Friday, May 26, 2017

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 ran by me so fast I barely had time to flinch. Big guy, must have been closer to seven feet than six. He ran by and slapped me in the belly, and I took the handoff like I’d done a thousand times, only when I looked down I was holding a gun not a football and the guy who tackled me was wearing polyester and handcuffs not shoulder pads. 

I was up against the wall before I could blink. He was spitting mad. For real. All up in my face with his getting redder and redder. Shouting questions without waiting for the answers. Then, the cruiser. Then, the tiny room. And I’m trying to tell them I don’t know nothing about no gun. Some fool just slapped it to me and ran by. They kept me there all morning. 

Jones was waiting at the park when they finally let me go. He slapped me in the belly again. This time with a bag full of hundreds. I smiled so big I thought my head might bust. 

“You think they bought it?”


“Don’t they always? Now, where to next … I’ve always wanted to hit Miami up…”

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, May 19, 2017

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.



Failure

My eyes won’t open. Why won’t my eyes open? I keep telling ‘em. I say, "eyes, open the fuck up." Ain’t nothing getting done if you don’t. But it ain’t like I can’t open my eyes. Not like can’t can’t. You hold a gun to my head, and I’ll get those eyes open. But I won’t see. You can’t make me see, no matter how many ways you try to do it. 

My brain is on fire. I feel the heat. I don’t like any part of it. Like that red-cheeked shame you get when you smile at a girl and she whispers into her friend’s ear, laughing. 

I tried to climb the mountain, Sisyphus got me. The rock got me. I rolled it up, but I never got anywhere with it, so I sharpened this stick. See that point? Like a dagger. Now, you hold it still. I’ll pry my eyes open and you can jab ‘em right out.  We can cook them like marshmallows, watch them drip into the burning resonance of shame. 


#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, May 12, 2017

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 last few weeks I've been putting up flash exercises I've done with students. Hence, the prompts. But they were written in roughly three minutes and I didn't edit. Plus, rules schmules.)



Happy

The boy sat on the side of a small trickle of water. You wouldn’t call it a stream, but the boy did. And there were crayfish in there. There was the sound of water. In his imagination, the stream was broad and full of fat trout. In reality, it was a choked-off spring dying in the suburbs, trash floating like so much flotsam and jetsam.

The boy did not see the trash. The boy saw opportunity. 

He started on a Monday afternoon. He grabbed one of those big, black trash bags they have for gardening. Started filling it. It took the better part of a week, but when he was done, the stream was beautiful. The weeds just licked the surface of the water. He swore it even sounded better. And it smelled like moss, like water, like life.

The stream was ignored by everyone except the boy and the county workers who had to clear the drain where the stream passed under the road. The boy did not want anyone at his stream. And that is exactly the way he thought of it. 

He would stand for hours, or lie on the soft ground and think: I have this. And he would smile.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, May 5, 2017

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 play it any way you want, any key. It ain't changing the fact that the facts been locked down. What? You think folks is blind? You think we can't hear that caterwauling every night. Even simple folks know what those sounds mean. They mean meanness. And Sin. Every word you say is a snake in the grass, and we don't need it - take it, bleed with it. Cross your T's - we got plenty of eyes. 

See, folks around here are respectable. And that ain't got nothing to do with money. That's got to do with callouses on hands ands backs sore from honest work. Knees that hurt from kneeling while we pray. We don't even have the same vocabulary. Like whatever you call that fancy blonde lady what takes care of your little ones. Sounds like some kind of fancy yoghurt from the mall, but it just means lazy. 

You can't even take care of your own.

That's what I mean. It's like trying to make a possum fly. Won't work, and you can't be mad at the possum. It ain't in a possum's nature, and it ain't our business to go messing with His designs anyhow. So, you can wipe that cookie-stealing grin off your face. I'm not about to fight you. I'm not going to be a spying neighbor or make you leave town. I could. I sure could. 

The word Mayor means something here. 

But I ain't doing nothing to you except, well, I'm gonna help you. Ain't nobody so high falutin' they can't be saved.

All you gotta do is believe.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, April 28, 2017

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.

Plot

It’s like candyland. I don’t have any interest in winding my way through your narrative unless I get to stop and have some good conversations along the way. Go ahead and plot out everything you got. Put it on 3x5 cards and force it into flow charts. Let the plot drive, but plots aren’t alive. So, unless you’re lucky, be prepared for one hell of a boring ride. Or one hell of a crash.

