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!

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 an old man now, and I don’t want to open it up, but I don’t want it to stay shut. I’m tired of these conflicting narratives. Because either I’m insane or we are not on the same page. And I’m a little crazy, but I’m not insane. My memory works surprising well. For traumas at least.

I don’t remember too many good times. I’m not saying they didn’t happen, but I’m saying you’ve got the balance twisted. I suffered because when you shoved, I resisted. When you balked, I insisted.

I’d like to blow the whole thing up, but I’d be crushed if you still missed it.

I’m sorry you didn’t get what you were looking for – that’s a frustrating feeling. I know. But I also know that you didn’t do too bad with the old dice toss. I’ve seen worse. And what I feel is loss.

I was angry for so long, and it didn’t serve me well. Now, I’m spinning circles in a wildflower field, thinking.

What. The. Hell?

That’s the part that makes me feel lost. I’ve been so many places that I didn’t come from any of them. And we all just pretend that’s normal.

It’s not normal. And it’s not cool now. And it certainly wasn’t cool then.

That’s probably why I picked up a pen. It’s the only way I can come close to getting Pandora’s box open. Get Someone to listen.

I can do tricks. I don’t know if anyone is entertained except me, but fuck you, because I do the shit for free. And that’s bad on me. I’m an idiot. You were right about that. You just didn’t know what kind of idiot I was. Not all of us idiots are bad.

I could have been the best idiot you ever had.

Instead, we circle each other forever. No one willing to throw the first punch. And I know now that it’s never going to happen. And that it’s going to get worse. Because when memory falters, we are all cursed.

And there will come a day when your idiotic self will lose all the filters you ever had – threadbare as they were. You will become the myth as you mature. Or you will stop pretending, and then I will wish I had never wished any of this.

Old man. You’ve done good things with your life. I’ve done some shit with mine. Yours looks better on paper. But I like mine just fine.

Let’s leave it like this. There have been days when the sun was like one long hug and the water was cool. There have been days where we laughed together at the absurdity of everything, and we stopped laying bricks in the wall for a few hours. That doesn’t make it all gravy, but it adds spice. Or counters the spice. Something.

It makes it more palatable.

I’m not mad, and I don’t want an apology. I have things I could apologize for, too. And that’s what I learn at the end of this trip.

You can’t walk together if you won’t share your shoes.

And you’re always afraid to lose. 

#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.

Beyond the sun-bleached hills, there lies a lake where, legend has it, a young boy once drowned. You can find them there in the summer now, the kids. And you can judge their personality by their proximity to the water. That group of kids trying to look tough and smoking cigarettes at the picnic tables by the parking lot? Those are the chicken-shit kids. They act like they’re not, but the lake is pretty and they prefer being next to the port-o-shitters. The kids on the grass? They know. They know it might be true. The kids that make it to the water’s edge won’t go in the water no matter how hot it is, but they know nothing is coming for them on the land. Then, there are the kids who either know and don’t give a fuck, know and give too much of a fuck. Or are just plain stupid. Or practical.

Their parents are cardboard bread people. They breathe in air and breathe out hypocritical, pseudo-episcopal nonsense.  They never mention the boy who may or may not have drowned. They are far more interested in comparing their trucks, talking about how many hours they work in a week, bragging about their lack of supplication to “the man” and planning extramarital affairs or interventions. They like the things they hate. And they yell at the things they love. Except for the ones who do it differently, but they are so few as to be statistically meaningless. 

The town is just a goddamn town. Two McDonald’s, two Starbucks, and one of every other fast food chain. A fancy restaurant. A roughneck sports bar that serves beer and wings. One diner. One café. One bookstore. Thousands of little old women reaching one yellow eye through the one-inch gap in the curtain that keeps the world out. The adults have given up completely. They don’t know it. What to call it. And, besides, they think it’s for the best. But I’m not here to mince words. You asked. So, I’m going to tell you. 

The High School football coach is loud and crass, but he has a good heart. He doesn’t mean to send kids to the hospital because their pupils are fucked and they can’t stop puking. He just likes him some football. Likes a good hit. There’s a painter in the town that won’t talk to anyone. She puts on airs and wears French clothes and has more money than most everyone else, but everyone hates her paintings. Objectively. They’re terrible. But valuable. The minister never molested anyone, but the town’s piano teacher has been doing it for years. 

There is one movie theater, and it’s old and rusted. There is one kid who sits in his room on 4chan, listening to metal, and wondering if he could ever shoot up his high school – he bets he could. He might. There is one mortuary and one cemetery where the dead kids will go. There is an ice cream parlor where the kids go when they want to hang out. And there is one donut shop where they go when they are high and paranoid and want to hang out. That, or the Rapid Roy. 

There is one town drunk … he’s from central casting. Looks like Woody Guthrie’s corpse and walks around talking about who all took his money. (The liquor store.)

There are 867 men who beat their wife and/or children. There are 134 women who do the same. There are 1,324 who would give their last dime to a neighbor in more need than themselves. There are a whole lot of people who are just cardboard. They get soggy when wet and love their TV sets. 

There is a combination sporting goods/toy store. 

There are wild things. There are few enough people that the wild things didn’t have to go too far, and the kids grow up knowing to watch their ass at all times. And not just because of the piano teacher. 

There is a tragedy that settles on this tin pan town when the sun goes down. There are tears that fall and memories that falter. There is one prostitute, but with what she’s been through, you can’t fault her. She is the queen of the black night. But it is in the twilight hours that the town is at its most vile – its most treacherous. That is the hour of the wolf and everyone can hear them howling through the forest that surrounds them, and the dry hills, and the lake, and the football coach. 

