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.
She's going to ask you if the kids liked your new hair cut. You'll shrug, feel cold dread in your spine. An awkward silence will swallow the room; you will watch the walls spin, and you will feel them come closer and you will blink heat. Smile. Sure. And then the questions will start and you'll answer: nothing, nothing, nothing.
Because what do you say? It was like every new school. The nice kids pretended like you didn't exist. The mean kids were fucking mean. And there was one kid (there is always one kid) who latched onto you. A social anchor, but you both appreciated the kindness and felt bad about the whole scene. So, he's your friend now.
And you've been marked.
And no one mentioned a goddamn thing about the haircut because they just fucking met you. And, even if they didn't, they're not coming close enough. Not gonna happen. This isn't Florida and no one says y'all, and you sniff a tear and think about tall pine trees. You wonder. How many years of this? How many more before you lose your shit? It's like trying to hold down a dragon, the anger. It's not even anger, it's just energy - with no outlet. It calcifies inside you.
But you'll get up tomorrow and put on your best poker face so no one notices shit. Haircuts, accents, that new-kid smell. You can blend in. You do it well. So, get pissed, spray WD-40 all over the garage wall and grab a match.
You gotta burn to to blend in hell.
ATTENTION, I WILL EDITING THE THIRD MATT STARK NOVEL ALL DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ TONIGHT! Get 'em! :)
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