Me, I’m letting the characters drive. Less work for me, and they always seem to find the places I wouldn’t have thought of. How can I write the characters’ story? That would be like them trying to write mine. They’re alive, damn it. They live in my mind and they don’t pay rent, so let them pick up some of the slack for all the time I’ve spent.

Now,  if you’ll excuse me, I have some people to invent.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, April 21, 2017

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.


Hunger

She looked into him with wolf eyes, but he didn’t see it that way. Maybe it was the noise from the jukebox. Maybe it was the bourbon he’d stripped his stomach with. All he saw were red lips and tight dress and possibility. I wasn’t in on it, but I knew the score. I knew he’d  leave with her, and I knew what would happen afterwards. His wallet would be a lot lighter. That might be it. If he was lucky.

I didn’t have a stake in the game, so I drank and let it dangle. I watched it flutter in front of me. And I wasn’t laughing, but I had one of those smiles. One of those hidden smiles because I knew and he didn’t. I could see the wolf inside the sheep’s cocktail dress.

I could see it all laid out before me like a straight flush. 



And it was a goddamn mess.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, April 14, 2017

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.

Beneath the angry sun, the old man sat. At his feet, there was an old dog the color of the sand. He nodded at the mutt and it nodded back. The dog was licking the man's feet. Trying to clean the blood from them. It wasn't working. 

The man had long ago run out of water and ambition. He had one piece of beef jerky he was saving, a loaded gun, and many, many regrets. 

He was thirsty, the dog was thirsty, but you can't drink gunpowder. He chuckled in spite of himself.

"Aren't we supposed to be put out to pasture, boy?"


The dog nodded.

"Not the middle of the goddamned desert..."

The dog whined and it turned into a low rumble. The dog was not scared, nor was the man. They were resigned to it. They were too tired to be angry anymore.

"Let's stop walking, boy."

The old man looked off into the distance. He had taken a half-assed shot at a jackrabbit earlier, but he had more than enough ammunition to end their pain. The dog thumped his tail. 

"You always did know what I was thinking, huh?"

The dog smiled and walked several paces away, looking off into the horizon. It was time for the old man to fix things. He knew the signs. The tight lips. The smell of resolve. The man would make it right.

The man pulled the gun from his pocket and looked at it. He sighed. If only it could be the other way around, but, then again, he wouldn't wish that on his dog. Or any dog for that matter. 

He aimed, closed his eyes. The dog did not move. He fired, but it took his several minutes to open his eyes and turn the barrel. 

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, April 7, 2017

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.


Tell me to keep marching, but I won’t. I got Phil Ochs in my pocket, and we’re through with the fucking marching. I’m sick to death of it. I don’t want to be a good soldier; that was never my aspiration. I aspired to a certain honest dignity and that meant no marching. Not unless fish-related and on my terms. I don’t march for anybody but me. On that, and many other things, Phil Ochs and I agree.

I’m not going to get my gun. Not that I have a gun, but I’m not even going for the metaphorical quick-draw. I told you. I’ll go fishing. You make the cole slaw. Not because I said so – that’s like telling someone to march. No, just make it because it will taste good with the fried bream, and we can both do our part.

I don’t want to see the tomb of the unknown soldier. I don’t want to go back to Gettysburg. I’ve been there. I just wanted to sit in the grass, but they kept telling me it was greener from the blood spilt. Which seemed like a lot of bullshit at the time. Still does. I won’t address it. Lincoln beat me to it and did it better than I ever could.

I just want to do what I should.

And that’s a bold statement for a wannabe misanthrope to make, but you get what you get and you take what you take. If golf is a good walk spoiled - like Twain said - then life is an interesting adventure tainted by the screaming of hypocrites and liars. I don’t want to be thrown into that patch of briars.

I just want to hug my girls, love my wife, write, and catch a fish every so often. There’s not a lot of time for anything else. So, I'll fight my battles. Stop trying to enlist me in yours.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, March 31, 2017

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.

I wish the world had a big-ass volume knob, old school, like the one on your grandpa's belching radio. The kind you can use to silence everything with one sweep of the hand. I'm getting tired of turning the world down one click at a time. I'm sick of having injustice shoved into my brain - it's too damn loud.

If I see another phony smile filled with thousands of dollars worth of dental work, I might just have to send someone back to the dentist. I won't stoop to the level of the lying masses, though. 

Free passes or no. It's just not worth it. 

There are only so many hours you can spend, neck-cricked, staring at ceiling tiles and wondering. It makes you the wrong kind of angry. Not a productive angry. An angry that ricochets inside you, leaving vast areas of hurt and damage. You can't let the anger out, though. Got to keep it bottled up like fireflies that burn your retinas. Mutant fireflies. They burn like napalm.

