Friday, November 28, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! 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. 

Not again. It's not right - it's like one more backhand clap, false adulation. You race the race that feels like a chase? Steeple? Naw, they're running on flash boxes and Internet memes, son. Don't you see it? Can't you feel the hot sear of self-reflection reddening your fog-soft features; you look goddamn ridiculous. 

What's the point, what's the answer? What South American herb will cure your cancer? The lies are thick, like flies on honey - all kinds of boogey-man - call bullshit, money. Phoney. It won't surprise anyone, they're all waiting for it. You laid the bait and now it's running, unabated, shameless. How many years have passed by blameless...

Don't look to me for answers, I got none. I've never understood what made it run. They say it's one thing, but it's bullshit. It's not about love, it's not about hate, it's not about the things we create. It's about nothing and nothing is a blanket that covers us all. You think any of this shit is an accident? I guess you're just a dumbass. I'm cool with being a malcontent. 

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

BTW, if you enjoy reading all the cool pieces by the authors on here, check out their work. Many have written and published amazing things. Trust me.

130 comments:


  1. Another day at the gallows. Dead now is one more ScienCrat conspirator who had kept secret from the American people every cure unknown to humanity. Because of those lab rats –– human, not rodent –– millions have perished in the death clutch of Cancer, AIDS, Ebola, and the other ravishing plagues.

    We placed too much importance in the lap of science, even to the detriment of our faith in God. We gave them the final word in the inexplicable: if it did not pass the muster of perceptive experimentation, it did not exist. What egotistical gall!

    Today Dr. Floyd Hwang dangles from the rope. Hwang who assigned culpability to the greed gene, how his DNA twisted in flashing bands of currency-green beyond his control. How, he had asked, could he demonstrate compassion with these biological odds against him?

    And so the guilty swing like metronomes to the beat of the Execution Song we sing now in the streets:

    “Break down the doors of the science labs!
    Rest when ScienCrats lie on their slabs!
    Cures for the millions are up for grabs!

    Swing high, swing low,
    Food for the crow.
    Welcome to the Executions!

    Now all is well.
    They’re all in Hell.
    Welcome to the Executions!”

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Man, this is awesome, Sal. No matter how different your pieces are from week to week, they are always tight and powerful. This one reminds me of the great old SciFi writers.

      Delete
    2. Sci-fi? It could so easily be true. Excellent writing!

      Delete
    3. Wow! Love this.Scary in that it is so close to the truth - without the consequences - yet.

      Delete
    4. Love it. Especially the song lyrics. :D

      Delete
    5. JD's right... you change genres like he changes knives... how do you do that? and what do you prefer to write? Well done!

      Delete
    6. I start off with a lead which I hope is a hook and let it take me from there. As I write the second sentence I make up a quick plot with just enough middle and a hook release for the end. It's a fun ride!

      Delete
  2. Wow, so much I like about that JD. From fog soft features to the nothing blanket that covers us all.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. It's satisfaction guaranteed with Dan. He's a sure-shot gunslinger with a pistol full of prose..

      Delete
    2. Thanks, G. I'm putting that on a t-shirt. For reals. ;)

      Delete
  3. The waters swirl beneath me, my feet naked and misted from the spray. The rope above me feels slick. Its coarse weave made smooth by the humidity. I'm feeling uneasy though, my hands struggling to keep hold..

    I'm gone. Falling down, my feet pushing the water aside, the surface shooting up my legs, it's warmth surprising me as I drop. Up to my waist; my chest; my neck. My Lord..

    Still dropping. I don't know how it is I'm breathing. Maybe I'm already drowned. Maybe I'm asleep and dreaming.

    Or maybe I'm dead.

    Dead. But still thinking. Still dropping. My chest tight and my arms flailing for purchase. But there's nothing. No sides. No bottom. No light.

    No hope.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I like this one a LOT, man. Cool story and there's a bunch of beautiful poetry in here. Well in, amigo.

      Delete
    2. Nice Mark, I really like that there doesn't seem to be an end in sight.

      Delete
    3. This reminds me of some of my nightmares. Scary as hell.

      Delete
    4. Could even be a metaphor. Nice job, Mark.

      Delete
    5. I like it... and how time expands...

