2 Minutes. Go!

ANNOUNCEMENT: MY BEST FRIEND IS GETTING MARRIED TODAY! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WRITE MORE THAN THIS PIECE OR COMMENT ON ANY PIECES. SORRY! I TRUST YOU WILL DO YOUR BEST TO #BREAKTHEBLOG :)

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.

Inside the bunker, there is stasis. The believers sit with legs crossed in soft linen; they are in a state of bliss - nothing matters now. They will live in the bunker for the next year. They are prepared. When they emerge, they know the world will be reborn - they will take their birthright. That's what the Leader said. In singsong voice, eyes kind and bright - the Leader has very white teeth.

They do not speak. There is nothing to say that hasn't been said before with more eloquence. The Leader does most of the talking anyway - he is, after all, the enlightened one. They are just grateful for the whole thing. For the bunker with it's rich, wet smell. Thankful for the provisions they collected. Not counting the leader, there are ten women and four men.

While they sit, the Leader breathes deeply - this is the culmination of years of planning, years of shaded lies and sanguine promises. The men will be easy to poison. The bunker is soundproof and the rest will live there as long as they can. Then, the women will die, too. The Leader will live on to preach again. He will leave when they are sleeping and lock the bunker from the outside.

He will live.

Thanks for stopping by! Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

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 garbage truck doesn't care about you, doesn't care if you're tired. The driver might, but he might not - he's probably tired, too. Sure, it's easy to look around you and see 'just miss' flashes of mystery; it can even make you question your sanity. It will all wash out in time, that you need to believe - not because it's true, but because life is too hard not to believe it.

Today is a day for smiling into the moment, filling every space you see with cheer; whether it's real or not, you owe it to the world. Not every day, but today. Because one day is something you can wrap your mind around. Like basic arithmetic. It doesn't have to be hard unless you make it hard. And that's a lie, too, but today is a day for letting the world smile and lie to you. You ask me? The world throws back pretty powerful reflections. 

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out MOST of today (working, no computer) 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

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 parted the curtains - just a crack - they were still coming. He clutched at his chest, wringing handfuls of shirt - no reason, every reason. They were coming. He'd been waiting, and there was a bit of relief in his terror. The waiting had almost killed him. Now, at the very least, he might get some answers. Now, he would not be waiting, but would actually be living. He noticed that the room smelled sour. Why did he care? He wasn't hosting a dinner party. His skin ached, a million pinpricks all over his back. He wanted to look again, but didn't dare. Then, the knock at the door. Softly aggressive. The knock of a hit man, the Feds, the cops. It was a knock tinged with warning. With trepidation, he walked toward the door. He knew what he would find. The men in the suits. He had evaded them long enough to realize that they would never stop coming, never let up, never give him peace. Not until he bought their goddamn magazine. 

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out a lot of today 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

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 recognize you?"

"I reckon."

The men folded themselves in silence, sealed themselves off. They smoked cigarettes that lingered, proffering ash like broken twigs. Grandma ash. That's what they'd called it. Back when they'd laughed about things.

"Well. Shit."

"Yup. Shit is about right."

There was a bottle of bourbon between them and the level dropped steadily, barometric. Their eyes stung and they squinted, but they did not move. They were lumps of plasma glued to old wooden stools and their backs ached, but they had long ago become accustomed to the ache.

"But I like the fucking guy!"

"You like him? Fucking hell. He coached Leroy's t-ball. Hell, I've BBQ'd with the motherfucker."

Inside the room, there were no clocks. No windows to admit the twinge of morning. They were in a void, and they did not want to leave. There are good and bad parts of any job. They were postponing one of the bad parts, but it was no longer possible. They had to act. If not, the boss would call and it would be them leaving kids with no Dad to throw the ball around with.

"We'll kind of take his boy under our wing, maybe? Not get him into the life - I mean, we should look out for him. Like Uncles or some shit. This is so fucked. You sure he saw you?"

"What, I'm retarded?"

Both men shook their heads slowly. They stood stiffly, checked the cold, black guns that would seal a man's fate. He would give his life because they'd make a mistake. That was the worst part. It dug at them like a deer tick. Their mouths were dry. The room smelled like a rodeo.

"We might as well fucking do it. You think he knows we're coming?"

"Yup. But he won't run. He'll be waiting. Maybe we'll tell him about how we're gonna look after the boy. God, but I wish I hadn't lifted that mask."

"Mistakes happen."

"I reckon you're right. I just don't like when I'm the one making them. Not like we got a choice. He's a good man, but that don't matter a damn. We've killed lots of good men. This one knows our names? He knows how we like our burgers? So what?"

The walk to the car was slow, as was the drive. The bullets were much faster, but they would never stop hearing the man's last words - that would be a low, grinding torture - one they deserved:

"I never would have suspected. Guess I'm a fool. But you stay the fuck away from my boy. You ain't doing anyone any favors, and I ain't taking the sting out of this for you. You want to do me a favor? You forget he exists. He don't need you. Nobody needs you. You're trash. Bastards."

Sure, the bullet was fast. As they drove away, they couldn't help thinking about bullets, though. Fast as they were, they were still too slow.

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out a lot of today 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