Big suckers.

I'll stand and let the wind wash me, but that only works for the outside. How do I blow away the anger? How do I stop reading about terrified people living terrifying lives and then go about my business living mine? How can you do that? Doesn't it chafe at you? Aren't you rubbed raw yet?

I imagine myself at the top of a mountain, ready to fly. To stoop like a falcon and let the wind buffet me. Let it shake me so hard that I can't even hold onto a thought. 

I know I got on the ride, but now I want a refund for the ticket I bought. 

Snake oil, endless toil, polluted soil. Well, well. Haven't we learned a goddamn thing? My four year old knows more than most of the adults I know. Be kind. Clean up your things. Don't lie. Never, ever lie. 

That's the one I can't understand. The smallest transgressions leave me guilt-ridden for days. Hell, I beat the shit out of myself on a regular basis for things so inconsequential that even I know I'm being crazy, losing my grip. 

What can I say, I was born into the middle of a cross-country guilt trip. 

But the lying. Is it that some folks don't have that inner cricket? Or is it more than that - a sticky wicket? Are we even playing by the same rules? Are we even in the same game? Does it matter? 

I think it does.

It takes a little man to attack with petty grievances. To lash out at those who have the audacity to try to tell the truth. The truth makes you uncomfortable? The truth makes everyone uncomfortable. That's part of the reason it's so important. 


Seems to me like there are too many folks happy being comfortable. And you can argue and try to dissuade. Shuck and grin while you plan how to use your vacation days. You can hold on and tell yourself that you'll be safe as long as you keep your head down. It won't work. We're all fucked. And I'm not burying my head in the sand. 

If it's going to happen I want to see it coming. Maybe then I'll understand.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, March 24, 2017

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 get as mad as you want - hell, your head can explode and I'm not going to be able to stop laughing, I know that, laughing like the goddamn devil handed me a plate of fancy cheeses.

It will start off with a chuffing, a goofy grin I can't control. While you intertwine your features, yearning to be droll. 

Then a chuckle played off as a cough. Gentle. Soft. 

But there's a point where, Jesus Christ, you'd have to have no fucking soul not to laugh at that. A man puts himself on a pedestal so high. And I don't claim any physical rigor, but I'm two minutes quick on the flash fiction trigger.

So, that's why I'm laughing. That's all I wanted to say. It's like the whole world's goldfinches, and you're a mangy old jay. 

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, March 17, 2017

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 couldn't stand the noise. The noise is what did it. And it wasn't even an awful noise - no scraping, screeching horror. Hell, he'd liked the noise at first, but it never stopped. It never fucking stopped. In white-trimmed sitting rooms with sheer window dressings and fancy couches, the noise ate at him, making him question his resolve, his sanity.

And he laughed and smiled with the rest, well-dressed. He presented a good public figure. He was loved by all, but, sometimes, in a twitch of moonlight, his mouth would twist - and you could see that it was winning. 


No one else heard it. That was the rub of it. He'd established that quickly and then clammed up so as not to sound crazy. He had to pretend that nothing was wrong. 

That he couldn't hear it.

And that is how we find him here, wrapped around a bottle of whiskey, naked, with both guns in reach - praying. He's damn near begging. 


"Something stop the noise."


#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Saturday, March 11, 2017

Mirrors

It's hard to see what you really look like. Sometimes, the mirror is forgiving; sometimes it's a magnifying glass for everything you hate about yourself. Sometimes, it makes you wish you could live forever. Sometimes it makes you wish that you were alone so you could drift off into an endless blackness, guilt free.

Those are the hard times. Because you know - you can smash the mirror and scatter the feeling. The shards will be so sharp your blood will reach the ceiling. And that's something. That reach. At least you leave a mark - until the landlord sends in the poor cleaning women with their buckets of bleach.

They won't get all the stains, but enough for another whitewash refrain. The new tenant will never hear the echoes of pain.

Then there're funhouse mirrors. They don't mean shit to anybody. They twist us up inside and out. Make us wonder what we're all about.

I'm gonna start carrying a hammer. Smash every fucking mirror I come across. Keep bitching, build myself a cross. Don't be cross. I'm in charge of me. And calling it your job don't make it right. Boss.

See?

Writing is a weird addiction. So much lost in the brittle friction. You open too many veins, and you never see the mirror straight again. That's the deal you make. Most times you lose. Occasionally, you win.