      Delete
  4. He sat in the chair, moving this way and that, trying to at least appear comfortable.

    "I fucking hate this shit," he grumbled as he moved to the left and felt his foot go numb.

    A few minutes later the fattest, ugliest guy he'd seen in weeks shuffled through the door, wearing a frown that would stop lesser men in their tracks. But Aaron was not a lesser man, and he needed this damn job. He needed any job.

    "Mr. McIntyre?" Fatty asked, extending his hand halfheartedly.

    "Arron McIntyre," Aaron said, shaking the extended hand. Fatty had a lackluster grip and his palm was sweating.

    "Drew Amsterdam, nice to meet you," Fatty said.

    "Amsterdam, huh? Have you ever been there?" Aaron asked. He knew it was a dumb question, but he was nervous, damn it. Sometimes his mouth got away from him.

    "No," Fatty said with another impressive frown. He sat in the chair behind the desk, and motioned for Aaron to sit down.

    "So, Mr. McIntyre, what would you consider your biggest success in business?"

    Aaron tried not to roll his eyes, and answered the first of what he was sure would be many pointless and annoying questions.

    Once again he found himself wondering when and why the working interview had gone out of style.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Man the tired resignation is palpable here - you captured it really well. Nice work, G.

      Delete
    2. This scene flows so effortlessly. Just rolls right along. And yeah, you captured the fml of job hunting very well.

      Delete
    3. Golly this was deja vu inducing, esp. asking the dumb question while nervous.

      Delete
    4. Oh, yeah. Happens all the time. Well done.

      Delete
    5. "Working interview"? You mean temp jobs? ;) Nice piece. The guy's frustration at the whole process shines right through.

      Delete
  5. Today isn't a day for writing. It's for spending time with family, perhaps venturing online to do a little shopping, gorging on turkey again even while still hung over from yesterday's tryptophan stupor, playing with clay, having a Downton Abbey marathon, napping, reading, lounging, eating again. But not writing. I'm taking the day off.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. You just wrote! :) Enjoy - #2minutesgo ain't going anywhere.

      Delete
    2. Yep, I thought the crowd here would enjoy the irony of writing about not writing. ;)

      Delete
  6. I got a phone that tells me how many steps I took. I want a mythic time machine so I can give that phone to Sisyphus - call it a favor, but it would probably be one more stone to drag.

    I see this old woman sometimes. She sips slow off long, white, cigarettes that hang, spectral, from bony fingers. I wonder if she knows it all or if she's sniffing carrion, vulture-perched amidst the slow, smoke-signal madness. Who's she talking to?

    I feel like I'm made out of several 'make your own human' kits. Given to savages. Put together haphazardly, directions ignored. Things can't possibly be meant to fit like this. Hell, my back is twisted and my elbow snaps when I throw something.

    I'll keep my head down. No worries. No sweat. No crying until my shirt's all wet. I've taken all the soft, wet me and balled it up. Open wide, you're gonna swallow it one way or another. We can do this the easy way or the hard way...don't make a lick of difference to me.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. This comment has been removed by the author.

      Delete
    2. Ouch, I don't want to be you. Been there, though.

      Delete
    3. "The long, white cigarettes that hang, spectral, from bony fingers" -- nice.

      Delete
    4. This line: I've taken all the soft, wet me and balled it up... That's just amazing.

      Delete
  7. She sat in the tree, looking down on the yard at her feet, and pretending that it was her kingdom. There was her servant, Lucy, the dog, and her handmaiden, Chloe, the kitten, who got the dog in the nose every time he tried to chase her.

    Kristen knew her mother and big sister were in the living room, trying on dresses for the "big day". She rolled her eyes just thinking about the "big day", when her sister, Karen, would marry that old guy who smelled like mothballs and that stuff in the bottle that Dad drank from sometimes.

    Dad yelled about how much the "big day" was costing, Mom brought home dress after dress and vale after vale. Karen packed and talked about churches and flowers and place settings. A ton of Karen's friends came over and giggled and shrieked, and then HE came over and invaded her house. As sad as she was to see Karen go she would not be sad to see less of him. She would be even less sad to never hear about the "big day" again.

