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 alarm clock pulled him out of bed reluctantly. There was the aftertaste of a dream, some simple scheme - he could feel the remnants of a smile lingering in the corners of his mouth. He wondered at it briefly before it poofed away into the cool, gray dawn.
He pulled on a sweater and parted the blinds and greeted the day. The birds were not up yet, but he would wait.
The envelope was on the table where he left it, his name in large, bold print. He looked at it sideways, felt a numbness in his chest. He smiled and thought of death.
He knew what the letter would say, or at least the gist of it. All the lies, and all the things he'd missed, twisted. Reminisced. The corners of the envelope were Drill Sergeant neat, the paper pure white. He wondered if it had been delivered by hand one still, damp night. The postage stamp a ruse; had she been here?
He laughed out loud at this, but he wasn't sure why. He made coffee and sat in his old chair and tried to stop his brain from moving. He counted his breaths until he felt calm enough to approach it. You can't rip open a letter like that, so he slit it neatly with a pocket knife.
Inside there were fall leaves, pressed and preserved. And there were pages and pages. And he cried as he read.
Because that's what you do when you get a letter from the dead.
#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...