Is there a color blacker than black? I want the kind of black where I can't see my fist coming. I want to punch the walls until my fingers splinter. Sew my mouth shut so I can't talk anymore. You don't even know me, and you think I'm a bore?

Imagine how I feel.

Who's to know what's fake and what's real? Who's cares anyway?

Maybe this would all be easier if I could start over. Get super interested in college football or barbecuing.

You can watch football with crushed hands.

If you're reading this, you should hate it. I do. A grown man should have something better to do. Some kind of legacy. Something true. Something true that matters. Some garnish for the plate. I'd go back in time and get into real estate, but it's too damn late.

And the worst part? I'll tell my girls to do things that are meaningful to them. And they might end up in the exact same place I'm in, bitter and running out of time. But at least they could take their kids to Disneyland.

All the other kids go. And the adults I know? It's only a few thousand dollars...

Motherfucker, please. I feel guilty when I buy a burrito. Something tells me I wouldn't enjoy the Mickey they slip you at the princess show.

No mirrors for me. That's the lesson here. I want to be a hermit crab. I want to smell like seaweed and move from shell to shell so no one can recognize me.  Maybe go back in time and convince some corrupt "doctor" to lobotomize me.

I tried doing it myself, but it didn't take.

Let's take a moment, count the mistakes. Unable to provide for family? Check. Unable to grin when others do? Got that going on, too. And I never have been able to smile through the bile. Lord knows what that's cost me.

I've never understood why Van Gogh would cut off an ear. Seems insincere. I'd gouge my eyes out so I'd never see another mirror.

Don't sweat it. It's all a joke, and you don't get it. Neither do I. And that's fine.

Never trust a punch line.

Friday, March 10, 2017

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 hard to see underneath all that paint, but the house is cramped and broken. New, but crippled from it's infancy with a kind of fake cheer and chipped veneer. Like something is just off - you can stare at it and look into it and you see great expanses of black. You fear the house, but you are not afraid of it. You are sorry for the world. 

That God saw fit to make such a girl.

And you can clean the cobwebs from the corners. You can decorate and make it sparkle, but it's still a squat little house bulging at the seams. Moving, ever so slowly, to a place where only sociopaths dream. There is a path to the house. 

She would do anything to take it.

The neighbors won't even walk by. They don't talk about it. The other houses smile and grin and close their shutters. Try to avoid the collateral damage of the repugnancy which is bringing down the market value. 


The fucking market value

And still, forever more, until collapse, the house will sit on the top of a hill that doesn't deserve to be called a hill. The colors will be too garish. Birds will stunt and flutter at the proximity. Rain will swerve around it. 

Because she has the kind of blankness that makes you shudder. 

Board the shutters.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, March 3, 2017

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.

I awoke to the rumble of a country train, standing in the shadows of a subtle summer rain. It's a place I know well. A place I go to all the time - sometimes in reality, but mostly in my mind. But I can see it. Most of my internal wanderings lead me to dark, blurred, and confusing places, but there is only birdsong and tranquility under the watchful gaze of the train at the place where the stream runs through. 

I'll show it to you.

You need to go under the tracks to get to the hole, and you can fish under the tracks, but I've never caught anything there except backstory and proclamations. Small scratches and paint sprays that are still rural enough to be about love, written in a teenager's hand. 


I am convinced that, someday, I will catch a monster under that bridge, so I stay a while, longer if it's hot, but there is often a light rain. Why? I don't know. Perhaps the fish gods know that I don't visit the bend by the railroad bridge with any evil intent. I visit with barbless hooks, and I walk slowly. And I never allow myself more than four fish.

When you step out of the bridge's shadow, you see the bend. On the right, treefall and chaos. Swirling eddies and it looks just about impossible to fish. 


It's not.

You can sink a piece of corn, a fly, a worm - you can let the eddy dance it round, on the surface or deeper down. And you will catch trout. And you will always, always miss one fish. Or catch it and break your line off. No doubt at all - under the limbs that reach out like spectral fingers into the black water ... there are fish in there that can stop your heart. 


The water is as clear as my thoughts are muddied, half awake. The water under the tree is deep. Deeper than you want to find out the hard way, so stay back. The stream is about fifteen feet across and there is a canopy of trees. I like to fish the bend in winter most of all, when there is snow, and the trees match my mood. 

Past the tree, the water flows gently and careful casts will let you swing your bait around the corner, and you can catch trout all day. Sometimes rainbows - most of the time, this is where the brook trout go to play. And they seem to know that I won't hurt them. That I just want to say hello and then send them home. 