    Kristen climbed up higher, pulled her e-reader out, and curled up in her favorite branch. She opened the book, and though -- not for the first or last time -- that when Karen woke up they would have her back in the house, and then one day there would be another "big day".

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. That last line is awesome. Says it all really. Love this piece.

      Delete
    2. Again, you nailed the restless agony of powerlessness. I like the anchoring. It may be the turkey hangover, but the last P is confusing me. I can't figure how to read it. Missing words? Could TOTALLY be me. I'm exhausted.

      Delete
    3. GOT IT! though/thought was crushing me. Yeah, digging it. Sorry, I'm not as smart as Laura. ;)

      Delete
    4. I'm just fluent in "typo" is all. ;)

      Delete
    5. Yeah... the last line.... like watching a gymnast nail it... good stuff.

      Delete
    6. Cynicism at such a young age; love it!

      Delete
  8. Settling into his chair, he closed his eyes, seeking the spark.

    He saw glimmering in the dark. A hint of something. He dived in, trying to grab the intangible and to tame it.

    His fingers closed on it and it turned in his hand, resisting him. But he thought he had it still.

    The chair disappeared. The television's voices faded and the world dissolved.

    The writer emerged...

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. This is a dope piece. I can't help but imagine butterflies shrugging off their casings to fly...

      Delete
    2. Like opening the wardrobe door and seeing snow..

      Delete
    3. Yes! And other times it slips between the clenched fingers.

      Delete
  9. I'm running as fast as I can, and it's not fast enough - I can feel the tooth snap at my ankles, how many bill collectors does it take to remove someone's teeth while they scream, thrashing against the restraints, swearing the check is in the fucking mail?

    Everybody's got an opinion. Run with your knees high. Keep your head forward. Keep your head on a swivel. Be vigilant and they won't be able to drag you into the bushes with their blood-red nails - two for the hands, two for the feet.

    I don't want to hang around here - there are so many places to be. I didn't sign up for the hero package. I paid extra for the invitation to introspection. If you can't find me by the pool, I'll be up here in my head.

    ReplyDelete
  10. She laid back, hands behind her head.

    All quiet. Well, almost.

    Downstairs, there were noises. Bumps and clatters. Metallic rattles. A whoosh of flame and a surging of water.

    She frowned. He was still here?

    Waiting for another minute or two, she continued to listen.

    The noises continued.

    Easing herself back into the grasp of the mattress, she closed her eyes. Listening to his noises. Reaching out with her senses; her nose beginning to stir when the aromas of coffee and bacon reached it. The clattering of doors. The white noise of boiling fat.

    Her mouth began to water.

    She was going to find it hard to reject this one.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Great piece, again, the rhythm and poetry just shine through this piece. It's awesome. "Downstairs, there were noises. Bumps and clatters. Metallic rattles." - rocket!

      Delete
    2. Love this. Nothing else to add. :)

      Delete
    3. Now that is romance! Seriously, this is good writing, besides being romance... I'm smelling bacon and hearing the pots and pans... I hope this guy has a brother...

      Delete
  11. The moon was round and full of light as his wife's belly was round and full of life. They'd moved to the country as soon as they got the news from the doctor. A baby. One the other doctors told them they couldn't have.
    He stood with his back to the window, contemplating the beautiful woman in his bed, a black and white still life of sheets draped just right and moonlight and shadows. So many miracles, little to others, but miracles to him.
    The groan at the foot of the bed was Max, four-legged friend for nearly fifteen years. The move to the country suited him well, too. Border collies were never meant for apartments. He watched Max's feet twitch. Chasing a dream rabbit.
    He returned to his side of the bed, kicked off his slippers and crawled beneath the sheets, doing his best to disturb neither wife nor dog.
    The dog began to snore.
    Just as the man was about to enter dreamland, he knew something was wrong, and opened his eyes. It took a second, but he realized that Max wasn't snoring. He sat up and put his hand on Max's head, then his nose, then his furry chest.
    There was no heartbeat.
    Ah, Max. I wanted this baby to know you. A cloud blocked the moon.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. This is beautiful and sad. Karen wants me to wash the car. Now, I'm going to wash it in tears. ;) Seriously, loving the repetition of sound/tone - the end is sad, but I can relate.

