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.
The lights are suddenly too bright and you think: shit. SHIT. Lightheaded, not enough oxygen slipping through the carnage that used to be your nose. The mouthguard feels like an inflatable raft, choking you. You listen to the rattle and crunch of each punch - you don't feel them anymore - you just want to breathe. The blood drips like an old faucet.
This was going to be your comeback. Big fight, big venue. Boxing Day - forget fucking Christmas!, the return of the Iron Left. The kid from Cali. The Brick Trick. So many nicknames and so many fights and this one won't stop and you think: just let me die.
Your eyes are bleary and you spin, looking at the saliva fangs of spectators cheering for blood. You wonder, briefly, at the strangeness of it. Wonder why they don't step in the ring if they're so bent on blood and sweat and pain.
Happy fucking Boxing Day! Stupid play on words anyway. Stupid idea from the start. You could be at home sharing homemade gifts that rival anything Christmas brought. But you're not. Hubris, they call it. Right?
That may not be the last thought before your face hits the canvass, but it's close.
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.