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...