      Delete
    2. The ONLY story I have ever written where the dog dies at the end.... I HATE stories like that... but I convinced myself this one was okay, because there is the whole story of the child to go! Thanks for the kind words....

      Delete
    3. Oh, and a shameless plug for a book I'm giving away today... Angelo's and my first book, Angelo's Journey, published four years ago, is free on Kindle for this weekend. http://www.amazon.com/Angelos-Journey-Border-Collies-Quest-ebook/dp/B004RYW53U and in all other Kindle stores, too. Grab your copy. It's currently sitting at #19 in most downloaded free books on ALLLLL of Amazon in the US.

      Delete
    4. #1 in Kindle Store > Books > Home & Garden > Animal Care & Pets > Dogs
      #4 in Kindle Store > Books > Literature & Fiction > Genre Fiction > Family Life

      Delete
    5. So sad. But 15 years means he had a good life. Beautifully written, too.

      Delete
    6. I am sad that the baby didn't get to meet Max! But, I am hopeful that they will get a new pupster for the child to grow up with.

      Delete
  12. She's never gonna listen - never gonna hear it no matter how many times you spray it. It's just gonna bounce back at ya, you don't duck quick enough, you won't be able to play it off as funny - it will live in your brain and push everything else out. That's the way the crumbs got there - the way the cookie crumbled.

    It's the tortured lament of a lost soul. It's a line, thrown out into the ether that brings nothing back with it. Keep casting, there's nothing there but old pieces of plastic that won't ever go anywhere. They'll be made into roach mansions when the revolution comes.

    I'll slink quietly away, bundle of books under my arm, pretending ain't nothing wrong.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Oh, man, does that resonate. Well done.

      Delete
    2. THIS rocks: It's the tortured lament of a lost soul. It's a line, thrown out into the ether that brings nothing back with it. Keep casting, there's nothing there but old pieces of plastic that won't ever go anywhere. They'll be made into roach mansions when the revolution comes.

      Lost souls, fishing, and roaches... who but you could make those three ideas sing in harmony?

      Delete
  13. She wasn't in the mood at all. The whole holiday thing had grown stale. Her kids didn't want to exchange gifts. They told her not to bake because they couldn't eat all the sugar anyway. And if she hadn't bought the heritage turkey and promised to cook it they would not have had the traditional dinner. Even the Christmas Eve get-together, with all the cookies and appetizers instead of a real supper had been changed to something her daughter-in-law would make.

    She had become un-needed, un-appreciated and un-enthused. There seemed to be nothing left of all the traditions that had been so lovingly established since the kids were born. She thought they loved them. Apparently not.

    So, all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and pull the blankets over her head, so she'd be a literally invisible as she felt.

    Then her grandson toddled over with a big grin, held out his arms and said, "Hug, Gramma".

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. <3 Truly love this piece. Honest and real. And a reminder that there is always a silver lining.

      Delete
    2. Oh wow. This is an amazing piece. I've seen it play out so many times. Thank goodness for small hugs. Really well constructed.

      Delete
    3. Beautiful... and sometimes it's hard to tell whether it's the grandchild or the grandparent rescuing or doing the rescue... it's why kids who have grandparents are lucky. Well done.

      Delete
  14. STOMP. STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.

    The sound of boots on steel. Men at arms mustering for action. Practised competence as they dissemble and reassemble matt-black weaponry. Dulled metal. And razor-sharp men.

    We hit the ground at a hundred klicks per hour, the drop-ship skidding along the dried river bed like a thrown shoe, all of us thrown hard against our harnesses.

    And praying to a variety of gods.

    Lanthium V was a cankerous rock, its skies reddened at noon and bruised purple at suns' set. A celestial scowl in orbit around a white-hot diamond about thirty parsecs from home.

    Or maybe more. Military information was always less than forthcoming about where we were going and what we were meant to be there for.

    Although, you could guarantee that the natives were always going to be hostile.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Tense and lovely. Scary and brave. This is a dope piece. Courageous writing, you pulled it off well.

      Delete
    2. Thanks, Dan. I keep trying to change my voices...

      Delete
    3. Yeah, I noticed. You're doing awesome man. More colors on the palette.