You can hear the train from a good ways off and, when it passes, the thunder is inside you, but it doesn't faze the fish. They are used to it. The fish at the bend by the railroad track know the rhythm as sure as they know that I'll always be coming back.

Dream or not, that stream is waiting. The trains are running and time is irrelevant. The fish are steady, and every pause is pregnant. It is a real place, I promise you. I can see it clear as the pure water I splash onto my face on warm days.

Now, it is time to go to work, the dream's already fading. But I know it will be there. Always. Waiting.


#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, February 24, 2017

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.

I figure it's time to take stock. I look in the mirror and things have certainly changed, but at least I can still make eye contact. I haven't broken that contract. And it's not even about that. It's not about me. Not from what I can see. I'm just a jumbled rubber band ball of subtle faults and guilt trips. Long ones.

I should have packed my luggage. 


You want to be a shit about it? I don't. I just want to look over this cliff and breathe and then get a good night's sleep. I don't want to stalk brief moments of authenticity, hard to find when everything is so sparkly. But that's something I don't have to worry about. 

Boo hoo, poor me. 

Poor you. Poor fucking you. What happened? Were you born broken? Did someone use words to chip away at you .. or was it fists? Or was it nothing? A whirlwind flurry of old couch stuffing.

I'm flying this plane right into the goddamn wall. You might as well brace your arms. It won't make any difference, but it might make you feel better, petulant. You're stagnant. I'm vibrant. We'll both fall.


Or it's a lie and I'm you and you're me, struggling for some putrid epiphany. I don't care at this point. All I know is you can go ahead and ignore the oxygen masks. 

They ain't gonna help.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, February 17, 2017

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.

Sorry, crew. I'm calling in sick. Y'all will have to #breaktheblog without me. Give me some good stuff to read. oxox, JD

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, February 10, 2017

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.

That music sounds like a bad acid trip I had one time, son - too much nitrous. I was lost in the labyrinth of helicopter chop, heart pounding like a jackhammer - I didn't want to dance, though. But I get it. Ecstasy is interesting shit. You want to be Day-Glo and dance to empty blender blasphemy accompanied by the sound of an engine seizing?

Get the hell off my lawn. 

You want to step out back and go a few rounds? Fuck no, I'm not taking off this bathrobe. I don't take this bathrobe off for anyone. I'll beat your ass, though. 

You were conceived while I was wearing this goddamned bathrobe. 

Can't you see you're just fighting a fight you're going to lose? You're going to become a caricature of yourself and tell the same stories over and over until people start to realize they get a little more unbelievable every time. 


Folks ain't dumb.


So, turn off that racket and listen to this here. This here's the Carters boy. You hear the guitar? Sounds like it was recorded in a whore's asshole. But it's the...it's...


Well, it's real. That's the thing. Ain't no computers doinking each other while some queer screams in the background.

Oh, hell. Let's listen to the goddamn humpback whales. Maybe I'll understand it this time. I just want to listen to something that isn't like a fucking buzzsaw. Something clean, for once. Before it's radio silence.


Hell, we're almost dead now. Turn the dial and breathe deep - I should have sealed the window gap tighter, but it's working. I feel great. We'll go to the morgue and the car to the chop shop. Maybe they'll prosecute the garage. Complicit in suicide. Stop squirming. Give the shit a chance.

Wait until you hear the drop.


#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, February 3, 2017

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.

There is no sadness in it - merely a sense of resignation. It wears on you like water; you can shake it off, but in the long run it will wear you down. Carve canyons through the softer parts of you. So, listen to the rain and try to just breathe. You will be sick, inside and out. You will suffer, and there will be no dignity in the suffering. You will be human, and sometimes you will not be able to rise to the occasion.

You crinkle your nose, repelled by the smell. You cross streets to avoid confrontation. You are in the fallout bunker of your mind, silently tallying canned goods. You can never be too prepared. You can never be fully ready. You have to accept these things. This is no time for giving yourself the benefit of the doubt.

Slogging through the rain, you will chuckle and shake your head. Try to tell stories to folks long dead. You can't help yourself - you grant yourself these superstitions. It's only fair. Things are complicated, and you need to find some kind of grip. 


You're slipping.

The darkness surrounds you, but you don't make a sound. You hang your head just a little bit lower. Your neck hurts just a little bit more. You move slower. You wonder where the real you went. All of this is a waste of time. The train is being driven by a blind conductor. Or maybe he can see? Just has blinders on? You'll have to ride it out to know for sure, so suck it up buttercup.

The poison is no worse than the cure.


#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...