Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Too-Thin Skin & Shambles

The man was not as old as he felt; he felt ancient. He felt like a shrunken head. He felt like the back room of a natural history museum - dusted with time and apathy, largely ignored. He could smell himself slowly dying. That tooth-decay smell, plus the smell of old wool - it was a smell he knew well.

He knew he wasn't really dying, and it was a disappointment. Suicide by happenstance was all that was left for him. He could not leave by his own hand. He would not. He would not sully whatever goodness he had been able to create. Hell, his landlady would miss him, and that was enough. He couldn't live with the guilt. He knew he would never be able to die with it.

The man sat staring at a screen and thinking. Behind him, there were missed opportunities and procrastinations. There were brief bursts of laughter. Genuine laughter, the kind that reminds you of the ridiculous sounds human bodies can create.

There was no reason. His fingers hovered over buttons, and his brain stumbled across memories, bright and dun - he was tired. His chest was tight and his shoulders hurt and his eyes burned with a slow, simmering anger. He felt like a child, but it was undeniable - he wanted just a little bit of fairness.

The lip of the bottle clink-clinked on the rim of his coffee mug. He was out of glasses - had broken them all. Glasses are fine for normal people. His shaking fingers would not abide them.

He was too tired to look out the window. If he had looked out the window, he would have seen grey skies and wind-rustling bushes. He would have seen yards full of abandoned, neon-plastic toys. He would have seen his neighbor increasing the size of his newest car incrementally, one layer of wax at a time. Parked beside the double-wide.

He stood quickly and his head swam. He remained still for a moment, tried to enjoy the feeling, tried to remember when life had been made of smiles and dizzy dalliances. How long can you hold your breath? Push on my chest! 

Sweet blackness.

Sleep, when it came, was a respite. He did not dream. He closed his eyes to blackness and opened them to sodden light and a feeling of responsibility he did not want. So many things to do - he knew none of them mattered. Keep churning out bits of your soul and hope the devil will snatch them up, gather them. But it doesn't always work like that.

He hated.

It was wrong to hate. He had spent most of his life fighting small-minded hatreds, but now they overwhelmed him. He hated the kids who played in the alley, too loud, though he had once been just like them. He hated his neighbors for their laughter. He hated himself because he knew that every house in town harbored some kind of disaster, some creeping nightmare. He knew it. He was simply too tired to care.

The vodka was warm and tasted like blood. It hurt his teeth and burned his throat and he nodded slowly, embracing the pain. He let it slide off him, pulling sheets of too-thin skin.

He wondered how bad it would hurt. A stomach packed with medicine-cabinet poison. He cramped just thinking about it. He thought about heroin and it made his skin itch. It had been terrible. It was the only vow he had ever made. But how much worse was it than this? This constant fear and pain. This overwhelming sense of failure. At least heroin provided temporary escape.

He ran his hands through thick blond hair and lit a cigarette. He pulled the smoke deep inside him until he was sure he could exhale without choking.

*****

Down the street, Mrs. Jones put on her old-fashioned hat. It made her look like an advertisement for olive-green washing machines. She was smiling, and her stop-sign red lipstick was almost right. It was close enough. She smoothed the wrinkles from her black dress and called a taxi cab.

The ride was over before she knew it - not because it was quick, but because her brain was taking her back years and years. She saw a smooth-faced young man in a suit, clearly trying too hard. She had been cruel to him then, but he had won her over. His enthusiasm. His refusal to quit trying. 

They were married on the anniversary of their first kiss. He remembered the date, she did not. He was good about things like that. She was not. At least not while he was alive. Now, she never forgot their anniversary. 

She stood in the wet grass and tried to ignore the taxi cab glowing in the waning fog. She wondered if she should say something. She always wondered this, and she always thought it was stupid, sentimental. Something that would ruin a movie she had enjoyed. Still, she did it. He would have liked it. 

"Jeremy. It's me. Happy Anniversary."

*****

The man was drunk now. It was a casual drunk, though. Routine. More like becoming sober than drinking these days. He tried not to think about anything. He stared at a mildew stain on the wall. He hoped the black mold would kill him. He felt tears lurking and took another drink to chase them away. Sometimes, that worked.