      Delete
  15. She sits at the window, drapes gently wiping away the tears - wind and soft gossamer caresses. She can remember what it looked like outside the window. Before everything started going red, then blacker and blacker. She knows the view is different now. The cars sound different. She knows everyone is staring at a small screen, but she can't picture it and doesn't want to. Outside HER window, there are still small boys running through the alleyways, chasing each other with sticks - no soccer mom's warning about gouged out eyes. The girls still play games they make from the modeling clay inside their minds. There are no video games. There is no internet. Sometimes, she is so glad she went blind when she did.

    There are times it drives her batty, of course. Her kids try, but, seriously, "feel the fall leaves, Mom!" Feeling a leaf in fall doesn't mean a damn thing if you can't see the carpet of flame that covers the street. If you can't watch the streaks of gentle red as they dive from the tree. She remembers, and that's enough.

    She does it for them, though. Makes a big thing out of it - how thoughtful to bring a leaf for me to feel! Sally's art project from school! They feel about the same - cold and dry. They never bring her something wonderful to smell. They never lay a soft blanket over her and let her FEEL loved. She has to see it. For them.

    Or at least pretend.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. The futile efforts of those who just don't take the time to truly understand. Super.

      Delete
  16. Remission. The word is like some kind of talisman - no one says it out loud, it is whispered - it drips from their tongues like they're afraid they'll spook it. Don't say it too loud or the sickness will come back. They could never call it what it was, always "the sickness" - it makes her angry, but she can't say anything.

    She wants to shout it in the face of everyone she sees. I have CANCER!, but I'm going to be alright and I fought like a motherfucker for this. You could at least say the words. She lost her hair, shat herself in public places, wore so many plastic faces... She owns it. She'll call it what she wants, but she'll also let them dance around it. They didn't go to war. They don't have the perspective.

    She says it over and over in her mind - remission, remission, remission - fuck yes. Only re- nothing. On to the next goddamn mission. Time to put boots on the ground, even if THEY can't stand the sound. You can't win a war you're too afraid to fight.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I wish my mother-in-law had had that attitude. She might have lived to see her grandchildren.

      Delete
  17. Family celebrations never turn out the way you think they will. Oh, the turkey might be as perfectly browned as Martha Stewart's, and the side dishes might be just like Grandma used to make (or didn't make, depending on Grandma's culinary skills).

    But Martha doesn't have your family. The complainers, the whiners, the ones who throw hissy fits. The family members who invite themselves four days before the holiday, ask to bring a guest three days before, and disinvite themselves the next day over some insult (imagined or otherwise). And then there are the guests who won't eat gluten, and the ones who won't eat meat, and the pets who annoy you for alllll the turkey.

    And then there's the unattractive aftermath: the leftovers that need to be dealt with, the turkey carcass that needs to be picked clean, the mounds of dishes that need to be washed and put away.

    Normal Rockwell never said it would be like this.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I love this. :) So true, and well presented. I invite Martha Stewart EVERY year..

      This is a great piece, Lynne.

      Delete
    2. Sounds like you've been spying on my family. :P "Norman Rockwell never said it would be like this." -- that's just gold. :)

      Delete
  18. Turns out you can’t have a breakdown in the middle of the closet organizer aisle at K-Mart. Okay, you can, but they don’t like it much. Bad for business, probably the reason they’d give, if you pressed them on it. But it just felt right, tucked away back there, between the craft glue selection and the wooden shoe trees, far away from the popular places like the tinsel and wrapping paper and ammo, except no. Someone had to squeal on you, probably someone jealous that she hadn’t thought of the spot first, and called the manager. At first you pretended you hadn’t heard, yet they kept calling you “ma’am” in a really loud voice that made you feel like you were ninety-eight years old and deaf as a post. You could not let that stand. Even though you couldn’t stop crying, and felt comforted hugged between an ironing board in a box and a rack of padded hangers, you would not allow your sensory faculties to be questioned. So you looked up. And everyone wants to know why. Like there’s a why. There’s an everything, you think, as they hand you a glass of tepid water that smells faintly of chlorine, as the female security guard gives you a smile that she’d probably prefer to use on someone else, someone she could understand. Someone shooting up the place, yeah, she could get that. Lost a job, not enough money for a proper Christmas and all the things the TV says you should have, she could get behind that, she’s trained for that. But a woman who can’t stop crying long enough to tell you how it started, even if you could parse it out for long enough to remember the moment when the first doubt began to creep in, that she couldn’t handle.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Wow, this is so good, lady. I can't even say how good it is. This line: "Turns out you can’t have a breakdown in the middle of the closet organizer aisle at K-Mart." is such a great opener. And it just rolls from there. Heartbreaking. Brilliant.

