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 awoke to the rumble of a country train, standing in the shadows of a subtle summer rain. It's a place I know well. A place I go to all the time - sometimes in reality, but mostly in my mind. But I can see it. Most of my internal wanderings lead me to dark, blurred, and confusing places, but there is only birdsong and tranquility under the watchful gaze of the train at the place where the stream runs through. 

I'll show it to you.

You need to go under the tracks to get to the hole, and you can fish under the tracks, but I've never caught anything there except backstory and proclamations. Small scratches and paint sprays that are still rural enough to be about love, written in a teenager's hand. 

I am convinced that, someday, I will catch a monster under that bridge, so I stay a while, longer if it's hot, but there is often a light rain. Why? I don't know. Perhaps the fish gods know that I don't visit the bend by the railroad bridge with any evil intent. I visit with barbless hooks, and I walk slowly. And I never allow myself more than four fish.

When you step out of the bridge's shadow, you see the bend. On the right, treefall and chaos. Swirling eddies and it looks just about impossible to fish. 

It's not.

You can sink a piece of corn, a fly, a worm - you can let the eddy dance it round, on the surface or deeper down. And you will catch trout. And you will always, always miss one fish. Or catch it and break your line off. No doubt at all - under the limbs that reach out like spectral fingers into the black water ... there are fish in there that can stop your heart. 

The water is as clear as my thoughts are muddied, half awake. The water under the tree is deep. Deeper than you want to find out the hard way, so stay back. The stream is about fifteen feet across and there is a canopy of trees. I like to fish the bend in winter most of all, when there is snow, and the trees match my mood. 

Past the tree, the water flows gently and careful casts will let you swing your bait around the corner, and you can catch trout all day. Sometimes rainbows - most of the time, this is where the brook trout go to play. And they seem to know that I won't hurt them. That I just want to say hello and then send them home. 

You can hear the train from a good ways off and, when it passes, the thunder is inside you, but it doesn't faze the fish. They are used to it. The fish at the bend by the railroad track know the rhythm as sure as they know that I'll always be coming back.

Dream or not, that stream is waiting. The trains are running and time is irrelevant. The fish are steady, and every pause is pregnant. It is a real place, I promise you. I can see it clear as the pure water I splash onto my face on warm days.

Now, it is time to go to work, the dream's already fading. But I know it will be there. Always. Waiting.

#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, with the shy smile - yeah, you - I don't buy it, just so you know. Shy smiles are bullshit. Don't mean nothing. You could have a gun under your shirt. You could be one of those people who thinks that the mothership is coming. You could be an investment banker. Makes my blood run cold. So, save it. Hell, it could be the shadow of a stroke.

It works on a lot of people, I know. And you may think I'm an ass - I might be one - but I know a snake in the grass when I see one. 

I'm not suggesting you stop. That's not my place. I'm just hipping you to the time you're wasting. Because all I'm gonna do is keep checking that my wallet is still in my pocket and my back's to the wall. I got a knife that opens like a jail-cell door.

Ain't no shy smiles getting the jump on me, real or not.

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. 

It was always coming back to her. She couldn't make sense of it. She'd give it away, and then two weeks later someone would put a bag in her hands. Look at what I found down the thrift store. Thought of you. She'd smile and say 'thank you' - wonder if it was an insult or a compliment. Or neither. She wondered what it said about her.

She tried leaving it in the woods, but it was always on her porch when she woke up. She mailed it to a museum in another state and they were thrilled, until the petitions started - then it was right back home. With her.

She put pictures online. She buried it behind her house. No one wanted it, and some kind of animal dug it up out of the dark earth. It began to make her frantic. She lost track of the days - she'd sit, staring, wondering if this was her reward or her cross to bear. Were they the same thing? 

She'd cry and laugh, pulling at her hair.

They found her in her favorite chair, eyes locked open, staring. The cops followed her gaze and one of them laughed when his eyes found it. That's a hoot, I should take it for my wife. They chuckled. 

There was a momentary silence in the room, thick and sweet.

No, his partner said, if it was that important to her, she should be buried with it.

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. 

Cubicles are like cuticles; sometimes you gotta cut 'em. We got to think about the hive, see? This ain't about one individual bee - not about you or me. You gotta see it the right way - do you see what I mean? You and I are meaningless - it's all about the Queen. But don't take my word, I see your disbelief. Absurd! Look around you - do you see anyone else complaining? Anyone not smiling, yoke-choked. Straining.

Yeah, I know we're not bees. Bees are productive creatures. They make honey. We make money. But we're not making enough, and you know what makes it funny? Currency. Think about it. Currently, you aren't producing enough. Don't you know that the high ups need catered brunches? Do you think they care about the stomp-sound crunches? They're busy planning business lunches! 

Now, get on your knees and close your eyes. I want to show you some more things about bees. More things about hives.

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

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 parted the curtains - just a crack - they were still coming. He clutched at his chest, wringing handfuls of shirt - no reason, every reason. They were coming. He'd been waiting, and there was a bit of relief in his terror. The waiting had almost killed him. Now, at the very least, he might get some answers. Now, he would not be waiting, but would actually be living. He noticed that the room smelled sour. Why did he care? He wasn't hosting a dinner party. His skin ached, a million pinpricks all over his back. He wanted to look again, but didn't dare. Then, the knock at the door. Softly aggressive. The knock of a hit man, the Feds, the cops. It was a knock tinged with warning. With trepidation, he walked toward the door. He knew what he would find. The men in the suits. He had evaded them long enough to realize that they would never stop coming, never let up, never give him peace. Not until he bought their goddamn magazine. 

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out a lot of today 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. 

Smug ain't sophisticated, they aren't even related - and you're not always right, just because it feels so. And the wind doesn't always bring rain, it won't always bring snow. You got yourself tied up in these grand presumptions, and you wear them like armor. What's the harm?

You stand at the top of a cliff and 'oh shit' at the wonder of it, rainbow crevasses, but you're lying if you say there isn't a tiny bit of you thinking: but what if I ... "slipped."

Smile at the sodden cruelty, grin at the sly delusions. You want narrative? You bastard ... we have a problem, Houston.

Hands in the air, you step into the wind - hot tear of it against your face - you are flight, freedom, fuck-all. This is a BBQ smoke baptism.

There is soft music from the other side of the neighborhood, and you wish you lived there.

The brain moves so fast in free-fall. You are holding hands in the back seat while Tommy's Mom drives you home from the dance. You are standing on a stage, taking a certificate while you try to smile and everyone claps and you think: "I'm only nine and even I know this is ridiculous." 

You are standing by your grandmother, knowing she can't hear you, but desperate for the right words, regardless. You are wondering how divorce can drain the color from everything - turn everything black and white. You are miles away, but you are also present. 

The splash when you hit the water is rebirth. 

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out a lot of today 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. 

Impatient rain, intrepid, but inconsistent - it is this rain that will wash the blood from your mind. It is reckless, not the rain of quaint films. This is no Hollywood trickery, this rain sprints toward the welcoming earth like it is late for a bus. You can relate. You have tried to be like the welcoming earth. 

You could give a fuck about busses. 

You trip the switch that grips the glitch, some twitch - your eye seizes and you think, "well, that can't look good..." - but it's like the rain, no time to be vain, no time to wrangle with your epidermal armor. There is no time to wonder why sometimes you flinch when a gentle hand is placed on your shoulder. Hands can do so much, be so unpredictable - they are like the rain, and you remember ... hands, hot and wet and frantic. Fuck those hands, though they are already decaying. They will always live if you let them, the rain can't wash you clean.

This is a cataclysm. This is the slow, steady drip of copper down your throat. This is the vague fear that lives in the space between your ears - and will for years and years. It was all blackness, but it came back in drips and splashes, and there's no stopping rain - no stopping pain.

Let the rain come, disguised as beats from vacant drums. Take it as it comes. That sound on the roof is the sound inside your skull. It is the sound of an unstoppable force that can bring life, death, carve stone, destroy lives. You accept it or you don't. 

Or you move to Palm Springs, but who the hell wants to do that?

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all 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. 

The sun splits the darkness right down the middle. You look up into the sky, but there aren't any words. And what words there are - such flighty, useless things - sometimes they are so heavy they can fall and pull the whole world inside out.

You want some kind of soothing 'hand on back' affirmation. You pick cherry blossoms from the ground, arrange them into different shapes. Everyone looks at you like you're crazy. Must be the smile. Strange, you think - this is the first fun you've had in years. 

She wanted you to remember. Or, more accurately, she wanted you to never forget. Fine distinction, I'll grant you, but when the sun is tearing the top off night, these kinds of thoughts make sense. Soon, they will be obliterated by billboard longing and then, as one final insult, they will pull the night shade down. But first, it will open and for a moment, you will see.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. And next week things should be back to normal. :)

#2minutesgo

2 Minutes. Go!

I was unable to be near a computer for the last few days. The awesome and talented Laurie Boris was kind enough to host #2minutesgo yesterday. You can check out the shenangigans on her blog:

HERE

BIG thanks to Laurie. :)

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. 

There's just this one thing, but I've got to say it - the letters may be weak, deflated - I'll pump those shits up until they're bound to pop. Rivulets of window water rebel against the small part of my mind that is awake, screaming whispers of revolution. Ain't no revolutions around here, son. We ain't talking planets or space trash.

I'm tired of hearing the sad laments of melancholy fools. I guess I should stop talking.

See, the trouble with the whole thing is that it's like a deer head hanging on the wall. Some will shrink from it, minds creating nightmare scenes of camouflage and death. Some will just be curious, gawkers at a drive-by, vicariously pulling that trigger, slow and easy. Some will taste the blood in their mouths, fascinated, but pretending apathy.They have their reasons. There's just one question you have to ask...

Which one will you be?

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

#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. 

The backs of her thighs are glued to a stippled, blue plastic chair. Around her, the grind of classic rock accosts the bleeping machine monotony she has gotten used to. Shift must have changed. Deb takes a sip of her vending machine coffee and swallows without tasting. Not that there's much to taste.

She stares at the window and watches streaks of rain smear the bright raincoats, umbrellas, and headlights into fantastic mosaics, beautiful glimpses of the world she now lives in - a world where nothing is in focus and everything seems to be running in fast forward ... between pauses.

When the nurse steps out, bearing her clipboard like a shield, Deb stands and nods. She picks up her purse and, feeling the sweat dry on her dimpled legs, she adjusts her coat and opens the door. 

"Miss ... Ma'am?"

The words fall like dead cartoon ducks. Deb keeps walking.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check 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. 

Petulant chainsaw grumbles blend with the odd glottal rumbling from beneath the old man's beard. He is old in body and spirit; his dreams are haunted by vague memory, aided by a whiskey lens - his dreams are old movies, missing frames snipped by clumsy popcorn pushers.

The old man gives two shits about the chainsaw and the chainsaw cares for nothing. Not the trees, not the deep, thick thigh tissue it seeks out in careless moments. The man and the chainsaw have little in common. The saw does not run on blood. It does not wake with fevered eyes. The chainsaw has never lost someone. The man has never cut down a tree. He has bitten deep into thigh flesh, but that was years ago - in a a dust mote tavern in Alaska, and even Jack London couldn't tell that story right.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check 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. 

PLEASE NOTE: IT IS HALLOWEEN. I WILL BE BACK TO COMMENT, BUT TODAY WILL BE CHAOS. I WON'T BE AS PROMPT. HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Thin droplets fall from the sky, devoured by the parched earth. All around, people smile or look up confused - this must be that wet drought they promised. And then there is the "hallelujah chorus". Rain! We have been saved. The lord must be good, and he must be up there. Just LOOK!

If he's up there, he's laughing or crying, because half an inch of rain ain't gonna do shit except make my motorcycle shinier. We need buckets of rain. We need crazy people making arks in their back yards. We need to be lighting candles and sacrificing chickens. The central valley is one thirsty place. They'll never get enough.

Don't even get me started on the cotton mouth epidemic in Mendocino County. 

Point being. This was a nice drizzle. Let's call it an appetizer. Bring on the drops that land like tiny explosions. I want to see actual puddles. I know, call me crazy. You won't be the first. I happen to like eating, though, and I'm cool with shiny motorcycles.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. IT MIGHT BE TOMORROW, THOUGH...

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. 

If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely. 

They looked toward the sky with wide, white eyes. There was a nervous chattering. The danger call sounded from every direction, and the jungle seemed to breathe - awareness and tension growing. Beneath the leaves that littered the ground, insects carried on untroubled. This would not involve them. They would benefit nicely, in fact. There would be meat for days - they would feast. 

High above the canopy an eagle soared. He watched the forest down below - heard the cries. This was not his fight either. He would catch updrafts and observe the chaos from above, wings slicing the rich air while the ground animals scrambled for hiding places and avoided clearings ripe for ambush.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!

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. 

If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely. 

Lou stood in the darkness, listening for any sound that might change his plans. There was nothing. Distant snoring that was like a blackened afternoon, low summer rumbling. He hoped he would not cross paths with them, he had no distinct plan and it frightened him. He had plans, but they swept in and out of his brain appearing brilliant, then naive, before cycling back out. He walked slowly in clean white socks. He could see the outline of things, but it was the small mistakes that would cost him. A toy kicked across the room, a box of legos knocked off a table; the small obstacles were his enemy. 

With an agonizing patience, he stood in front of the shiny silver, which gleamed in the small slice of moonlight that suddenly filled the room. The clouds had passed, and the light was loud. Lou froze and waited for a sound. Hearing nothing, he slowly opened the door, bathing the kitchen in light. There it was, at the top. The remnants of his brother's birthday cake. He would wake up to crying and time outs, but, first, he would eat as much cake as he could stuff in his mouth.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!

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.

You can write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. BREAK THE BLOG! 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 slake that thirst, I'll take your worst. But first. Let's spread this out on the table, nice even layer, fancy label, make sure everything is on the up and up. You ain't got aces in your socks, right Ace? Me? I don't wear socks. Makes me feel like my ankles are putting on airs. I ain't about to brag about my ankles. 

Squirm and pull your body away from it, the air is thick with syrup and bullshit. I don't acknowledge it. That's a damn lie, and I know it. I'm not being honest. That's not fair - who am I kidding, that's more than fair. 

Smell the sulphur on the wind, the stabs of rich, meat smoke. Listen to the babble of conversation until it streams over you, coating you in a blanket of white noise. Run your hands down your face, feel it. Look up into the sky until the stars blur into one brilliant expanse of white, and you begin to rise.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day, so I won't be able to be around as much, but rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time. 

It's fun to look back at past Fridays (FYI) SEE YOU NEXT FRIDAY! :)

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. 

You can write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. BREAK THE BLOG! 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. 

Silent underneath the wooden slats, he sits. He has been sitting. Not resting. Sitting. It is an activity that requires thought, contemplation, introspection - the man does not sit carelessly. 

He is listening. Not for any one thing, but for all things. For the smudge-wing gulls and the terns to cry out. He is listening for the sound of chatter, laughter. He does not think of himself as a guardian, but he should. He cannot guard the terns. The sand. The sun. This freedom. This chatter static. He guards the notion of simplicity. He runs his hands through sand-chunked hair. He closes his eyes and watches panoramas pass before the gentle lids.

Thanks for stopping by! See you next Friday. 

2 minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. 

You can write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. 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 all a scam. It's fixed, rigged. Hell the rigging is so complicated a sailor couldn't figure that shit out. It's all about backhand deals made in soundproofed offices. It's manipulation. You make the laws and then exploit them. Since only you understand them, since you tied those loopholes tight - fuck a sailor. 

It's gotta be strange. I don't think I'd feel right about it. Sure, it's legal. And legality ain't my trip, but it's hurtful. That's the part that would get me. It hurts other people. People who can't get a decent night's sleep because they can't put the bills away. They float in the miasma of insomnia. They'll sleep a little, sure. And it will be worse than if they'd never slept at all.

I bet it's easier to sleep in those soundproofed offices.

Thanks for stopping by! See you next Friday. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. 

You can write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. 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. 

(This was more like four minutes - it didn't want me to stop.)

He could feel it inside, a pressure - something urgent - he did his best to ignore it. He grit his teeth when he stood up, no old man sighs. He helped with the work like he always had, stacking wood, working the field, sunlight nearing sadistic. He sweat - sweat was his reward, he loved the work, the sweat, the days that passed with invisible clarity, mind detached and body pumping. But this pressure. This pressure was something. 

Clyde looked at his father and smiled. It was a sad smile filled with regret and hope and love, mostly sadness. His mouth tasted like corn silk and cotton balls. He was thirsty. 

Clyde was standing, hat off and wind pushing his damp hair back. He was enjoying the smell of the flowers his wife planted. He felt like a lucky man. He had this land, a good woman, family. He thought about rolling a cigarette, but shrugged it off. It was then that the old man fell. First, to his knees - he fell like a penitent at the end of a long journey. His fall was a baptism. He was still, on his knees, head down, arms wide. Then, just as slowly, he fell forward.

Clyde's run had left him breathless, and he could barely whisper.

"Pop..."

"Clyde, hush. Not much time..."

"You can't die!"

"Everyone dies, son. I wouldn't have had it any other way. I swear. I dreamed it this way. I love you, and you will do this land proud. You've done me proud."

"Dad, what can I do?"

Clyde was frantic now, crying.

"Hold me, son. And bury me here. Right here. And smile when you think of me. My time is over. Yours has begun. Have a son. I did, and it was the best thing I ever did."

Thanks for stopping by! See you next Friday. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. No reason. Just ending the week in style.

You can write whatever you want in the comments section. You have two minutes. 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. 

Have a good weekend!

It's like a caricature of disaster. My eyes won't cooperate, the bastards - or maybe they know more than me? Maybe there is more humanity in those two little orbs than there is in the whole rest of this fucked up world. What a load of crap. I'll punch myself later.

Me? I just want to look. Just for a second. I want to watch the slow fall that took you so long to build up to. America, you filled my head with bullshit lies and false optimism. Now, the piper gets paid. I may get screwed in the process, but at least now I can see you for what you really are. And no, I don't mean anything crazy - rest easy, CIA. I just mean that we're about to reap what we sowed. I'm afraid it's gonna be rather ugly. You get what you pay for, feel me? I'm just an observer, though. I don't pick sides because every side is populated by sycophants and assholes.

It's a battle, see. The fat, slick, suit and tie bastards have their own agenda and you're part of it, but you don't want to know what part - trust me. The poor folks are too worried about silly things like food and phone bills and getting shot. The people in the middle are just worried about how many brambles they will catch on the way down. They inch their way up, but it's like one of those horrible math problems. A snail climbs a wall 4.3 inches every five minutes, but every 1.3 hours he slips back one inch and loses ground and the world turns and who gives a fuck anyway. I mean, I like snails. Not so much when they crunch under my bare feet. I like them, though. I just don't like their ecosystem.