He tried to stretch his jaw. It ached. His teeth ached. It was not the worst pain, however. The worst pain was remembering that he wasn't always the type of man who catalogued life's slights. He wasn't always the kind of man who bitched and whined. Hell, he didn't even have anyone to bitch and whine at. What good is a man who bitches at himself?

He wondered. 


*****

The driver of the cab was also tired. He watched the old woman and pondered. Who would visit his grave? Did it matter? And her. Who was it helping? The corpse? The woman? He took a long pull off his coffee and looked at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Back home ... there could have been love and dedication and everything he thought he wanted. Here, this taxi.

The doors locked and unlocked, but they never let him go. 

He was stuck in a web of indecision. He heard a knock on the glass and saw the old woman, her hat sitting queerly on her hair. There was something else, too. He tried not to think about it. She wasn't crying. She didn't appear sad. 

He was almost to her house when he realized what had changed. 

She was no longer wearing lipstick. 

*****

The man typed some words on the page. They made no sense. Which probably meant they were brilliant. He chuckled and drew a picture of a penis in the condensation growing on his window. To write or not to write. He knew it didn't matter - he did not know if this was a relief or another step toward desperation. He turned off his conscious mind and let the words bloom as they chose. He would never publish them. Never share them. He could type nothing but vowels and it wouldn't matter. 

*****

The City was God and God was the City and the City laughed at all of this. It was not there to judge. It was there to marvel at its marionettes. Pull the string toward hope and love. Pull the string until it is taut, fraught with worry. Drop the strings and watch the little puppets fall.

The City loved them all. 

This is a story about dreams interrupted. This is a story about birthday cakes and wakes. This is a story about gentle mornings and erstwhile earthquakes. You can look for some hidden meaning. Some insight into what it is to be human. You can search for clues and foil the bad guys or hunt treasure in a wooden ship. You can cheat on your wife and then hold her tight. You can even beat your kids if you do it right.

There are no good answers, that's what the man says. Everything decays.

Don't look for anything in this story. If anything, this story means that nothing means anything. This is a story of running away. This is a story that catalogues the creeping pains and regrets that haunt us all.

This is an abortion dressed up as a baby doll.

You can think it's all lies, and you can think it's all true. That's none of our business - us, we, these people. This broken cast and the players not represented. Steady to the last.

It's a fucking lie, not a word of it true. This is not a story about me or you.

Nighttime precedes mourning's due.

Friday, December 18, 2015

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. 

When the old lady woke up, the only thing she thought was: "I'm cold." She should not have thought that. She should have wondered why she was in a small apartment. She should have wondered about the mildew growing like storm clouds. She should have wondered about the strange smells and the dust and the fact that she wasn't worried about anything. You'd think when you spend your whole life with worry, that fickle companion will stick with you in your golden years. 

The old lady's daughter picked up the phone. Put it down. Picked it up. Put it down. It was an old rotary phone, part pretension, part melancholy remembrance - ivory colored and heavy. The younger old lady was thinking: "It's disrespectful. It's not my place." But not really. In a small blip of her brain that she would not acknowledge, she was thinking: "What the fuck good is it going to do?"

The people who lived in the apartments abutting both ladies didn't give two shits. They had their own things to worry about. They had their own lives to wonder on. They had their own shames to ignore - they were being people, too. They were, some of them, worried about silly things like Christmas, weather, and terrorism. A weird collection to be sure, but weird because they cannot be stopped. None of them, whether we want them gone or not.

You are reading this, and your brain trips over some of the words, but some of them get in, sly. And that's cool. Maybe one of them will burrow into you. Live its life in some part of you. Start deconstructing you from the inside. Leave you wondering how mildew works. 


You never know.

ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ WHEN I GET HOME! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

Friday, December 11, 2015

2 Minutes. Go!

First things first. I have been without internet the last two weeks. HUGE thanks to Laurie Boris for hosting in my absence! You're aces, lady. And I'm glad everyone kept playing. I missed playing, but I'm back! So...

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. 

He says good morning like he's chewing rocks, and I smile - I know what 'good morning' means. It means 'I'd like to smash your teeth in with this wrench, but I got rent to pay..." and sometimes, just it's just 'fuck you.' It's never good though - it's like when the cold water from the shower surprises you. It's a shock every time, even though it shouldn't be. 