      Delete
    2. So real and so in touch with your gut and your emotions. I'm blown away by this!

      Delete
    3. I am weeping with that woman.... you took us right inside her head and her heart and her doubts. Poignant and beautiful.

      Delete
    4. Emotion is your calling card. You just do it so well.

      Delete
  19. Like divination, you follow the words, chasing the thread that winds through the dark, not daring to pull on it or hold it too tightly for fear it breaks. Knowing how delicate it is. Realising that just concentrating too hard on it could make it disappear like smoke in the breeze.

    But still we persist, riding the thrill as the words unfold. Each one perfect, linked to the last and leading infallibly on to the next.

    Like a chain of thoughts, seamless and idyllic. A telling of truths by the Muse.

    Making you her vessel.

    ReplyDelete
  20. She slowed for the usual turn at the usual time, right after the school crossing sign and the old maple that had been split by lightning five years ago, or was it ten? Hard to remember anymore, the things you do every day pile up into a week, a month, a year, a decade, eternity. But the steering wheel would not turn. All else worked - the radio set to the same station since she bought the car, the tires, the engine, the quirky airbag light that kept flashing on and off at six-second intervals. But the car would not go right. So she kept driving. The road dipped and rose and leveled off and she watched the gobs of snow drip from the trees and splat on the asphalt. The sky lightened from slate gray to pale dove to white and then, finally, spots of blue. Sun daggers pierced down, sparkling on the surface of the snow pack. So she kept driving. Then she realized she was humming along with the radio. Her heart no longer hammered so hard against her chest and she hadn’t breathed so easily in a long while, the tension that kept her pulled together was softening like butter. And she kept driving.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. When you just CAN'T go there. beautiful.

      Delete
    2. I don't know why I'm always surprised that you'll bust out something so rich and full - awesome. And I'm not surprised it's YOU of course. It's just amazing that anyone can do it every time.

      Delete
    3. Yup. What they said. *is a dittohead* :)

      Delete
    4. Ditto here, too... with an added appreciation for all the color you see in the world... really, you describe it so well. Thank you.

      Delete
  21. "I'm not sure it was a good idea to invite so many people for Thanksgiving."
    "Don't be silly. We're all friends. A little crowded won't hurt anyone."
    "I was thinking more of how we're going to cook for 25 people."
    "I've been watching the cooking network."
    "I'm feeling better already."
    "No, really, it'll be fine."
    "But we've just got the tiny little oven..."
    "The Iron Chef had a show on that! You don't have to cook the bird in the oven!"
    "Oh?"
    "Yeah, you can use a fryer! lots of peanut oil and you fry the bird!"
    "We don't have a fryer."
    "Silly, I know, but I had another idea. Inspired by the name of the show."
    "Which show?"
    "The Iron Chef, silly, the one we're talking about!"
    "Enlighten me..."
    "Well, I was cleaning out the closet the other day..."
    "Focus, honey, we're talking about cooking."
    "...and I came across our old steam iron... you never wear dress shirts any more..."
    When the captain had to write up the incident report, he couldn't stop laughing when he described the turkey. In the sink filled with peanut oil. And the steam iron in the sink, on high.
    The divorce lawyers are meeting tomorrow.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. This is like watching a tragedy unfold. ;) Slow mo car crash neck twinge.

      Delete
    2. Thanks... and James, I THOUGHT you looked familiar

      Delete
  22. People talking all kinds of talk now. This happened in the REAL world. What the fuck is that? Bad TV show? Certainly some fictitious happenspace for the philosophers to jerk off with? There is no real world. Never has been. Tired of talking about it. Look, a flashing box! Evasion has never been so easy.

