Friday, March 28, 2014

2 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 two minutes. 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. 

Have a good weekend!

They sat awkwardly, french fries splayed out in front of them, glistening on the red, plastic tray. He tried to think of something to say. She tried to remember why they were there. They both felt the excitement of the "date" while secretly wishing they were playing stickball per usual.

All the kids were doing it. Going to get burgers, sodas, going to movies. Jack and Zinny had been friends their entire lives. It seemed natural when their other friends pressured them into the date. I mean, it made sense. Except that it didn't. They had talked for hundreds of hours. They were closer than a married couple. But, with the french fries between them - along with the expectations they didn't even understand - they felt a million miles away.

(for the record, I cheated a little and went back and edited - I am a terrible person) ;)

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Duck, duck, goose.

It got my dander up, so we're gonna have to talk it out. Address it. No, not like a letter - like, we're gonna actually talk about it (and use fancy words that make our insides chancy - GERD). I got this feeling in my gut like it's all twisted up. Like when I read Where The Red Fern Grows and now I can never not see entrails hanging out of a loyal dog's gut. Man, I loved that book. I cried like a bitch. So did my mom. Not like a bitch, though. Don't ever think that I would call my mom a bitch! Cause I wouldn't. And she's not a bitch. And I don't call people I like bitches ... unless they are named Little Ann and they're smart and loyal and shit, tail-waggy.

It's all a lie, I don't like dogs.

I don't dislike them either. I just prefer cats. Dogs are kind of like really clingy chicks with Dad issues. The bitches. The dogs, I mean.

We all love to laugh. Especially at the expense of others. Why is that? I mean, I get the appeal of laughter, but I am more inclined to cry at the expense of others. Why? Cause I just got ten emo points, and one more power up gets me fingernails that stay black forever.

I don't really hate people. There's a few people I really don't like. But it's not like I want to do anything crazy like cram all their facial orifices with cat litter until they die like fucking dog bitches. That's something someone like me would never even think about. I think about wildflowers and Jesus.

I don't even know what's going on. Frankly, I'm offended. You should probably be offended, too. Don't blame me though. Blame Nancy Reagan. That may not make sense to you, but, trust me, she deserves to shoulder a lot of the blame.

I met a girl once who knew a girl twice as pretty as she was. And she was beautiful. It wasn't even that the other girl was prettier. They were just different. Like apples and tow trucks. Both gorgeous. But the one girl thought she was ugly. I told her she wasn't. A few hundred times - then I stopped. Some people you just can't reach. So you get what we had here last week. Plagiaristastic.

Duck, duck, duck, goose! What a terrible game. Musical chairs. Even worse. What the fuck is wrong with us? Why do we want to make one kid feel singled out for the amusement of the others? It's not right. It's not cool. I gotta say criss-cross applesauce because "Indian Style" is somehow offensive even though it just describes a way of sitting. Which, I get it, we don't want anyone to feel singled out and you're not supposed to say Indian anymore, even if it makes you secretly gleeful because it makes Columbus look like a retard. No, we gotta single out little kids. We don't worry about how real, actual geese feel about their shit being appropriated. Do you know how much abuse is endured by a wooden chair during a rousing game of musical chairs? You inhuman sociopath.

I almost died today. I understand, it's hard to hear a super loud motorcycle horn when you're driving with earphones in. You tried to single me out. Goose me. But I was quicker. So, duck you ... bitch.

Friday, March 21, 2014

Little Johnny

Little Johnny didn't know shit about why you were always mad, always drunk. Sure, you had reasons, but a seven year old don't see reasoning the way we do. You hated your job. The car was always breaking down. The bills were always late. Periods tended to come late in the Jackson household, too. Johnny wasn't lonely, but he sure didn't understand you, and you never even noticed.

So, now Johnny's all grown up and no one talks about it. You don't drink any more and it's probably for the best although there is a drab, presbyterian, uniformity to the days - that's new. Back in the day, things were exciting at least. Someone was always yelling or crying. Excitement is not always a good thing. Yet, these new still-born days seem to drag on forever... 

You're always working that lip. Like your mouth is a blind mole looking for the vodka tit. Like you've decided, fuck it, if I can't drink vodka, I'll just keep doing this until there's enough blood to drink.

Someday, Johnny's son will wonder about the whole thing. The strange distance. The odd affirmations. The sentences that are shush(!)ed before they even get started. There's no going back, and everyone knows that - they also know they liked things the way they used to be and, for the life of them, they don't know why. 

2 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 two minutes. 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. 

Have a good weekend!

There is gauze blocking the sun. It shows through, but it seems embarrassed. Like it's not doing a good enough job. I want to hug the sun until the worries that leap out in unpredictable fire spouts are manageable. I want to be right there behind home plate. You can do it, sun! Just keep your eye on the ball. Something tells me that would creep the whole solar system out, though. Still, you gotta feel for the poor thing, up there, trying to coat the world in golden solstice, while the haze just won't let it be.

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.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Pretty Bird

I think I would rather hear one hundred ugly truths than one sweet lie. Then I think, that's total bullshit. Then I look in the mirror, wonder if I've met this guy. He looks a little dimwitted. But he reminds me of someone I used to know. Or it could be the mirror? It could be that time and bad choices add up (who would have thought?) It could be a lot of things, but I'm going with that one sweet lie. Must be the mirror.

The sun is shining, warm air wafts by me carrying the scent of honeysuckle.

I don't get it, and I guess that makes sense. Still, you'd think time would breed some kind of understanding. But it just gets more confusing. More twisted. I like to think I know the angles, but it's a polygon nightmare. Enter the Octagon.

So, there's always people telling me stuff. I'm not averse to most of it. But some of it ... Christ, it's like I don't have a brain. How do you reply to someone who talks to you like you're a moronic asshole? You don't. If you're like me. Then, somehow, five years later it bites you in the ass.

People like to point out commonalities. We all bleed red blood. We all have fears and insecurities. We all like the people who point out the commonalities. That's why they do it. Because, otherwise, what's the fucking point? The differences are what matters - they are truth. Would you walk into a car dealership, point to a row of cars and ask, "OK, I want to know what all these cars have in common?" Tires? Check? Engines? Check. Steering wheels? Fucking stupid.

I don't understand why so many people want to be like so many other people. This is why I can't follow most conversations. Because they're all about the common ground. What TV shows do you watch? Are you tired? Did you hear about Bertha? How 'bout that Miley Cyrus, eh? Tell me about the time you drank gasoline and almost died. I'm not nearly as interested in the time you watched The Bachelor and it made you sad.

Pretty words are like pretty birds, they are flighty and pompous - overdone. I don't mean that this diminishes them in any way. I like birds and words very much. They are not as concerned with paranoid conformity as we seem to be.

It's normal to be sad. I don't understand why so many people think it's not. Seems like the only rational response to living as far as I can tell. But maybe I'm the sad minority. I just find it hard to read about genocide while I drink my tea and then play golf on the weekends.

Mos Def was right. Fuck a bank, give me a twenty year water tank. We're drowning in stupidity as we spray potable water at leaves, and cars, and small children. Because we don't think.

What does all this mean? I don't know for sure. It's complicated, see? I gather up words and ideas and spin 'em fast and then I try to make sense of it all. But it doesn't make sense and all the pretty words don't mean shit, really. I mean, they count as much as a peacock's tail. They get the job done. Some people like it flashy. Me? I think the whole thing is a little overdone. Even when I'm the one doing it.

Friday, March 7, 2014

1 minute. Go!

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

Basically, you can write whatever you want in the comments section. You have one minute. Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. Play as many times as you like (doesn't have to be today, even). 

So, tell a friend. If you have one. If not, tell your enemies. Then send 'em here to read your 'one' and encourage them to play. 

One minute ain't a lot of time. Have fun! :)

Everything is cool and quiet underneath the water. The world above matters little, except if you're into breathing. I'm not. I think it's overrated. Like televised sports. Like expensive restaurants. You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to dive down deep, letting the water force me under until the pressure is too much and I am beer can crushed. Part of the water.

(Not feeling that one. Take 2.)

He wakes up with eye grit, rubs it in and then regrets it. He is a simple man, and he doesn't concern himself with such things. Preventing pain is low on the list of priorities. He stretches and dresses and brushes his teeth. He wonders why ... just why. Why everything? None of it makes sense. And none of it matters when the alarm yanks you out of that dream where you finally kissed Suzie at the Sadie Hawkin's dance. That dream may never come back. You may always wonder. 

The sledgehammer takes care of the alarm clock nicely. 

Thursday, March 6, 2014

The Hunted

Soft, curling tendrils of cirrus filled the sky, clumping in places, spreading out and then balling up like a shoddy tinsel job. Christmas was a vague memory, however, it did not register - it was static crackle and the smell of pine trees - a New Year for regrets looming. He rested his back against the old oak, wrestling with it until he found a semblance of comfort.

Pulling a bent cigarette out of his pocket, he gazed across the water. Small bits of tobacco fell like cloned snowflakes - little brown specks expertly shredded - he found a box of matches with three sticks left in the inside pocket of his coat. The first one broke, but the second flared wildly in the breeze, just long enough. It didn't matter. It was the last cigarette.

He'd been running out. Of everything. He ran out of excuses and that led to running out of family. He ran out of money. He'd run out of his apartment when he heard the sirens. Now, he was out of cigarettes and, with one match and some pocket change to his name, he was running out of time.

A hawk skated lazily on the updrafts. He smiled. Then his stomach reminded him. There was nothing lazy about it. The hawk was hunting. The updrafts were life or death. Suddenly, he winced, thinking of the field mouse that would dash out from cover at the wrong time - the hawk's arrival seemed a bad omen, now. He knew what it felt like to be hunted.

He was tired of running, wolf-snap at his heels. Were they still coming? He knew they would never stop coming. He had left too much behind and there was nothing ahead of him save the game - the game he was growing tired of. The game that shook him ragdoll limp, that left him tasting his fatigue - a soft ugliness that grew with each step, throttled by the thirst. It tasted like ash and melancholy. He could smell it on the breeze, too. The lines were blurring - it was no longer clear where he ended and the world began.

For God so loved the world... He heard it. The refrain of years, incense sticks and slight of hand tricks. What kind of father gives away their son? He knew the answer. He could relate. He wondered if his boy would ever understand and accepted that he wouldn't. He would grow up chewing through stories that, combined, formed a collage that seemed noble and despicable at the same time. He would love his father - the one he would never remember - because no one else did. Because that contrary streak was legacy - the only thing he could leave his son aside from disappointment. Heart constricting terror - an anxiety that would follow him for the rest of his days. It didn't matter. The boy was young, and it was better this way.

He cast the smoking butt into the water in front of him, heard his grandfather's voice, chastising - he watched its progress through the riffles and wished he could take it back. Nothing mattered, but, somehow, this did. It was the biggest betrayal of all. He closed his eyes and tried to look inside his head, skull aching, wondering who would tell his son not to sully beautiful things. To stick by the ugly things if they were important enough. There was a sharp pain in his chest and his breath caught - why would the boy listen to a man he had been raised to hate? Even if he could deliver the message somehow? Deb would raise the boy to be everything he wasn't. And that was mostly good. For the best. Mostly.

He stood up and tightened the laces on his heavy work boots. One last look at the sky, ochre insanity - he gasped at the absurdity of it. Lurid. The woods had become silent. His motion stilled the birds and mice - the hawk was still hunting. And then he heard a whining sound from far away. He stood, motionless, as the drone swelled into siren song he knew too well. 

He hitched up his pants, tightened his belt, and filled the pockets with handfuls of pebbles. He filled every pocket in his coat and then shoved the remaining handful of rock and grit into his mouth. He walked into the water slowly but deliberately. The sirens were getting louder, but they would not succeed in their hunt. They would find only tiny flecks of tobacco where the man had been sitting. Footsteps to the water. They'd know he couldn't walk across it. Case closed.

The hawk stooped and fell on its prey, tasting the good blood taste, tearing with its beak and talons. 

Safe for another day.