But I smile and nod and simper and say something sort of like 'good morning' which actually means 'what the hell, man?' I realize life shit in your backyard, but that didn't have nothing to do with me. I'm just trying to get through the day. I got rent to pay.

But, mostly, I ignore it. It's like the smell you can never place, but have to live with. It's like the folks who honk their horn .3 seconds after the light turns green. It's like cancer. It's like banana bruises. You live with that shit, because, well, no one ever offered you a choice. 

There might not even be one.

ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ WHEN I GET HOME! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

Thursday, December 3, 2015

2 Minutes. Go!

Jesus. It took me twenty minutes to do this and not break my phone with a hammer.

Party is at Laurie Boris' place. I have no internet. Bah!

Friday, November 20, 2015

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. 

You can make as much noise as you want, fly your banners high - up where birds and pollutants have quaint cocktails in the sky. You can be a bright orange sunburst, a snippet of melody - you can be a summer evening, dotted with firefly glow. You can be one continuous scream.

Trees drop their leaves, and that makes sense. They don't have drawers or hangers - they don't know how to fold. You? They've been teaching you how to fold your whole life. Maybe you just aren't doing it right.

Every so often you get a chance to sit back, relax, kick your shoes off - do you? Feel the pebbles beneath your feet? It's not a hard thing to do, but it is a choice. Sometimes, you open the right door and sometimes you open the wrong door. Sometimes, it's unintentional. Sometimes, you open the wrong door on purpose. 


Now shut up, get in the tiny car. This ain't that kind of circus.

ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ WHEN I GET HOME! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

Friday, November 13, 2015

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. 

The cold slips in through the cracks in the window; it drips from the ceiling and the drops send shivers through your body. This is not natural, you think, looking at thin skin on old hands - feeling bad for yourself. Were you always this thin-skinned? No, there was a time when the cold was a friend. The cold brought clouds of morning breath and ... what's the word Mother always used ... vitality. 

You are not vital. It's a cruel thing to think about yourself, but it slips in like the wind and you can't stop it. Might as well try and stop gravity. Might as well try and stop people from living in little bubbles, clutching small devices that transport them somewhere, but do not keep their hands warm.

You have no use for the mirror now. There is no one you know who lives in there - the mirror shows you a halloween prank, and it is past Halloween. You know it. Just like you know why it's hard to stay warm lately. Every dog has his day. Mother always said that, too.

And your dog died about a week later.


ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ WHEN I GET HOME! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

Friday, November 6, 2015

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. 

He rested, head on fist on elbow, in a slice of moonlight - a bright ray through the damp Autumn night. His hands were filthy, nails torn. Around him, there were holes. He had used his hands to make those holes and, still, he had found nothing. He knew it was there, though, and he would not stop.

His black suit was covered in dirt and clay, but he didn't care. His brother was in the ground now, but he would not think about it. He pounced on another patch of bleak scrub grass and dug in with his nails. He was this close to using his teeth. He needed to keep digging.

It was morning, and there were holes everywhere, when he finally found it. The coffee can was just as he remembered and, inside, he found his brother. Just like he knew he would.


ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ WHEN I GET HOME! Get 'em! :)

Friday, October 30, 2015

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. 

Cast yourself into redundancy and see what you catch. Could be just about anything - you never know until you try. That's how fishing works. Well, actually, there's more to it than that. But the frogs don't care to explain it, and I won't either.

You may think to yourself, shit, if I stare at this navel any longer it's gonna have to be dry-docked. That's reflection, see? Not the kind you find in bathroom mirrors. The important kind.

You take two sticks and rub them together. You don't stop until the smoke starts, hell bent for leather. And, then, you can sit back and watch the whole world collapse. It doesn't matter anymore, see? You aren't as important as you'd like to be. 


ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ WHEN I GET HOME! Get 'em! :)

Friday, October 23, 2015

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. 

You start with the memory of a feeling - a hot shame that reaches so deeply you can feel it tearing at your muscle fibers. Why can't you remember the good feelings? You can sometimes, but they're not important. The pain. The pain teaches. Blame human evolution.

So, you can put yourself right back there. Any time you want - any time the masochistic urge strikes or you've run out of new wrongs to right. And, it could be argued, that every story in the world still lives in that time-worn auditorium.

