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.
"Son, you ain't showing no kindness dawdling. You gotta pull the trigger."
Nightmare flashes, serge-scratch madness. Everything is dark. Open your eyes. Just tell him. He'll understand.
"I ... can't do it, Dad. I'm sorry. It's -"
"Son, I never have hit you, and I never will, but if you don't pull that trigger, I'll never look at you the same way again. You eat bacon like you're starving. You know where it comes from. You're old enough now. You can help with the killing. And you'll help with the rest - I'll teach you that knives aren't made for goddamn mumblety-peg. Next time we won't even waste a bullet. I'm doing you a kindness"
Sweat darts down between your shoulder blades. Looking into big, deep eyes and everyone knows. Everyone can smell the blood soaked into the dirt. Years of it. Everyone knows what the hook is for, hanging from the high beam. Even the fucking pig. Those big eyes: Christ, kid. Don't drag this out.
"Dad, I really don't-"
"You won't eat. I'm goddamn sick of it. You won't eat meat in my house again until you stop this bullshit and act like a man. This is how we live. I ain't killing your meat for you anymore. You're old enough to help."
Look at the set eyes. Fair eyes, but cold. Always been that way. Always will be. Your arm heavy, pistol pendulum. Shot that gun a million times. Hell, it can tear a tree in half. Calling it a pistol is silly. Red face. Tired of feeling like the girl no one wants to dance with. Sister's upstairs reading and ain't no one ever gonna dance with her. This is important. This moment will change the trajectory of everything.
The gun is shaking, but you grit your teeth and hold it with both hands and start to squeeze. Gently. Slowly. There is love in this. There is so much. The whole damn world collapses and all the wars and all the kindness, all the mercy, all the mincemeat pies and mockingbird cries - everything in the world gets sucked in by the force of the explosion. The world implodes. Life explodes from the back of the beast's head. Thick, red slime. That's what life is. Really. You look up at the smiling face. Strong jaw, stubble. Sad eyes, even smiling.
"I'm proud of you, son. Let's go inside. It's a hot one, and I reckon Mother's made some iced tea. We can do the ugly part after the bleeding."
Slow turn. Broad back. Love there, but suddenly there's your cyclone brain. All the chatter. When's it gonna rain? Jesus died for you. Suzy doesn't love you, she loves Randy because he's old enough to drive. The kids at school are going to find out. He's going to find out. It's getting harder to hide. Whatever it is. This ... softness.
Impulsive. Always impulsive. They'll say it for the rest of their lives. Try to make sense of it. It was just that goddamned pig. Something snapped. Let them think that. It will be simpler.
The old man will spend the rest of his life wondering if he even heard the second shot. He'll remember the sound of his own scream, but it will be a hollow roar. He'll never sleep right again. And he'll pay a neighbor to kill his meat. And everyone will understand. Finally.
That's called legacy.
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.