2 Minutes. Go!

#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...

What do they call them things, son? I ain’t never seen one before. All wheels and dials and blinking lights. Is that a weapon or a Halloween decoration? Time machine or pinball machine? I know it cost too much money, whatever it is. Even if it whistles and shits gold, you paid too much. That’s such an ugly contraption, I done lost my appetite. You gone and hurt my feelings.

I didn’t ask you to show it to me – you out here parading it around and expect folks not to ask questions? Shit. Now, you don’t gotta be offended, son. Yeah, I reckon I’m old, but that thing looks like a computer fucked a tricycle while a rollercoaster watched, you feel me? I don’t know if its supposed to whiten my teeth or take me to Venus.

Now, you just hold on a second. Yeah, I’m razzing ya. You gotta respect your elders. I respected mine. Now, I’m old and you gotta listen to me. Yup. Sure ‘nough ain’t fair. You too young to know it, but fair is a fairy tale, boy. Ain’t never gonna happen. No way. No how. That’s for retards and people who make movies.

I ain’t playing some kind of game with you. I’m asking you a serious question. The world has changed – ain’t an old man got a right to keep up with the times? I got me a cellular phone. It ain’t one of the computer game ones like y’all kids got. Just makes my calls. But I got one. I sure as hell don’t know what that thing is, though. I don’t think I want one, anyway.

Actually, don’t tell me. I might want it and I don’t want to want it. You feel me? You manipulatin’ my emotions and shit as it is. Bringing out the envy. Curiosity. Both them things come straight from the devil. You know it and I know it. Don’t tell me. Just move on down the line.

Oh, now you want to tell me? Of course you do, son. I remember what it was like when I was an ignorant piece of disrespectful trash, too. Wasn’t that long ago. Now you take your space flotsam and git. I mean it. I ain’t afraid to take this cane to the side of your fat head.

Yeah, flip me off. I get it. You too fast. You too on the ball. You’re covered in too much shit you bought at the mall. I ain’t even curious anymore. I’m gonna talk to your momma, tell her you been parading around this place all high on yourself and shoving your magic skateboard microwave in everybody’s faces. And I for one don’t appreciate it.

Now, let me hold it for just a second. Come back here. Son! Just a second. I promise. Well, fuck you, too. I hope your electric surfboard dvd player there explodes and you lose a leg. I won’t be shedding no tears for yo' fool ass. Son?

Son? Come 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...#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 man was tired. He sat with slumped shoulders, breathing heavily. He occupied the middle of the park bench, and there was a perimeter around him. People picked a careful distance, which averaged to around ten feet. They would not sit on his bench.

But I did.

When he felt my weight on the wooden slats, he raised his head and smiled gamely.

“How you doin’ kid?”

I decided not to mention the fact that a 34 year old man is hardly a kid. Maybe I liked being a kid in his eyes. I don’t know. But I didn’t say anything.

“Good, how about you?”

He seemed to consider it. He rasped his hands together and all kinds of clichés popped into my head. They were like catcher’s mitts. They were the kind of hands that had spent a lot of time in boxing gloves. They were working hands. It was all silly. I didn’t know anything about him.

“I’m doing.”

He leaned back and I couldn’t tell if it was for his benefit or mine. Maybe both.

I didn’t want to ask him if he was OK – it seemed invasive, so I made small talk about the weather and the way people dress in California when it gets even remotely cold. We laughed. He said he was originally from Montana – lived in California half his life, but the place still didn’t make sense to him.

I laughed. Told him I’d been born here and it didn’t always make sense to me.

We passed a half an hour or so, and then he stood abruptly. He left a manila envelope where he had been sitting.

I don’t know how, but I knew it was for me. I waited until I got home to open it. It was full of money and a short note.

The note said, “I was wondering if someone would stop. You did. Thanks.”

I guess I passed the test. 

And I'm still surprised how much money you can fit in one envelope.

#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 can bang your head against as many walls as you want - ain't gonna hurt the walls. Not if they're well made. Your head might hurt. Heads are made well, too, but it's like comparing cannonballs and cantaloupe. So, yeah. Stop it already. And quit looking for the most confusing trail through the forest. Stop sniffing for invisible gas leaks. Relax while you sleep. Hell, if your teeth were made of diamonds, you could bite through a lead pipe the way you clench that jaw.

Stop trying to play shit off like no one saw. 

You think they're that naive? You think there aren't more coherent lies to believe? I think you should focus more on the birds swinging electrical trees. You want a new car because your old one had bald tires?

What the hell are you going to do when you retire?

You hurt so much; you feel angry for no reason. Why are you so guilty if you did nothing wrong? You silly bastard. I'd like to cut you some slack, but I put my knife away. We can try again another day. Until then, you just keep putting one foot behind the other. Fake a pratfall. They'll love it. People crave that shit. And maybe it will shake things up a bit. Make them feel human.

You're a sad sight, wringing your hands like that. Pretending it's the cold because you don't want them to know. Hiding in drugstore shadows because you don't want anyone to see. Why don't you step out into the light? Let it be what it is. No one gives a shit. Period. And until you accept that, you're going to have weird dreams and heartburn.

Or go see your doctor. She has a magic notepad that fixes everything.

#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.

He was a boy unaccustomed to feeling actual feelings and having original thoughts. He went to school, worked with the trainers, tried to avoid his parents with their perpetual scowls. He wondered why they seemed to hate everything so much. 

He wondered if that was what they were training him for. Hate.

Was it some kind of horrible inevitability? Would it come plopping out of him at an inopportune time, red and throbbing, dripping blood juice? Could other people see it - was he branded? Or was there still time to escape the iron?

The boy stopped dead in his tracks and looked into the sun until he could almost make himself believe the tears were from the bright light. He trembled and convinced himself the day must have turned cold. He did not smile because that had been left out of his training. 

#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.

BTW, I debated not doing it this week. But Rich would have thought that was stupid as shit. RIP, brother.


Of course the sun sets at a different time down by the water, glistening. You see them damn hills? They say there's gold, but I sure haven't found any. I've found wisps of time and goodness. I've lived years of horror over the years. And years of horror in a day. This isn't a competition, no, it's just the American way. And I'll bite my tongue as my daughter pledges her allegiance to something when she doesn't even know what that means. I can't wait until she's old enough to get my point. 

But there are so many things to be angry about, and you gotta glance at 'em sideways to see how it's funny.

See a woman in the ER screaming in pain. Feel the cold heat of the white. The goddamn white. Beds, shoes, clothes. Everything is white, and it's terrifying. And the woman is cold, shivering. And the doctor is twelve and you about shit yourself. And the woman's red dress stands out, stark. Like a blood clot. And she screams and it sounds like some kind of divine torture you don't understand. And you recoil, filled with a morbid fascination, as the doctor raises high in the air - fresh from the woman's vagina - a tiny Velociraptor, inert and silly in its plasticity.

And the doctor looks at you. And says: it's not real. And you laugh.

I know, you say. Ya maroon.

#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're so sweet it makes my teeth hurt, and it's artificial sweetener - shit's probably giving me cancer. I'd rather have a buck-toothed-wine-drunk smile at me than look at that fake, white bullshit you show off every chance you get. I know that smile - daggers, probes, death blows. And the rest of it. All lining that lying face around the clean, white smile. 

I'm tired of the smell of vanilla. Makes me feel like I'm in middle school. Or a strip club. Step your game up, or down. Real people smell alright, you know? You don't have to smell like Bed, Bath & Beyond to make friends. You'd do a lot better trying to have a genuine personality and some common goddamn sense.

You stand big, but you're so very small. The urge to squash you is strong, but then you'd win because you could bust out the martyr grin, your favorite. So, I bite my tongue and taste the blood, but I don't care. You're a giant fucking billboard, and I got more than enough blood to spare.

#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.

She's going to ask you if the kids liked your new hair cut. You'll shrug, feel cold dread in your spine. An awkward silence will swallow the room; you will watch the walls spin, and you will feel them come closer and you will blink heat. Smile. Sure. And then the questions will start and you'll answer: nothing, nothing, nothing.

Because what do you say? It was like every new school. The nice kids pretended like you didn't exist. The mean kids were fucking mean. And there was one kid (there is always one kid) who latched onto you. A social anchor, but you both appreciated the kindness and felt bad about the whole scene. So, he's your friend now. 

And you've been marked. 

And no one mentioned a goddamn thing about the haircut because they just fucking met you. And, even if they didn't, they're not coming close enough. Not gonna happen. This isn't Florida and no one says y'all, and you sniff a tear and think about tall pine trees. You wonder. How many years of this? How many more before you lose your shit? It's like trying to hold down a dragon, the anger. It's not even anger, it's just energy - with no outlet. It calcifies inside you. 

But you'll get up tomorrow and put on your best poker face so no one notices shit. Haircuts, accents, that new-kid smell. You can blend in. You do it well. So, get pissed, spray WD-40 all over the garage wall and grab a match.

You gotta burn to to blend in hell.

ATTENTION, I WILL EDITING THE THIRD MATT STARK NOVEL ALL DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ TONIGHT! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in!

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 sun dripped down the grand, green slope of the hill they called a mountain. They, the intrepid ten. Young, brazen – call them anything you want. Children. Men. It don’t make any difference in the end.

Or maybe it was twelve? Maybe a million strong, a mighty throng. And the rivers whispered your name in a soft, soft song. And the wind smelled of loathing...

And you clawed at your throat; you tore at your clothing.

The mighty thousand crested, rising high above the tide, in song. The million screaming multitudes – WE ALL THINK YOU’RE FUCKING WRONG!

Birdsong battles, pigeon rattles. Step to my parakeet; I’ll give you a pair of feet. Something lasting. But discreet.

Whisky neat.

Shit. You don’t think they’ll both fit, but I’d bet on it.

I bet on the climbing circus blasters. I rallied the troops to court disaster. I drank in the shy, elusive laughter. And I cried.

But not ‘til after.

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in!

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 was radiant, but you could not look at her - like staring at the sun. You caught her in periphery and that was almost too much. Short breath. Ragged thoughts of generic heroism. Her name was Rachel. She made the name beautiful, a bit of poetry that blossomed and died daily, ushered in and out by the ringing of bells.

The other boys did everything to impress her. Who can climb the highest? Who can run the fastest? Who knows the worst bad word? Ricky won that one because he knew what a cocksucker was. Now, the whole class knew. And laughed about it. 

You weren't quite sure you understood. You still laughed.

It was anticlimactic in its eclipsing, apocalyptic splendor. The showdown. A new kid came to school. He was big and wore jeans every day. He always had a toothpick in his mouth. It was like he watched a bad After School Special and took notes. Which was fine, until he inclined his head in Rachel's direction. All the boys huddled around, whispering. Then: 

"Who's the slut?"

Deep silence. Ricky called him a cocksucker, and the rest of the boys looked about to cry, but it didn't matter much because you were more invested in the weird, numb pain in your fist. The boy stood up, crying, drooling blood. You flexed your hand and, suddenly, you were being dragged backward, through the principal's office and straight into Dad's office. Like a time warp.

You told Dad what happened, expecting the worst, but he shook your hand. Took the rest of the day off. The two of you went fishing. And when the week's suspension was over, you noticed something.

Not only was Rachel staring at you every time you looked, but she was smiling. 

No joke.

Smiling.

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

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. 

Sure, I guess you could take it that way. Feel the wake and wind and the ocean spray, salty. Unmoored, that's what it seems like, backtrack, let's all give our pennies back. Streamline. Don't always assume assumptions wrong, the words of my heart are a doo wop song. False and modern, man, look at all the angles. Angelic.

I'm not going to smile, nor be apologetic. I get it, it's fetid, it's downright pathetic. But these rules weren't given to all in kind, you smile and sure as hell don't mind. I'm in a battlefield. I'm standing in the sun too long, screaming. 

Goddamn, you never listen. 

Long ambition, short con - you got 'em both wrong. I am the seething underbelly. I am the scared kid, quiver-jelly. Don't move, you're harder to track. And that's what happens, we always come back. Why? 

Hell, ain't no place left to be.

Not one bit of peace, no, not for me. You can be my one true epiphany. And I'll smirk while you shirk all your self-righteous works. Sorry, I guess I'm just one of the jerks. 

And you're just like me.

See?


ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

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. 

Oh, it must be awful hard to be nascent dancer, twirling through a world shattered by frailty of mind, hiding in the corners where old memories used to live. That doesn't make it any easier to watch, and it doesn't make it wrong that sometimes it all just gets you mad as hell. It's not fair. From either side. And there is never an easy answer. 

When the brain foot slips, the slope is a son of a bitch. And you don't know, so - hell - now, you're a detective and a friend and a lover except you're the only one who remembers that. Right? Who the hell knows.

There are moments when there is a piercing clarity, when a rough hand wraps itself around your bird hands, and the combined strength births a kind of battlefield optimism. There is no winning the war, but there will be moments of heroism, there will be fear and there will be minor victories. You will lose ground, and you will eventually lose everything. Put up the white flag. 

Bury the purple heart along with the stumbling brain.

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

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. 

Just pull the lever if you’re so clever – see what falls out and what stays. Figure out why the morning birds sound so gay. Me? I plum run out of shit to say. I’m done with it. I’m moving on. You can have everything when I’m gone. I’ll be out in the desert with the bleached skulls and cactus statues. I’ll be breathing dust and staying quiet. I made enough noise. I’m done now.

It’s not something that can be taught, and it sure ain’t something that can be bought. It’s more complex than that. It’s simpler, too. And you can feel it, like putting the wrong foot in the wrong shoe.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re gonna do it. One of these days. When you’ve run out of games to play. Talk to me then, and I’ll tell you the same. It’s a trick pony what ain’t got no name. It runs in circles, chasing it’s tail. It won’t listen to your commands. It doesn’t care about ticket sales. But it’s what you got. When all else fails. You just pull the lever. See what comes out.

That’s what it’s all about.

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

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 can make as much noise as you want, fly your banners high - up where birds and pollutants have quaint cocktails in the sky. You can be a bright orange sunburst, a snippet of melody - you can be a summer evening, dotted with firefly glow. You can be one continuous scream.

Trees drop their leaves, and that makes sense. They don't have drawers or hangers - they don't know how to fold. You? They've been teaching you how to fold your whole life. Maybe you just aren't doing it right.

Every so often you get a chance to sit back, relax, kick your shoes off - do you? Feel the pebbles beneath your feet? It's not a hard thing to do, but it is a choice. Sometimes, you open the right door and sometimes you open the wrong door. Sometimes, it's unintentional. Sometimes, you open the wrong door on purpose. 

Now shut up, get in the tiny car. This ain't that kind of circus.

ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ WHEN I GET HOME! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

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 let them catch ya slipping, boy. They're slick like oil, and they got teeth so white it scares the moon. You'll start looking at them teeth, and then you'll think how ugly your teeth must be. While you're gumming your assessment, they'll go in for the kill. They'll think you won't see it coming because of the soft music, the incense blossoms.

You gotta keep your guard up is what I'm saying. They'll slip it right in through your ear and then you'll never be free. You'll be on the old radio all the time. And they don't say normal shit. You don't want to know the things they say to me.

Are you even paying attention? I'll slap you if I have to. I don't want to. Hate to slap a dead man, but the blood's got me skeeved, and the ear whistle's blowing. Blow, blow, blow the man down. Now, get up and fight. There's plenty of blood in a full grown man.

ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ TOMORROW! Get 'em!

#2minutesgo

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. 

But it's not this, and it's not that. Son, you just said a shit ton of words, and they don't amount to nothing. A mountain of fecal fury - no one's too impressed. You use words like grit-teeth lies. Abrasive, they leave marks and there's this grinding every time - sounds like an old man sleeping.

You can explain it any way, but away. It's never going to leave - it's your long lost cousin Jed. It's gonna sleep on your couch now. The smell will never leave, feet and fetid misery. You'll come to love the smell. And that's another lie, but it's easier than trying to be genuine.

Save your words - I've heard enough. Bacon grease and chicken fluff. They may go down soft and easy, but that shit ain't life-sustaining. 

Not the kind of life I want, at least.

Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

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. 

"Son, you ain't showing no kindness dawdling. You gotta pull the trigger."

Nightmare flashes, serge-scratch madness. Everything is dark. Open your eyes. Just tell him. He'll understand.

"I ... can't do it, Dad. I'm sorry. It's -"

"Son, I never have hit you, and I never will, but if you don't pull that trigger, I'll never look at you the same way again. You eat bacon like you're starving. You know where it comes from. You're old enough now. You can help with the killing. And you'll help with the rest - I'll teach you that knives aren't made for goddamn mumblety-peg. Next time we won't even waste a bullet. I'm doing you a kindness"

Sweat darts down between your shoulder blades. Looking into big, deep eyes and everyone knows. Everyone can smell the blood soaked into the dirt. Years of it. Everyone knows what the hook is for, hanging from the high beam. Even the fucking pig. Those big eyes: Christ, kid. Don't drag this out. 

"Dad, I really don't-"

"You won't eat. I'm goddamn sick of it. You won't eat meat in my house again until you stop this bullshit and act like a man. This is how we live. I ain't killing your meat for you anymore. You're old enough to help."

Look at the set eyes. Fair eyes, but cold. Always been that way. Always will be. Your arm heavy, pistol pendulum. Shot that gun a million times. Hell, it can tear a tree in half. Calling it a pistol is silly. Red face. Tired of feeling like the girl no one wants to dance with. Sister's upstairs reading and ain't no one ever gonna dance with her. This is important. This moment will change the trajectory of everything.

The gun is shaking, but you grit your teeth and hold it with both hands and start to squeeze. Gently. Slowly. There is love in this. There is so much. The whole damn world collapses and all the wars and all the kindness, all the mercy, all the mincemeat pies and mockingbird cries - everything in the world gets sucked in by the force of the explosion. The world implodes. Life explodes from the back of the beast's head. Thick, red slime. That's what life is. Really. You look up at the smiling face. Strong jaw, stubble. Sad eyes, even smiling.

"I'm proud of you, son. Let's go inside. It's a hot one, and I reckon Mother's made some iced tea. We can do the ugly part after the bleeding."

Slow turn. Broad back. Love there, but suddenly there's your cyclone brain. All the chatter. When's it gonna rain? Jesus died for you. Suzy doesn't love you, she loves Randy because he's old enough to drive. The kids at school are going to find out. He's going to find out. It's getting harder to hide. Whatever it is. This ... softness. 

Impulsive. Always impulsive. They'll say it for the rest of their lives. Try to make sense of it. It was just that goddamned pig. Something snapped. Let them think that. It will be simpler.

The old man will spend the rest of his life wondering if he even heard the second shot. He'll remember the sound of his own scream, but it will be a hollow roar. He'll never sleep right again. And he'll pay a neighbor to kill his meat. And everyone will understand. Finally.

That's called legacy. 

Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

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 say it's going to be fun, but I see that look in your eye. That sly smile wrapped around a pretty lie. My nose twitches, and I smell honeysuckle. I look at the dumpster flies and wonder, 'What the hell?' People smell weird shit when they're having a stroke. Right? I'm pretty sure that's right. God, I hope that's what it is. That's what I'm thinking. But then I smell a different smell. One that promises of slow, dark rivers and one more piece taken out of the life puzzle, slivers.

So, it'll be fun. Maybe. It'll be something. What else is there? Fucking hang out down by the reservoir, stare at the strip-mined misery that surrounds it. That card has been played so many times, hell, I've run out of rhymes. Smooth lines. There are no new girls, no new cliffs to climb. Pretty soon, we'll be out of time. It'll be fun or it won't or it will be nothing, but it could be something. There's only one way to find out, and the answer ain't down at the Rapid Roy Car Wash.

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out some of today (working, no computer) but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo