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 it smell good? Don't you think it's swell? Look, right there, you look deep enough and you'll disappear in there. Board or not. Puff. Smoke. Take only footprints, leave only air. Keep yelling loud enough and they'll hear you. Like a thousand cowbells. Man, I don't like the way the wind smells. 

It's changing. 

We're all stumbling around looking for somewhere soft to land. That's not so terrible. Hell, that seems civilized, almost. Bearable. Wide open eyes. Don't fucking look at me. Just don't look away. See that stain on the drywall? Looks like Jesus. Or a pigeon. 

One of the two.

I can't brush my teeth enough times to get the taste out. Get your plastic bins, it's time to get the waste out. Get your favorite pants. It's time to let the waist out. Get fed. Get up. Get fed up. Dance. 

Get wasted and kicked out.

Your ears don't work right. I know it. You know it. They're like chipmunk ears. Can't hear the frequency. Is that real? True? Can I bask in that legitimacy? I don't know much about chipmunks. I hear they're mean fighters. Don't ask me.

I'm a fiction writer.

This is what the tired brain says. These are the xylophone keys I'm banging. Your moms is crying because you left her hanging. Said you'd come back, but you never did. Just like you, you ungrateful fucking kid. War on drugs? Relax, Nancy. It'll all be fine.

Ask Syd.

Fuck trees and sunshine and rainbows and ice cream. I don't mean have sexual relations with them. What the hell is wrong with you? Your brain didn't settle right. The seams aren't tight. 

If you put your hands on me, you better do it slow and easy. I startle. And I don't like being surprised. I like to see truth when I look into your eyes. Not bitterness. Not cheap bourbon lies. Father's day ties. 

Five dollars will get you a ticket to ride. 

You breathe in. You breathe out. That's what this whole thing is about. Eat, shit, breathe, live, die, find out what happens. We need to send a reporter out into the field. A good one. With glasses and a pad.

Find out what the fuck is real.

I'm done now. And this doesn't make a lick of sense. Or does it? Sweet recompense. I waited where you told me to wait. I was there on time for your trumped up date. But you were late. And then you were late again, and we had us some children. 

They were born into sin. Drinking lead. Sheltered by tin.

Anyway, that's what I've got for you. Cryptic bullshit and cheap rhymes. Subtle distraction leads to frantic crimes. Your screams won't help you; they just give away your location. Me? I'm on a reality vacation. You too? Bully. Have a nice trip.

See you next fall.

#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...

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 in the spirit of the thing; it's an all out sprint. You need to keep your feet moving, keep your feet under you, keep your wits about you, keep fucking moving - you stand still, they get you. And you don't want to know what they have planned.

Trust me, man.

You think middle school was hard, you think those spitballs sucked? Wait until you get the federal wedgie. But don't think about it. Drink about it. That's the American way. 

Just don't stop; that's all I'm saying. Don't stumble either. Don't give them an inch. Take deep breaths even though the smell of burnt hair is sickening. Ignore the pounding in your chest. Pretend you can't hear it like anvil crashes. Just pretend everything is going to be OK and keep going.

Everything is painted a different color now, and it's going to take some getting used to. Pull yourself up and get moving or the train will leave without you.

#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...

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'm sick, but y'all have at it. #breaktheblog

#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...

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 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...