It wasn't anything you did. That's the part that never stops being unfair - the part that is like a thorn in your eyeball. Things had been going well. In an instant, everything was different, and the permanence of the change was almost tangible. You clenched your teeth and, in some part of your mind, you thought, "someday this will all be a memory."


ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ WHEN I GET HOME! Get 'em! :)

Friday, October 16, 2015

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. 

You can't stop once you've started. Momentum. It's like Sisyphus lost his grip and now he's chasing that boulder, screaming wildcat curses. Gotta get the boulder back. And all the while, he's trailing this fear-sweat smell that never leaves. Gotta get up that hill, brother. Maybe someone got it on video. Maybe you'll go viral. 

You never know about these things. Some kids are born with the taste of silver in their mouths. Some kids get stuck with a plastic Spork. But the important thing to remember, the real ace in this pile, is that it doesn't matter where the boulder is. That's what no one seems to get. It's not about the boulder.

Time is a weird pacemaker. Inconsistent. Fickle. There are boulders all around us. Some are small and some are huge, but Sisyphus don't never change. He's clomping his way left and right now, but it's still part of the grind. And, though he may not realize it, he might be nothing without that struggle.

ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ WHEN I GET HOME! Get 'em! :)

Friday, October 9, 2015

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. 

Don't let them catch ya slipping, boy. They're slick like oil, and they got teeth so white it scares the moon. You'll start looking at them teeth, and then you'll think how ugly your teeth must be. While you're gumming your assessment, they'll go in for the kill. They'll think you won't see it coming because of the soft music, the incense blossoms.

You gotta keep your guard up is what I'm saying. They'll slip it right in through your ear and then you'll never be free. You'll be on the old radio all the time. And they don't say normal shit. You don't want to know the things they say to me.

Are you even paying attention? I'll slap you if I have to. I don't want to. Hate to slap a dead man, but the blood's got me skeeved, and the ear whistle's blowing. Blow, blow, blow the man down. Now, get up and fight. There's plenty of blood in a full grown man.


ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ TOMORROW! Get 'em!

#2minutesgo

Friday, October 2, 2015

2 minutes. Go!

Hey #2minutesgo crew! And anyone else who wants to have some quick and dirty literary fun. Laurie E. Boris is hosting the hootenanny this week. :) Calling all #writers.

#flashfiction #amwriting

http://laurieboris.com/2015/10/02/two-minutes-go-road-trip/ <-- CLICK HERE The usual: 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. 

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

I guess ...

I guess I just didn't put enough thought into it. Thing is, I thought a lot. Thinking is my prison - one with walls that touch the top of the universe. But that wasn't enough. If it was, I wouldn't be wading through quicksand with one hand shaking, trying to get a finger up, but I've got nerve damage. Hand doesn't work right.

Small-toothed men told me. They said you gotta think, so I fucking did. I thought about God and got that sorted. I thought about why I was bad and that was a record that skipped more than a million stones. A million pounds of guilt, sweet legacy.

Maybe I didn't think the right things. Maybe the smell of lavender should have been enough of a warning. Foreshadowing can be a tricky thing. The taste of a nine-volt battery on your tongue. Hell, I tried to figure it out a million times. Tastes like nickels that bite.

So, I thought a lot, but I thought about life and people and nature. I didn't think about how to get the most bang for my buck passing, and that's tragic. That's a skill I should have cultivated. Smiling - should have practiced that, too.

Now, I'm a lonely show - playbills litter the street, picked at by vagrants and lost wanderers. I got some thinking to do. I guess ...

Friday, September 25, 2015

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. 

The window sill supported her elbow, propped up her head - the sill was covered in mildew and old cigarette butts, but she didn't notice. If she had noticed, she wouldn't have cared. This was much more important than mildew or cigarette butts. He had not come. Or he was late, but he was never late.

She pulled a long, white cigarette from her pack and kissed it - lit the end and pulled the smoke down into her small lungs. She was dying. That's important to know. She was wasting away - hadn't been outside the apartment in weeks. She watched pigeons stamp and squabble. She watched children play and posture. And she watched the man who delivered her mail, not because he was especially attractive, he wasn't - he had a smile that never left his face. It was a smile that could tear the roof off the world. It was the highlight of her day.

