like a writhing snake as I pressed the gas pedal toward the floor of the ancient Buick to challenge the curves to the top of Rowena loop. The reflectors on the guardrail fence posts hit my eyes like tracer rounds coming at me from both sides of my vision as glanced down to see the needle on the speedometer nearing eighty just as I saw the yellow sign indicating a 25 mph curve. Disappointment is the only thing I feel as I realize I will make it. I always make it. Put it into a four wheel drift, its all so routine. I've driven this route hundreds of times on thousands of mics. Its lost its sense of challenge, at least for me. But not for my tripped out band-mate passengers who can't believe someone whose face melted an hour ago in front of their eyes at the point where everything liquifies. A point I passed a few years back when I realized a distortion booster without its battery could hold upwards of 100 hits of blue double dome and with its battery it could pull in every AM station with a hundred miles if you weren't careful with the volume on your Fender Twin. Another gig, another road trip, another day in paradise...

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    1. This is awesome. Definite and real. Scary, I know. I don't know whether this was a typo or not, but I LOVE this: I've driven this route hundreds of times on thousands of mics.

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    2. Kind of a typo, should have been hundreds of times on hundreds of mics....thousand mics is an impressive dose. I suppose thousands could be take as cumulative. I'd ask Owsley but he scarcely speaks anymore. Death is such a buzz kill.

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  14. Late to the party, thanks to the World Cup and the Stanley Cup.

    Um, this only feels like a start. Maybe I'll add more on my blog again. There's a whole story behind this.
    _______________

    He pulled into the dusty two-pump gas station and diner combo, as lonely a place as you'll ever see, the desert heat like the torrid breath of a febrile god.

    He only wanted a break from the endless miles of asphalt, a coffee, and a few moments of stillness.

    The flyblown thing had been following him for some time now; he thought he'd shaken it most recently back in Carthage, Missouri, when he'd ditched the rental and hopped a freight like a vagabond from a distant time, a grainier time, and worked his way west. And maybe he had, although he doubted it. Even the car he drove now was long-ago stolen, with different plates. Untraceable. Although he suspected the thing used other methods than a paper trail. But he'd tried other tricks, too, and they hadn't worked. Had even crossed the border, until the mutilated bodies had shown up inside that dark and peeling Saskatchewan grain elevator, and he'd seen the gaping horror on the faces of the eyeless corpses under Nunavut ice.

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    1. oh yes! Canadian gore and horror... Awesome. Is that the last standing grain elevator? There are so few, how great to memorialize one in such a lovely, grim way. :)

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    2. Strong piece, brother. I agree, it's going somewhere...

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    3. Thanks, you two. Ha, yes, the last one, maybe. Filled with grain and blood. Which is a gross image, albeit a memorable one. :)

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    4. Oh, and I managed to continue it, here.

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