Friday, November 30, 2018

2 Minutes. Go!

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 was waiting in my office when I got there, and I don't leave the door unlocked. Never. Tricks of the trade and all that. I wasn’t worried about it; the lock could be picked by a third-grader with a bobby pin. In fact, I was impressed. It didn’t hurt that she looked like Marilyn with black hair and the kind of body that altered gravitational fields. She was magnetically charged. So was I. I started wondering whether we would attract or repel. Her red dress revealed much.

“Ma’am?”

“Mr. Saunders. I’m sorry I had to … let myself in. I can’t be seen here. Anywhere really. That’s why I’m here.”

“Somebody’s looking for you?”

“Yeah. Cops.”

“Ma’am, I’m gonna stop you right there. I don’t mess with the blues, and they leave me alone. I don’t…”

“It’s a frame up.”

That’s usually a guarantee of guilt right there, but her eyelashes were practically tickling my chin, so I bit.

“Who framed you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are they saying you did?”

“Murder.”

“And you didn’t.”

“Of course not.”

She smiled. Didn’t look a bit offended. That set off all the red, blinking lights and whistles, but I was still enjoying the way she smelled – like cigarettes, butterscotch, and perfume people like me can’t afford. She was dressed to the nines, too. Her fur could have covered the rent on my office for half a year.

I reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch.

“Drink?”

“Please.”

So, I made the fucking drinks. I even lit her a cigarette. Ain’t I a goddamn prince?

“Do you believe me?”

“That doesn’t really matter.”

“I’ll pay whatever you ask.”

She said it in a way that meant maybe more than greenbacks, and I wasn’t sure if I was happy, angry, or tired. I yawned. Adjusted my pants.

“Would you tell me if you did do it?”

“No.”

“Smart.”

“I try.”

I put my worn boots on the table and lit a cigarette. I took a deep drag and let the smoke envelope my face. Even through the smoke, she looked like a goddess. You gotta worry about all of them, but especially the pretty ones. The prettier dames are, the worse off you are. Cinch.

“So, what do you want me to do? Start poking around?”

She smiled bayonets.

“No, Mr. Saunders; I want you to kill my husband.”

A sip of scotch got caught sideways in my throat. I coughed for a good thirty seconds, but she didn’t move a muscle.

“Listen, lady. You are very, very pretty. You also seem crazy and misinformed. I’m not a hired killer. I’m a detective.”

“Everybody has a price.”

“Not me.”

She passed me an envelope,  and I took it. I expected it to be fat with cash. No such luck. Maybe just an offensively large check, then? But no. It was a polaroid picture. A picture. Of me. A picture of me that would put me back in prison for the rest of my life. I thought I’d destroyed all the evidence. The picture was like a punch to the solar plexus. My hands were shaking as I filled my glass and watered the table with cheap liquor.

“Where did you get that?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I guess not.”

She pulled out another envelope. This one was as thick as a Presbyterian’s skull. I looked inside. Enough money to buy my way out of the game. I extended my palms. She stood up and walked slowly around the desk, making sure I was watching every little hip twitch.

“Can I ask why you want your husband dead?”

“Sure, doll. I’m tired of him, but divorce is so unseemly.”

I was about to tell her to take a leap, but then I looked at the picture. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, but it looked plenty bad, and I had no convenient explanation. She sat down on my lap and looked into my eyes. She ran one manicured finger along my jaw. The jaw I hadn’t shaved for weeks.

“So, what do you think?”

“I think it’s time to make a terrible decision. Or a few.”

I took her on the desk. She was calling the shots, though. I was just too scared to do anything about it. And, well, she wasn’t ugly – it wasn’t a chore is what I’m saying. And there was a good chance I wouldn’t be seeing any women for a long, long time. No matter how it played out. Only thing I knew was that I was not calling any shots. On the desk or anywhere else.

When we finished and got decent, I grabbed my hat and overcoat and slipped a flask of scotch into my pocket. She freshened her lipstick and wrapped silk around her head. Big sunglasses. No point putting it off. I dragged a hand down my face and tried to look ready. It didn’t work.

#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...#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, November 23, 2018

2 Minutes. Go!

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.



Her hands are always shaking. Broken skin and dry patches that rasp against wool sweaters - she is stuck in a slow atrophy. She has no interest in your contrived truths. She is interested in what the mail man leaves for her neighbors, but she only takes a peak. Shakes a package. Maybe.

Her eyes are always searching. Escape - she sits with her back to the wall and smiles a drywall smile. Her eyes are desperate, starving. Her soul is evaporating. She is a puff of garlic smoke on a gypsy's shawl. She is Humpty Dumpty. 

She is the wall.

Her dreams are violent, thrashing tableaus. She is drowning in the black sickness of the moment. She will crack the ampule because her teeth are vibrating - she is in a shaded bivouac where sleep pulls at the corner of her mind. She will always exist here. 

She is the fear.

Her voice is like Karo syrup, too sweet - it is a wheedling, needing voice. Her voice is an assault and an apology. She smells of camphor. She is slow moving, sloth-like. She is soft on the outside and crunchy in the center.

She will haunt you as long as you let her. You will never forget her.

She is the road less traveled by.

Let her be for now. She is resting. She will always be resting, but you will let her be. Your options are few and far between. She is joy and misery. 

She is free.



#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...#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, November 16, 2018

2 Minutes. Go!

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 waves pull the sand off the beach, and you watch the gold flecks sparkle in the sunlight. The fish aren’t biting, but it doesn’t matter because all you hear is the murmuring of water, and all you feel is the sun on your shoulders.

The sun on your shoulders is comforting. Like a little league coach after you strike out. The sun says, “It’s OK. Everything is going to be OK.” Listen to the sun; the sun knows things.

The seagulls wheel and pitch in the air currents that buffet the cliffs. Far up in the sky, they are beautiful. Their cries sound like childhood.

You will stand on this beach forever. At least in your mind. The beach is the place you will go to when you shut your eyes to sleep. When you need that comforting hand.

#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...#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, November 9, 2018

2 Minutes. Go!


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.
Can we just take a second to reflect? See, I’m having trouble talking because the only thing you can do is object. Like that stubborn ass lawyer in the Manson trial. He about drove the judge nuts. Don’t say anything, I haven’t finished the book yet.

We all have an instrument. A voice. I speak for myself, but at least I speak.

Sometimes, with an accent.

So, we seem to be in a bit of a pickle. If I hate you and you hate me and neither one of us is gonna blink? Well. I promise I won’t blink first. Even if my eyes dry out and I go blind. Because I’ve never been the type to just accept bullshit because it’s easy. Fuck that. I always hated the machine, but they slipped up and made me more aware of it than ever.

And I’m pissed.

I’m not pipe bomb pissed. That’s craziness. I’m the kind of pissed that is about to dust off his Jello Biafra records and whip you across the face with a two-row studded belt I stole from some suburban punk rock Hot Topic kid.

I don’t want to be a dick, but if you think we should be locking kids up in cages, then fuck you.

And that’s not just all. I remember. And I hold grudges. I still hate my “Uncle” for something that happened when I was nine. It’s a bad idea to call me a liar. Because I’m not one. Never have been. I’m more like the kind of guy who will go find a big, steaming pile of truth and shove your fucking face in it, grind it into your eyes and nose and mouth – until you’re fucking choking on truth.

Try to look away.

It may be the death of me, but I’ve always been willing to go to the mat for the underdog. I’ve always thought people should be treated with compassion. I don’t want to be a part of your sick fucking hate-orgy. I’m gonna keep shining a light on what’s ugly even if three people look.

Even if no one looks. Just because. Just because fuck you.

Or half of you, I guess.
#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...#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...