    It's getting old and repetitive - same old song, this time I'll pick through the chorus, slow it down so it falls like ski-slope syrup. Take this broom stick studded with nails, rusty, crumbling, sharp enough. Keep poking it into the dark corners and something will fall out. Something worth looking at. Gotta be.

    Just keep with the stick; ignore the blood on the walls.

    ReplyDelete
  23. When he and Teddy stumbled into a random Starbucks that morning, the last thing he expects is to the see the angel he fell for the night before. True, it had only been a brief meeting--he hadn't even gotten her name--but he'd felt some spark, some unnameable _thing_ he'd never felt before. He'd be a fool not to follow up on it, find out what it meant. He'd be a fool to follow up on it, as well, but he'd rather regret doing it than not doing it.

    She was talking to her friend, the one she'd waded through the autograph line with the night before, and didn't see him. He took advantage of that fact to slip into line behind her, lean in, and speak very low near her ear.

    "Come here often?"

    She turned with a scowl already in place, but her face lit up when she saw him.

    "As a matter of fact, I do," she told him.

    He smiled back. "I didn't get your name last night."

    "I'm Hope," she said.

    "Hope," he repeated. It seemed appropriate.

    ReplyDelete
  24. She caught the clothesline and brought it down with her. Maybe she changed her mind when her feet reached out and found only empty air, too late. Now she lies still beside her winter-white dress, blue blouse, pale yellow shorts, all shapeless and damp in the gutter like wildflowers surprised by late summer storm. The circle inside her elbow is the color of an autumn sunset. Beside her head, swirling like leaves, a fan of red races away into the gutter, below the street, free.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Love your descriptions. "Like wildflowers surprised by a late summer storm" is just awesome.

      Delete
    2. Hate to be a ditto head, but yeah, I agree. I dig that line especially, but the rolling imagery is really nice overall.

      Delete
  25. This comment has been removed by the author.

    ReplyDelete
  26. This comment has been removed by the author.

    ReplyDelete
  27. He knows the whole Frost bit about the two paths diverging in the woods, but he understands, as he stands here staring down the trench, that sometimes the roads that converge are so near parallel they look like just one. That night, in the dark, when they came to the narrow sidewalk surrounded by shoulder-high hedges, wide enough for only one at a time, he let her go first. His eyes never left the slender blue sliver of moon against her neck. He thinks of how he didn't put a hand on her shoulder, didn't turn her to face him, didn't kiss her there in that narrow, secret place. He thinks of her walking out the other side, thinks of things undone and unsaid. She's walking still, somewhere, he knows. Somewhere.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Very nice. Intimate but not too close. That's a fine line - poetry in the a lot of the words and rhythm. "That night, in the dark, when they came to the narrow sidewalk surrounded by shoulder-high hedges, wide enough for only one at a time, he let her go first." I like this sentence a lot. Just lovely.

      Delete
  28. He's got that same old hat on, grease stains around the band like some kind of satin extravagance - he'd never stand for that. Hats are serious business. You see him and the memory is almost debilitating, the taste of copper in a dry, empty mouth.

    In an instant, flashbulb recollections of dark, rainy night clutches under streetlights, hot mouths pressed together in desperate longing. Those nights will always exist as a hideaway and a taunt - wicked, sharp-edged, terrible, wonderful and visceral and real.

    ReplyDelete
  29. The old wives warn you to be careful what you wish for, and watch what you name your children, for names have power. I really wished my parents would have listened to the old wives -- before my mother finally became on herself! it wasn't until then, after three children and becoming widowed that she finally wised up -- to late for us kids.

    My brothers and I were careful not to fall into the hands of fate for many years, but it snuck up on us anyway.

    My older brother's name meant 'prophet'. He dreamed of his own death, and no matter what we did, how we tried to prevent it, it came to him anyway. The old wives said his passing was untimely, that he was too young. they were right, I feel, but it happened anyway. After that, my younger brother and I stopped calling each other by our right names.

    My younger brother's name means 'beloved of children'. He desperately doesn't want any kids, nor to have them around him. When they come to him, though, he melts into jelly and plays with the little ones for hours.

    What about me? you might ask. My name means 'victory of the people'...

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Interesting. Something tells me I will be turning this over in my brain for awhile.

      Delete

Please leave comments. Good, bad or ugly. Especially ugly.