A woman in blue shorts and a polo shirt that vaguely resembled USPS regulation huffed around the corner, and the woman felt a clutch of terror in her heart. She dropped her cigarette and ground it out on the carpet with the toe of a filthy slipper.

The man did not come the next day, and she did not eat. He did not come for two weeks. When he did return, he was tan and smiling a "brighter than regulation" smile.

But no one watched him.

Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Friday, September 18, 2015

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. 

He put it in the center of the table next to a small, white vase - underneath the shadow cast by an obscene lily. He put it down, gently, and closed his eyes - rubbed at them with the heels of his palms. He ground his hands into his eyes until red exploded into firework extravagance behind heavy lids. In some childish part of his brain, he was hoping it would be gone when he opened his eyes again.

Did he need to open his eyes again? Did he want to? Did he have to? These questions went splat against the inside of his skull, sliding into a pool of apathy which he had been cultivating for years. If he opened his eyes, he realized - there or not - it would mean action. It would mean decisions. He could hear the grandfather clock ticking, keeping time like an executioner. 

He counted slowly to ten and then, holding his breath, hands shaking, he slowly opened his eyes, and tears darkened the red tablecloth.

Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Friday, September 11, 2015

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. 

But it's not this, and it's not that. Son, you just said a shit ton of words, and they don't amount to nothing. A mountain of fecal fury - no one's too impressed. You use words like grit-teeth lies. Abrasive, they leave marks and there's this grinding every time - sounds like an old man sleeping.

You can explain it any way, but away. It's never going to leave - it's your long lost cousin Jed. It's gonna sleep on your couch now. The smell will never leave, feet and fetid misery. You'll come to love the smell. And that's another lie, but it's easier than trying to be genuine.

Save your words - I've heard enough. Bacon grease and chicken fluff. They may go down soft and easy, but that shit ain't life-sustaining. 


Not the kind of life I want, at least.

Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Friday, September 4, 2015

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. 

Delron had a genuine electric guitar. He always called it Jen-You-Wine. We were always jealous. It was a pawn shop princess. It never stayed in tune, and it was ugly, but it was an electric guitar, and you could play that shit loud. We beat on old acoustics and tried to do them proud.

No one ever really knew where the fake Strat came from. Just the same way we never knew how come Delron suddenly had the newest shoes. The coolest bike. We all lived in the same hood. We all knew each others' business - with that one exception. Where the hell was the magic Santa that visited Delron's randomly during the year? And then we found out.

See, Joey woke up one night, late, because he heard a car door slam. And be damned if it wasn't our Principal, Mr. Spencer. It was dark, but no one had a car like him. If thrift stores sold cars, they'd sell cars like Spencer's.


Delron's Daddy came back from the war a week later, and it was like he never left - once the yelling stopped. And the next morning, there was a pile of treasure at the curb with a sign that said 'free'. We didn't question it - while the other kids wrestled with the bike and playstation, I grabbed that guitar like it was a life raft. And it turned out to be just that.


ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ TOMORROW! Get 'em!

#2minutesgo

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Shit Disturber (not the CIA)

It's not here, it's in the ether. I'm not queer, and he's not either. I'm no pawn, but I ain't no Caesar. I'm Peter the fucking Pumpkin Eater.

I don't know what that means, it's for you to figure out. Probably something about my mom. Or God... Or Trout...

And that huffing is bluffing, all little pig stuffing. See, nitrous ... don't ... count! And well, yeah, a few mistakes here and there. I'm only human. Humans err...

This is the state of the way things are. I'll take you for a ride, but we won't go far. I'll take you out for dinner, but we'll skip the bar. We'll sing instead, to fog-soaked stars.

It's not a question of rhyme or reason. You can't kill me 'cause I'm not in season. And I do pride myself on some lightweight treason; I'll fight anything 'everyone' agrees on.

I am, in some ways, the court reporter. Only they got an alphabet much shorter. So, you should have listened, 'cause I know you heard her; she told you: I'm the fucking shit disturber.



*(That, of course, would be assuming that I am me and not an 'auto-blogger' set up by the CIA to see who comes to a blog to learn about sad childhoods, profanity, fishing, love, and subversion. And the gays. But don't worry, the CIA would never tell you they were up in this shit because that would be stupid... Or would it?)

