Friday, January 4, 2019

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 moonlight lay in shards like a broken bottle; storms raged and people cried, and the moon laughed its ass off until the morning taxis bristled. The cold was there. You could take it or leave it. A man can drink that kind of cold away - toss it off like an old lady shawl. Goddamn, baby, come with me and you can have it all.

We'll have a brawl.

The night called out like a whipped dog, and the lights reflected puddles in the roadway - you gotta have the sense of it. The sense for it. Something. You gotta have something. Like tits on a frog. You don't need to know how I know what you need to know.

Just know.

You can say you didn't see nothing, but I'm guessing that's a lie. The broken songs through the grimy windows, five shots, you didn't hear nothing? Didn't see nothing? Never gonna be somebody.

You'll never amount.

The fucking screams, man. They were almost funny. Like uncomfortable funny - like when Jimmy the Dirtbag snapped his leg in half. Wasn't funny, but everybody laughing. That's what them screams did. Like they took the cap off the world and let out all the insanity.

Shut the fuck up!

Soon the squares will be waking up for work, and they don't want to start their day looking at your brains like bread pudding all over the wall. Quivering. Like jellied fish. The kind the old man ate. Fucking disgusting. The sun won't come up 'til I got this done.

I promise.

And the last thing you'll see? My fucking face, laughing - nervous laughing into the black curtain. The abyss, man. That's where you're going to end up, and I hope it's a fucking blast, brother. All I know is that bitch that lives by the liquor store is up. Making biscuits for her fucking Alzheimer's.

And she was your canary.

#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...


  1. He was meat and so was she. That was the way of it.

    Of course, there was a little more to it than that. They were made of different types of meat. She was predatory, and he was not. He was her prey and she was the one who would feast tonight.

    She was driven by her urges.

    The man would have his own directives too. He would wake in the morning and rise, taking care to dress in the fashion required by his employers. He would go to his work and then return home each night, pausing only to eat and to sleep. He would live in this way until the weekend, when he’d change his ways, become self-assured again, taking from the world as it had already taken from him. Exercising his independence in the only way that he knew.

    He was prey. He was a mouse who thought he could roar.

    She was not like that. Her teeth were real.

    She would lie in her slumbers all week, sleeping off the excesses which had sated her hungers. She would rest and recover her edges, losing the smoothness her sleep had imposed. Then she would rise once more, exercising her terrible beauty until it led to an ending, her teeth flashing and arcing and tearing and severing until her lust was finished, the life of the man forfeited, her own horrible existence preserved.

    That was the way it was now.

    And the way it always would be.

  2. Now, this is interesting, I went to high school with the fireman. We only knew each other in passing but knew of each other. Well one night while waiting on a date, I get a message and an invite for drinks. I decide that I have a couple of hours to kill so why not. We meet at a local restaurant/bar. We see many of our old high school friends from different crowds and some family. Anyway, we end up parting ways that night but continue to talk for a couple of weeks and then start sleeping together. It was all right. I did all the work. (I know what you’re thinking, “poor girl,” don’t. Remember, I like sex! Sex, just like beer, even when it’s bad, it’s still good.) So I’m slowly losing interest in the fireman. He’s nice but I need more….
    I start back on the dating site. I like a couple of people and start talking to this guy who is into S&M. I mean he had so many toys. I mean weird shit. Bars, dildos, whips and handcuffs, I couldn’t believe it. Anyway, I got adventurous so I told dispatcher we should have anal sex, he was like ok. (Of course, what guy is going to turn that down, right?) So I get down on all fours and he tells me I need to be lower. I’m like, “what the fuck do I need to do this too?” So he lubes up but he can only get the tip in which is hardly anything. It lasts about a minute and he comes then I’m like, “I gotta go.”
    I never really saw the fireman again. I had already started dating someone new. He had special talents and I became addicted but it was only to be my downfall. Here’s where it gets weird...

  3. "It's difficult," he said, dumping his books into the cardboard box he used.

    Marlene stooped to meet his eyes, bending at her knees to reach lower. Hansard was a thoughtful boy, quiet for much of the time, rarely bothering her for anything. He must have been quite upset to seek her attention.

    "What is, my poppet?" she asked.

    Hansard threw himself back into the faded armchair he favoured, immediately beginning to pick at the worn place on the arm where it had become threadbare. He shook his head, blew out a sigh, and then looked back up at her, his flushed cheeks bracketing the pursed rosebud of his mouth.

    "It's Daddy. I don't think he loves us any more."

    Marlene slid back onto Hansard's bed, noticing the cobwebs that were now accumulating up in the corners of the room, falling like a fine lace up where the walls met the ceiling. The boy was usually diligent about keeping his room clean, using a chair and a long-handled mop to sweep away any accumulations, working first from the ceiling and continuing down along the walls and then across each item of furniture. He would do well when he grew up and left home. But now there was this; this thing he'd perceived.

    Of course, she'd have to deny everything. He couldn't know yet. She had thought she'd have more time to prepare.

    "Don't be silly," she said. "Daddy's fine. It's just the way grown-up men act sometimes."


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