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.
(This was more like four minutes - it didn't want me to stop.)
He could feel it inside, a pressure - something urgent - he did his best to ignore it. He grit his teeth when he stood up, no old man sighs. He helped with the work like he always had, stacking wood, working the field, sunlight nearing sadistic. He sweat - sweat was his reward, he loved the work, the sweat, the days that passed with invisible clarity, mind detached and body pumping. But this pressure. This pressure was something.
Clyde looked at his father and smiled. It was a sad smile filled with regret and hope and love, mostly sadness. His mouth tasted like corn silk and cotton balls. He was thirsty.
Clyde was standing, hat off and wind pushing his damp hair back. He was enjoying the smell of the flowers his wife planted. He felt like a lucky man. He had this land, a good woman, family. He thought about rolling a cigarette, but shrugged it off. It was then that the old man fell. First, to his knees - he fell like a penitent at the end of a long journey. His fall was a baptism. He was still, on his knees, head down, arms wide. Then, just as slowly, he fell forward.
Clyde's run had left him breathless, and he could barely whisper.
"Clyde, hush. Not much time..."
"You can't die!"
"Everyone dies, son. I wouldn't have had it any other way. I swear. I dreamed it this way. I love you, and you will do this land proud. You've done me proud."
"Dad, what can I do?"
Clyde was frantic now, crying.
"Hold me, son. And bury me here. Right here. And smile when you think of me. My time is over. Yours has begun. Have a son. I did, and it was the best thing I ever did."
Thanks for stopping by! See you next Friday.