Friday, August 28, 2015

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. 

You'd think there wouldn't be much for me to do in the museum, being blind and all. Folks don't understand. See, if your eyes work, the museum is a feast of color and texture and all the other stuff y'all go on about. For me, the museum is a symphony. I hear old folks with their walkers rolling along. I hear groups of school kids running, shouting. I hear people laughing and babies crying. And then there are brief moments when everything is still. The sound of that stillness is like a tidal wave building. The tension is so thick, it chokes me up.

Sometimes people sing. You'd be amazed the way some people can sing. For instance, Hazel, who cleans up sometimes. She always says 'hi' to me, then she goes about her business, humming, singing little scraps of song. Just doodling. And it's beautiful. By God, it's so pretty sometimes I can't breathe.

I ain't saying I don't appreciate the sentiment, because I do. But while you're feeling sorry for me, I'm feeling sorry for you.


Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Friday, August 21, 2015

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. 

It's chasing you, and you can't run fast enough. It darts and squirts through window cracks and under the lips of liquor store bonnets. It is in the dark corners, lurking. Did you bring your invisibility cloak? Well, good. Except that shit won't work. Not this time.

You think you hear something, but you can't be sure. You think you feel something, and you wish it was her. You lean your head against a rough, cold wall and you try to sink, push your feet into the mud, which glitters with empty candy wrappers and broken glass.

You sing a song you've sung too many times before. The lyrics don't matter anymore.

If they ever did.


Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Thursday, August 20, 2015

Fishing Lies

The day was young, but he didn't know what that meant. It was something the old man said, but he said it with a black-toothed smile that couldn't be questioned. It was almost like a prayer, a celebration, sometimes tinged with wonder - rarely flavored by regret.

The boy had slept soundly, and his head was thick with sleep. His clothes were on the floor beside the bed, and he shivered as he forced his body into the cold, damp cloth. It was the only thing he hated about the cabin. Always cold. Never dry.

The heat of the kitchen was a welcome oasis. The smell of bacon and eggs awakened something in him. Even the smell of the coffee, which he did not drink, was some kind of wonder. Promise. Something.

"You sleep alright, son?"

"Yes, sir."

"No dreams?"

The boy always dreamed, but he knew what the old man meant.

"Nope. It's getting better, I think."

The old man nodded and shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth, small pieces dangling from the grey thatch of beard. He sprinkled some more hot sauce over his plate, and the boy's eyes watered. Their eyes met.

"You alright, boy?"

"I'm okay. The hot sauce..."

The old man nodded. They both pretended that they believed. There was an acceptance of half-truths between them. They cultivated these lies and wrapped themselves in the warmth, or semblance of warmth, they provided. Things were too cold, in general - they did not question their need. It was the same reason the boy did not object to being called boy, even though he was closer to a man than a boy. Besides, he did not feel like a man.

"Might rain light today, but I figure we'll get out there. Good fishing on days like today. You up for it?"

"Sure, sure I'm up for it."

They both smiled. Real smiles - the kind that felt natural on their faces, not the frosting smiles they wore most of the time. Nothing would stop them from fishing. It was something they both knew, an inside joke that had no punchline. They did not often hug. They did not talk about love, the love they'd both lost or the love they felt for each other - they did not let themselves open that door, it led to a darkness they could not revisit.

*****

He stood with the water pushing against his waders. He liked the feeling - it was a kind of encouragement. The old man was downstream, but every so often their eyes met and they both wondered the same thing - how could it be that they always looked at the same time, or were there times when anxious eyes reached out toward intent expression, concentration? There was a panic there. A panic they did not acknowledge. 

The rain started mid-morning, but it was a gentle rain - they were cold, but not cold enough to be uncomfortable. They were cold enough to know that dinner would taste better than a can of beans and some bacon has a right to taste.

The day marched toward evening. They caught fall fish and chubs. The old man pulled a small bass from the water and smiled, holding it up for a moment so the boy could see. As afternoon stretched, they began to disappear. Their breathing became shallow and silent. They could hear woodpeckers in the distance. They smelled the wet, life-smell of the land. They became fishermen, fingers gentle on the line, senses tuned into something that lived both inside and out. The old man had a name for it. The fish place. It was a place of safety, and it was something they shared - something they had always shared - a kind of meditation, though they would never use the word.

