Friday, December 29, 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.

Don’t tell me to shut up. First things first. I’ve got so many soapboxes, you could build a skyscraper. Granted, it would be a shitty soapbox skyscraper, but you gotta suspend some disbelief here. Or don’t. I don’t care. I’m not the boss of you. But you’re not the boss of me, either.

Erase your brain. We need to do a complete wipe and re-install. I don’t want you coming into this with preconceived notions. If I tell you there’s an old man smoking a cheroot, you need to look that shit up so you know what I’m talking about. Personally? I have no fucking clue what a cheroot is. I always figured it was some kind of nasty cigar. You gotta make your own assumptions, though.

But you can use your gut. It won’t work as well as your brain. But really, that’s not as much my fault as it is our fault. This is a team effort. And there’s no eyes in team. Don’t go trying to be cute.

I’m just waiting to put one over on you.

So, let’s be clear. You don’t like to read. Not really. And I don’t care. Not really. I’ve decided to stop pushing the boulder up the hill. Fuck plot. Fuck coherency. I’m going to tell you right now that I have a top-hat and a mind filled with holes. Just like a country stop sign. But I put those holes there with chemicals. Not a shotgun. Cause I’m a Commie liberal.

Suck it.

I’m tired of lazy readers. Go for a fucking jog or something. Take this with you. Make sure you don’t run straight into a sign-post though. That girl in the red coat? The one with the eyes made of magic? She’ll laugh at you. Worse, she’ll do that thing where she covers her mouth and shakes a little and you can tell she’s trying not to laugh. It will be fucking brutal.

Keep your wits about you.


We need to establish some kind of trust here. So, here’s the deal. I’m going to tell you some things that very few people know… 

#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, December 22, 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.




She sat on the end of the bench like she was afraid taking up too much of it would mark her selfish. Wrapped in scarves and too many coats, she laid a thigh on the lip of that bench and tried to make herself invisible. And it worked. For the most part. Not for me.

I have a knack for seeing things that other people can’t see.

The first time I sat down beside her, she flinched, but I didn’t say anything. I set a cup of coffee beside her and drank my own while watching the kids playing in grey snow. I did look back when I left, and she had her hands wrapped around the cup. I think she was even smiling.

This routine went on for months. Pretty soon, she started drinking the coffee with me, but we still looked straight ahead.

Not a word passed between us.

The morning I found the bench empty, something broke inside me. Who would have thought you could grieve so much for a statue? Which is what she was. Or what I tried to convince myself she was. The alternative was too painful.

It was Spring when I saw someone in her spot. There was something familiar about her. For a second, I thought maybe …

But this woman was young. Well dressed. I sat down with my coffee.

She smiled at me, but I could tell she had been crying. I didn’t ask. Maybe with my eyes.

“My mom used to come here. I’d come as soon as I got off work, but she was here all day, watching. She used to tell me about the kids and the joggers and the funny things she saw.”

My heart skipped.

“You mean? Wait …”

She looked at me harder then. There was warmth in her eyes.

“Don’t tell me. You were the coffee fairy? She used to talk about you.”

“I … yes, I guess I was.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. We never passed a word.”

She stood up and held out a slender hand. She laughed.

“Come with me,” she said. “There are some things I need to tell you. And she would have wanted me to buy you a cup of coffee. Or a few. She always told me you were handsome.”

I didn’t know what to say. We’ve been married ten years now, and I still don’t know what to say. But we sit on that bench all the time and watch the kids play. Other peoples' kids.

And our own. 

#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, December 15, 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 was the man, and I woke up. The man who had been me was hiding. I was the third person in a room full of first and second people. There was a pounding in my temples. He was scared. I was scared. You were scared. I was the man, and the man was scared.

You don’t want to know about it. And I don’t want to tell me. I don’t want to hear about it – all the things I try to sell me. She wasn’t the catalyst; she was one more glimpse of nothingness and mist. She was me, and I was her. Always screaming. So demure.

We all brought us here. We brought me, and I brought you. The whole gang came, and then we were two. And you don’t want to step when I roll with my crew. We’re four steps behind and one step ahead. And we don’t have time for you. Just the thoughts in our heads. 

I don’t have time for me, and he never did either. He being me. 

“You’re still alive,” they said. I smiled, fevered. I never thought I was dead. I never thought about it at all. You tried to live without it, and where did that get we? You and me.

I can’t be alive, and I can’t be dead. I won't stop listening to the voices in my head. 

They’re entertaining.

#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, December 8, 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.



People don’t like to visit. The pelts give off an odor. The buckets full of glass eyes weird folks out. I get it, but a man has to make a living. I never wanted to work in an office. I don’t like manual labor. I never imagined I’d be the guy you bring your dead weasel to, but that’s the way it worked out.

So many heads. Deer, Elk, Moose. You name it, I’ve mounted its head on reclaimed wood. I don’t like it, but it’s peaceful work. Quiet. Until someone comes in with their pet. It happens more than you’d think.

Sometimes you do what you gotta do because money is important. But most times I draw the line. I try to be nice about it. Sometimes I want to scream. But I don’t.

But I can’t imagine it. I’ve had dogs I loved more than I love my mother, but I don’t want them staring at me, glassy-eyed, from the corner of the living room. Why would anyone want that? It makes my blood run cold. And it makes me wonder when it’s going to happen. The thing I fear the most.


“Sir, we’d like you to preserve my mother’s remains…”

#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, December 1, 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.



They were just an ordinary couple. And I’m not trying to be dismissive. I know no one is ordinary. What I mean is that they didn’t stand out. Not in a bad way. They looked like they were meant to be there. Like the paintings on the walls and the soft opera through the speakers and the tart, strong smell of coffee. They made me wish I was more ordinary. Because they looked happy. Maybe not even happy – they looked content. It made me jealous. I feel happy sometimes, but I never feel content.

They were leaning in towards each other, eyes calm and peaceful. I was tapping a spoon against the edge of the table and wondering why I quit smoking. Then remembering. Then, I decided to order a drink. But I can’t do that anymore either. I’m not ordinary enough for that shit. Makes me extraordinary. And it takes a toll. 

So, I sat and watched the human furniture and tried to balance my judgement with my longing. The snow fell outside, and I wondered how long it would be before it got old and dirty – sullied. I wondered if it would fall all night. Cover the city and give us a brief respite – a break from these holiday meanderings.

The couple in the corner were talking about what they’d scored on Black Friday. I chuckled. It’s all black, I thought. Every day. All day. There is no light.

Light is for ordinary people. The lucky bastards.

#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...