When you pass this town, you say a prayer – God, help all those people out there. They’re dying. Or they are doing just fine. 

Four more kids OD on fentanyl - add them to the list. 

There is a pair of osprey that live in the tallest tree that rims the lake. The ospreys don’t give a shit about any of the people. 

They're just fishing.

#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.

Get back to your station! You have been deceived by the smell of wildflowers; it is as they predicted. You feel dizzy because of the color. The earth tones of your station will be soothing after that. Can't you see color is an assault? You didn't ask to feel this way. You are longing for the comfort of your too-old swivel chair. There's no shame in it. In fact, the one with the silver hair on his temples is damn impressed by your gumption. 

Damn impressed.

But you need to look at this rationally like we do. Sure, you're not allowed to listen to music anymore. And the taste rationing is hard - makes eating a chore. That's new, and that's rough. But what good was it doing you? None! It was filling your mind with trifles that distracted you from what was really important. And the food was bad because it felt good. Remember, if it feels good, it's probably some form of treachery. 

Here's a brand new headset. The last one was broken - no - I don't care how it was broken. We're just going to overlook that, OK? And you can leave one hour early today. The man with the silver hairs wants you to go home and relax. Plug into your soothebox. Put your velvet eye-mask on. Retreat into darkness.

There's no shame in retreat. 

#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.

He looked at the old man's face and saw a twinkle in his green eye. The one that wasn't an opal  - the one that wasn't framed by thick, red scars. It'll grow son, trust me. But the boy didn't trust him. Didn't know him. He had been shuttled between houses and families and some were good and some were bad - this old man? He just seemed sad. Sad in a friendly way, but sad. And he was playing a joke on the boy. The dry ground wanted nothing to do with them until they were dead. The boy knew that. But the old man had fed him well and told him stories, so he figured he'd humor the one-eyed man. Respect his elders.

The boy dug with the small shovel until the man grunted. The grunt was clearly a signal. The sun overhead was hot and the boy thought, again, how stupid ... whatever, he'd been the target of worse jokes. Bigger bullies. He dropped the seed in the hole he'd dug. Poured the jug of water. A wide circle around the mound of dirt like the man told him. Then, they went back inside. The man had said something about fishing. It all sounded corny as hell.

Foster homes foster poor short term memory. When the boy woke up the next day, he was not thinking about the seed, and the man did not mention it. It rained heavy that week and they stayed inside for the most part, enjoying the sound of the drops on the roof, speaking rarely.

On a Friday morning, the boy awoke before the man. He went out back to start his chores, but his eyes were snatched by green. Clear as day, rising from the dirt, a sprout of new, fresh green. The boy turned with wide eyes, planning to get the man, but somehow he was already behind him. The boy wondered how long he'd been staring. Must have been longer than he thought. He hadn't realized his eyes were wet. 

The man laughed: See, son? I told you. I won't ever tell you nothing that's not true. You can count on that.

The boy repeated the words in his head; they were warm and soft. 

You can count on that.

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! 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 traded my best shit with Joey because I just didn't care anymore. And he was always hopping up and down, wanting to trade this for that. A clean bolt for a nickel. Five bucks for a peak at his dad's Playboys. He wanted to trade everything. And he was never generous, but I gave up - like when the undertow grabs you and you just gotta swim with it until you can angle back in. Only, with Joey, I planned on swimming period - never coming back in. Live the rest of my life with dolphins or something. Not a solid plan, but I was thinking funny because I knew Joey had notions. 

People said stuff about Joey, but I figured it was rumors for a long time. Then, I saw him lift a few magazines and some candy bars down to old man Thompson's store. And leave smiling with the old man hollering after him, "say hi to your folks for me, y'hear?" And he didn't even keep all the magazines. And he didn't say hi when we saw his folks. And those magazines? Some, he threw right in the trash out front where old man Thompson was sure to see them at the end of the day.

I couldn't see the sense in that. 

Things got worse as summer drew out into a long, fiery, white blaze. The air smelled like dust, and I was ready to get doing something. I told Joey as much and he came to my window one night with a baby raccoon. No idea where he got it. I didn't want to know. I saw his eyes. 

So, I told him I felt sick, 'cause I did. And the next day I traded him all my stuff. And a few days later, Dad sat us down for the announcement. And that was the first time I was glad that he lost a job and we'd be moving. 

I didn't even say goodbye. 

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! 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.

Eyes so big, I'd hate to see you startled - I'd never do it, never scare you, never pull shady tricks on you. You gotta know that. You got small town bullshit covering you like sawdust. Time to shake the dust. Where we're going the buildings are diamonds. The whole goddamn city is like a Christmas service - just louder. 

You won't believe it, baby. Ain't no fucking diner where we're going, and you're hands ain't gonna be all dry and scabby. You got those eyes, and that ain't all you got. That hair, like a smudge of sunset. Curves, but not too much. They're gonna love you. You're gonna be a star. The best kind of star. Low pro. They'll all know your face, but not your name. That's mine, Jenna. Only you and me know that. Once we get to the city your name is Angel. You are one. You know that, right? You'll feel more legit in furs, dropping hundred dollar tips one everyone you see. Trust.

And you'll stay with me. I got a penthouse baby. California king. You can see two bridges from my window, draped like tennis bracelets - like the water's the court and the net just ... bling. You wait 'til you see it. You can get high and stare at those lights for ever and ever. Now, come on, honey. Shake that dust. It's time to shake the world. 

There's just one thing...

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

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