The sun was dropping behind the hills when the man walked to the bank and started back. They had covered a mile or so of water. It was time to go back. It was a good time, closure. 

Determined to fish until the old man was standing next to him, the boy cast toward a riffle that had eluded him for almost half an hour. Not anymore. 

It was a magic cast; he punched the fly through a crack in the leaves that overhung the water. The fly danced in the froth before swirling and coming to rest at the edge of a deep hole. The old man was beside him now. He did not look, and the old man was about to speak when a trout sucked in the fly. The boy raised the rod tip with a quick, firm jerk. The rod doubled over and the boy raised it over his head, eyes wide. They both watched the line swing from one side of the pool to the other.

They did not speak because there was nothing to say. The boy pulled in line when he could and it collected around him. The fight lasted several minutes before they saw the fish, a flash of silver in the water. It was a big one. They had both caught bigger, but they had sure caught a lot that were smaller. Their eyes met and they smiled. 

When the trout was finning gently beside his boot, the boy laughed out loud. 

"Well, I'll be damned."

"You got that right. Big, but hell, pretty ... I don't know as I've ever seen a trout that pretty. Like a little kid went wild with the finger paints."

The boy nodded and reached into the water, numb fingers finding the barbless hook - it slipped out like magic. The old man slapped him on the back, too hard, but it wasn't malicious. And there was no jealousy. This was communion. They stood and looked at the riffles that led to the big hole and, though they did not put it into words, they both thought the same thing: you never know where things will end up. How things will play out. 

They both jumped when they heard the sharp, city voice behind them.

"I got a look, that was a nice fish. Fish like that makes good eating."

The words sounded unnatural, as if spoken by someone learning a new language. They looked at the man, sized him up. His waders were new and his outfit matched perfectly. It was like he stepped out of the Orvis catalogues that came monthly, even though they never bought anything. They chuckled at the catalogue some evenings. They did not judge the man, but they did not appreciate his presence. The boy tensed, and his arms began to shake. The old man put a gentle arm around his shoulder and forced on a frosting smile. 

"We don't kill fish anymore. A man makes his own decisions, and I'm not preaching, but the fish is back where it belongs and we ain't starving."

The cardboard man chuckled. 

"You get tired of the taste?"

The old man tried to speak. Cleared his throat. Tried again. Coughed into his handkerchief, which had come out to stop the tears which only the boy recognized. 

"Taste's got nothing to do with it. Trout taste fine."

The man stood for a moment before waving a puzzled wave and moving on. The boy's breath was shaky, and silent tears glistened on his cheeks.

"That was a hell of a fish, son. A hell of a day. Forget about him. He'll break his rod and be back in New York by the end of the week."

"I know ..."

"You can't blame him - he didn't know."

The boy looked into the canopy of the forest and wondered if there was more beyond the sky, the clouds - he hoped there was, but he had his doubts. But it would suffice. The water, the old man - the fish, beautiful and proud. He had that, and that was enough.

The old man was thinking something along the same line - lying to himself. But it was alright because they both knew.

There are lots of reasons that fishermen lie. 

Friday, August 14, 2015

2 Minutes. Go!

#2minutesgo will be hosted this week by Laurie E. Boris: HERE
I am away for the day, so #breaktheblog over at Boris' place, huh?

Have fun, and see y'all next week. :)

Friday, August 7, 2015

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.

You, with the shy smile - yeah, you - I don't buy it, just so you know. Shy smiles are bullshit. Don't mean nothing. You could have a gun under your shirt. You could be one of those people who thinks that the mothership is coming. You could be an investment banker. Makes my blood run cold. So, save it. Hell, it could be the shadow of a stroke.

It works on a lot of people, I know. And you may think I'm an ass - I might be one - but I know a snake in the grass when I see one. 


I'm not suggesting you stop. That's not my place. I'm just hipping you to the time you're wasting. Because all I'm gonna do is keep checking that my wallet is still in my pocket and my back's to the wall. I got a knife that opens like a jail-cell door.

Ain't no shy smiles getting the jump on me, real or not.


Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo