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.

I don't have one cliché to play. I'm tapped out. My pain tubes are empty. All my fake people called in sick - the plot is thinner than usual. It's non-existent.

I spent the last two days wondering if I was finally going to break as a human being. I was kind of nervous. Things got hectic there for a while.

My brain is tossing smelly fish; why are you giving me attitude? Just try and remember we're on the same team here.

My ears are ringing like someone threw bells down a fucking staircase. There are chips knocked out of the stone.

There are all kinds of noises. There is the slap of warm meat and a high keening sound of despair.

There is magic in the air.

Just let it happen, man. Let the words fall like corrupted snowflakes. Affect a haughty attitude and stand in the shadows - no one is going to tie the wool over your eyes.

But now, it's time to move on. Trade my truths for silly lies. Buck up, boy, the carnival ain't ever leaving town.

#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..

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 boy stood in the middle of the field, dizzy, still spinning. He liked the feeling of reckless chaos – he often fell, but rarely hurt himself. He was a boy who was used to feeling small pains. His life had been full of them, but he spun his worries away in fields of wildflowers, red, yellow, and white.

He was a simple boy. Not stupid – his life was uncomplicated. He was good at living outside the moment. His world was one created of stories and made up monsters and scenarios where he could be heroic.

John wanted to be heroic because, in reality, he felt scared all the time. He did not like feeling scared. He would do anything not to feel scared. Even if that meant spinning in a field until he was too dizzy to stand. 

#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...

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...

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...

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...

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.

His eyes were half-closed, but that wasn’t what made them hard to look at. It was the color. Somewhere between grey and yellow. Not the color eyes should be. Not human eyes. But that’s the color they were. And you didn’t want to be disgusted, but you couldn’t help it. 

Just like you couldn’t help the fact that you tried not to breathe when you were in the room.

God. That room. Too white. Before someone got the smart idea to paint hospital rooms seafoam or pink or beige. That white room seemed an unfair contrast to the spoiled-milk eyes. Sick and scummy like old butter.

And it always ended the same way.

“Go on, Johnny. Give Grandpa a kiss.”

And you wanted to scream. I never even kissed the man when he was alive. And then you thought: “he’s still alive, idiot.” Then, “no, he isn’t, not really.” Everyone standing around waiting for you to put your lips on that sandpaper cheek. And you couldn’t explain. You’d loved the man. Actually flat-out loved him. Not like your Mom who tolerated him. Not like your uncle who hadn’t spoken to him in ten years.

This was not him anymore, and kissing had never been part of the bargain in the first place. And he was old. He didn’t even know where he was. You didn’t even want to be in the room. Hell, you knew he wouldn’t have wanted you in there. He would have wanted you outside, breathing the fresh air that was no longer an option for him.

But you kissed him. Because the alternative was too hard. And would require too much explanation. 

Let the skeletons stay in the closet.

You kissed him and thought, “when I grow up, I sure hope I’m not a big-ass hypocrite like y’all.”

And then everybody went to Dairy Queen.

#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 room was empty, and he didn’t like it. Walls white; he didn’t like that either. It was too stark a contrast. White room, white walls. Inside the boy’s head there were exploding rainbows of pain and confusion. Inside his skull, every color pulsed. He could hear them. The grumbling blue, the shrieking red. The bright green threatening to split his head. He had been in rooms like this before. He even knew why. It was supposed to calm him down. He could not tell them about the maelstrom of sickness the whiteness created inside of him.

The terror.

He heard the voice, but he told it to shut the hell up. Then another voice.

DON’T CURSE, YOU LITTLE BASTARD.

He wrapped his arms around his body and held himself. He could smell himself.

DON’T BE A BABY! ONLY BABIES CAN’T GO TO THE BATHROOM BY THEMSELVES.

Oh, the colors were awful. Worse than anything. He could feel his face peeling away from his skull. Smooth. One clean sheet of pain.

HERE’S HOW YOU TAKE THE DECALS OFF, YOU LITTLE SHIT. SLOW, EVEN. YOU CAN’T RIP IT! I WON’T GET PAID FOR WORK LIKE THIS!

YOU’RE FUCKING RIPPING IT!!!

He poked his fingers into his eye sockets and watched the bursts of white. They distracted him. His pulse slowed as if by magic. Carefully, he put his fingers into his mouth. All of them. He soaked them and rubbed saliva into the place where his face-skin used to be. Lose some skin and make some more. That’s what the magic spit is for. Rhyming is for kids, what are you, retarded?

ARE YOU RETARDED?!?

Stop it. Breathe. Slow and easy. Like the decals. He could hear that voice, too. A woman. She spoke much more gently than the man. She tried to help him. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. His back felt warm like there was a hand on it. He jumped when he realized that there was. 

He backed into the corner and watched the young woman’s lips move. No sound came out. Or not the right sounds. There was a wailing sound. There were beeps and screeches and his breath in his ears. He could hear himself live. The boy turned his head to the side and vomit poured out of him, his man-mouth.

YOU’RE DIRTY! STOP BEING DIRTY! YOUR MOTHER CLEANS THIS FUCKING HOUSE!

The young woman was moving closer one small step at a time. She had one hand in the pocket of her jacket, and he knew what that meant. He pushed himself into the wall, thinking: I will climb this wall backwards like a spider. She is small and she will never reach me. The colors started spinning, twitching. Orange, purple, yellow… He knew his colors. He knew them more than anything. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He knew that the woman’s hand would come out of her pocket, and he would have mere seconds before everything went black. He squeezed his eyes. Her shoes squeaked. White rubber, they were. White floor. When she got close enough…

Black. It would be black. Blank. It scared him, but it was better than the colors. He opened his eyes and smiled. Calm. Very. 

One more time around the merry.

#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.

Am I thinking? Yes, I am thinking. I am lost in a field of reminiscence. The smell of sunlight on the dry grass is overpowering. I know you are right behind me, although I can’t hear you. You’re so damn quiet. Makes some people nervous. Not me. I wonder about it, though. But I know you won’t appreciate the question, and I don’t know if I have the guts to ask, regardless.

You smell that?

Yeah, I smell it.

Nice, huh?

Yup.

And my mind is creating flowcharts, letting imaginary conversations blossom and grow firm and full on the stalks of social ambition. You are not interested in me. You look, but you do not see. I get that. I can hear it in the way you breathe. I can see it in the light, soft sneaker prints you leave. I don’t want anything more than you are willing to give. You are company on a day that is filled with silence. I’ll take what I can get.

We walk and walk. And, soon, we are at the creek. You call it a crick. I wish I did. But my accent is all fucked up from bouncing around the country. It doesn’t matter though. Not to either of us. You are content to enjoy the silence. I am content to let you be content.

I’m going to be moving in a few weeks.

I throw it out there, like a line with too much weight. I wonder if it will make a splash. But you don’t say anything. I am prepared to accept that, but then I look over and see you shaking with anger.

You’re leaving?!?!

Yeah, I don’t want to.

When did you find out? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?

I found out a few months ago. I didn’t tell you because … I don’t know. I was hoping it would go away.

We stare at each other and suddenly the trickle of water is overpowering. So loud. I want to cover my ears. 

(She is crying softly.)

I won’t forget you.

I smile.

I won’t forget you either.

But that is a lie. A flat out lie. She doesn’t know it, but I do. My brain has gotten good at this. Sever and cauterize. Don’t look back. Don’t open your eyes. Stumble blindly forward. Are you there? Can you hear me? Who am I even talking to?

But for that day, for a moment, I pretend it’s true. Sure, we’ll write. Sure, we’ll stay friends. Sure, the summer will never have to end ...

#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.

Can’t you feel the sharp edges on your words? I know my ears are fucked, but they’re not that bad. They’re not whetstones. You think I’m putting a good edge on your syllables before they hit the old ear canals? 

Please.

Don’t they taste bad, those words? They have to. I imagine they taste like battery acid. Probably burn like acid, too. But they’re effective. My brain feels lacerated, septic, and I don’t really care to keep talking about it anymore to be honest.

Mission accomplished.

Show me a cool, dark cave, and I’ll go live there. You can visit every once in a while. Make sure I’m not wearing animal skins or making mannequins out of small, sharp bones. Those will cut you just as quick as words. 

Lonely or not.

Maybe it’s a problem inside of me, but I think it would behoove both of us to look inside ourselves. Your shit is real important; I get that. My shit is my shit, so why should it concern you?

Let’s be sensible; it’s the reasonable thing to do.

So, on that note, I’m taking my leave. You can keep yapping away, shooting darts into the space I used to occupy. I’m going to be up high, past the stars, beyond the sooted sky.

Or I’ll find a place where people let their words be soft, round. Where people speak, but I don’t have to run from the sound. You got wares to sell, clearly. And your poker face works. 

Nearly...

Just not on me. I’m gonna go make a shield out of my words, now. You laid down the gauntlet. But you don’t get to make all the rules.

Fool.

#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.

They left town when the sun was falling, hands entwined, but hopeless. Their hands were too warm, too moist. It didn’t matter. The important thing was to have an anchor. And they were used to the others' warm, sweating hands. In fact, were they to think of it, they would realize that their earliest memories were of reaching out for a warm, wet hand. They shared a bed, and they reached for each other in the black night. They shared the dinner table with their father and his demons, and they reached for each others' hands under the tablecloth. They had grown up hand in hand. So, it was natural. And if someone tried to fuck with them, they’d tell them to go to hell. And, if that didn’t work, they would say they were brothers. And, if that didn’t work, well, fuck it. They’d taken enough punches.

They weren’t worried.

Behind them, there was chaos. They could not see it, but they could feel it. Deep in their bones they’d known how the town would react. The town was a part of them, and they knew it almost as well as they knew the desperate, strong clutch of each others’ hands.

“They’ve got the fire under control now, huh?”

“Gotta figure. They’ll find the real prize soon enough.”

“And then what?”

“We become the devil, I guess. They’d never believe us. They never did believe us. Remember when you told Coach Johnson? I told my teacher. Both of them looked at us like we were crazy and told us to show the old man the respect he deserved. We never said a word again. In hindsight…”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

It was proper dark now, and they were moving further away from the lights. More stars overhead. Things were quieter. Or a different kind of loud. A better kind. Natural. 

“We did the right thing?”

“No. Of course not. But we did the only thing.”

“We were never going to convince them that Mom didn’t just fall down the stairs. That this had been building. It was going to be one of us next. We had to do it.”

“Yep. No choice.”

Back in town, there were rich, white folks and poor white folks talking more than usual. They still didn’t cross the color divide, not even to hit the liquor stores that were still open. They drank coffee and shook their heads and wondered what kind of psychopath would kill the Mayor. The best man any of them knew. They weren’t used to this kind of thing. Unless it was on the TV, so it took them too long to realize that the boys were gone. They got on the horn quick, but they didn’t even know the right people to call.

It gave Jimmy and Johnny the start they needed. They had the whole thing planned out. Handy, living next to the border. Nice, to be dark-skinned with jet black hair. They had their mother to thank for that. And for the fluent Spanish that fell effortlessly from their lips.

“You know, I always wondered. Some folks hated the Old Man for marrying outside his race. Some people thought it made him a hero. We know why he really did it.  I wonder how that will play out. I guess he’ll always be a hero to most and a traitor to some.”

They stopped walking and dropped hands to light a cigarette.

“That’s none of our concern. Let’s just be glad for once that people care about pigment. And as much as I hate that fucking wall, something tells me that’s going to work in our favor, too. How you feel about being an expatriate?”

“Seriously? I think I was born that way. You?”

“I think you took my answer.”

They were in Mexico by morning. And they wondered, but realized that they would never know. Not if things went according to plan. And, so far, the plan was working.

#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 dancing popcorn and the coy soda don't know anything about you. They don't know the struggle. And that guy in the front who thinks he's witty? No point being mad about it. Even the zookeeper can't control the monkeys. Not really.

You'll get a view of several potential futures and each one will take you back. Trapped in the dark, you feel your skin tingle; you want to stand up, make a proclamation, make a statement, leave...

All those people to step over.

Life's a movie, and we're all just extras standing around wondering what shitty, stupid, pointless thing we'll have to do next. We hope for a happy ending, but then we resent it. We want reality, but we don't. We want that dancing popcorn to be a popcorn prophet. 

We came here to learn about ourselves. Here, in the dark, we are less or more human. Less or more violent. Less or more sad. It's a strange deal to make with flickering darkness.

And it's not even cheap.

#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.

You look into the water, see your reflection – fail to see any genuine affection. You curl your lip and squint your eyes. Sneer. That’s affectation. What a difference a few letters can make. But it doesn’t matter because you’re not thinking that way. You’re not thinking about anything. Not anything that matters. 

Maybe that’s why your life is in tatters.

Pride goeth before the fall? Maybe. Maybe it goeth before Spring, Summer, Winter … maybe pride is all you have, so you pull at it like a splinter. It doesn’t make much sense to me, but making sense of things isn’t what this is about. 

Keep looking. Straight on or crooked. The water doesn’t lie. You may lie to yourself, you may lie to the folks that ask you questions, expecting answers. You can’t lie to your reflection. Or you end up getting a flower named after 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...