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 house was always quiet, but there was something about this particular quiet - unnatural, like the silence that follows a crash of thunder. It was a potent silence. You dropped your backpack by the front door and called out. Mom? Mom!
Cold pop in hand, you ascended the stairs to your room. The door was wide open. You never left the door open. The cold from the can slammed through your whole body and, sure enough, she was sitting on the bed. You took the whole picture in. Mom, pissed and crying, glass of red wine shaking. The bag of weed and the wooden pipe. That means she'd found the box.
"I can't believe this. Cigarettes and marijuana. Your Grandmother died from lung cancer. You can't pass a goddamn class at school, but you can get drugs..."
"Mom, hold on -"
"Hold on nothing! Drugs! You brought drugs into our house. Why? Tell me. Are you mad at me?"
A million thoughts in your skittering brain, none will be your salvation.
"It calms me down, Mom. Sometimes, I can't sleep. I know ... I understand why you're mad, but you've never done it. It just makes me feel like things aren't spinning crazy, its -"
"I've never smoked crack either, Gerald! Should I try that?"
Surely there is something you could say, but then you realize it doesn't matter. You could talk for days and it would be like talking to a wall. Maybe worse. Talking to a plant. At least you can't be mad at a wall for being alive, yet ... empty.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I know. No drugs. I hear you. It won't happen again."
The change is so fast and so dramatic is hurts. Too fake. Too practiced. It makes you look at the bag and wonder what she's going to do with it. Your chest aches with a tight frustration.
"Good boy. You're a good boy. Now, don't forget to take your Adderall. You have a history project to finish, and the Johnsons are coming over. I don't think I need to tell you what that means. He works in Admissions, Gerald. Admissions! Do I need to explain how important it is that you're at your best?"
Shadows flicker and you wonder at it, turn it in your mind and smile because there's nothing else to do. Smile and take your pills. Smile and shake hands. If you can't sleep, that's more time for homework anyway.
"No, Mom. I think I get it."
Grind your teeth and try to smile.
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.