2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

I was the man, and I woke up. The man who had been me was hiding. I was the third person in a room full of first and second people. There was a pounding in my temples. He was scared. I was scared. You were scared. I was the man, and the man was scared.

You don’t want to know about it. And I don’t want to tell me. I don’t want to hear about it – all the things I try to sell me. She wasn’t the catalyst; she was one more glimpse of nothingness and mist. She was me, and I was her. Always screaming. So demure.

We all brought us here. We brought me, and I brought you. The whole gang came, and then we were two. And you don’t want to step when I roll with my crew. We’re four steps behind and one step ahead. And we don’t have time for you. Just the thoughts in our heads. 

I don’t have time for me, and he never did either. He being me. 

“You’re still alive,” they said. I smiled, fevered. I never thought I was dead. I never thought about it at all. You tried to live without it, and where did that get we? You and me.

I can’t be alive, and I can’t be dead. I won't stop listening to the voices in my head. 

They’re entertaining.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

The shadows get longer and, still, you sit. You scratch your head and listen to the vast silence that isn’t one bit silent. You watch the herons dip and glide and you wonder if they’ll ever stop. You sure hope not. But it seems like everything is changing so fast. Shit’s on fire; shit’s flooding. The President is huffing and puffing, but really he’s doing nothing. Or doing the wrong things. Because he’s sure doing something. And you don’t like it. And the herons don’t give a shit.

But that’s just because they’re not sentient.

If we could make all the animals sentient, they’d storm the White House in droves. In flocks. In stampedes. In murders. In herds. It would be like the big, white house was Noah’s ark and the floods scared them all shitless.

But they just keep on keeping on. Witless. While we bear witness.

Meanwhile, we take the land and shit on it. We grin and think nothing of it. Didn’t we learn anything from the Exxon Valdez? From the Dust bowl? From the shit we used to spike the global punch bowl.

Your stomach is clenching up, so you watch the shadows creep and try to breathe. You need to get home, but can’t seem to leave. And your throat burns. Your eyes tear up. You try to pretend it’s the smoke, but smoke doesn’t hurt this much. And you feel like an ingrate because you got off easy. And so many are suffering. And at the top of the mountain, the Naked King is blustering.

So, you get on your bike and ride home. You hug small people and get scared. And you’re so grateful they’re small enough to remain mostly unaware.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

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

They weren’t worried.

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

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

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

“And then what?”

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

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

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

“We did the right thing?”

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

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

“Yep. No choice.”

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

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

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

They stopped walking and dropped hands to light a cigarette.

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

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

“I think you took my answer.”

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

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

Tell me to keep marching, but I won’t. I got Phil Ochs in my pocket, and we’re through with the fucking marching. I’m sick to death of it. I don’t want to be a good soldier; that was never my aspiration. I aspired to a certain honest dignity and that meant no marching. Not unless fish-related and on my terms. I don’t march for anybody but me. On that, and many other things, Phil Ochs and I agree.

I’m not going to get my gun. Not that I have a gun, but I’m not even going for the metaphorical quick-draw. I told you. I’ll go fishing. You make the cole slaw. Not because I said so – that’s like telling someone to march. No, just make it because it will taste good with the fried bream, and we can both do our part.

I don’t want to see the tomb of the unknown soldier. I don’t want to go back to Gettysburg. I’ve been there. I just wanted to sit in the grass, but they kept telling me it was greener from the blood spilt. Which seemed like a lot of bullshit at the time. Still does. I won’t address it. Lincoln beat me to it and did it better than I ever could.

I just want to do what I should.

And that’s a bold statement for a wannabe misanthrope to make, but you get what you get and you take what you take. If golf is a good walk spoiled - like Twain said - then life is an interesting adventure tainted by the screaming of hypocrites and liars. I don’t want to be thrown into that patch of briars.

I just want to hug my girls, love my wife, write, and catch a fish every so often. There’s not a lot of time for anything else. So, I'll fight my battles. Stop trying to enlist me in yours.

#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 get as mad as you want - hell, your head can explode and I'm not going to be able to stop laughing, I know that, laughing like the goddamn devil handed me a plate of fancy cheeses.

It will start off with a chuffing, a goofy grin I can't control. While you intertwine your features, yearning to be droll. 

Then a chuckle played off as a cough. Gentle. Soft. 

But there's a point where, Jesus Christ, you'd have to have no fucking soul not to laugh at that. A man puts himself on a pedestal so high. And I don't claim any physical rigor, but I'm two minutes quick on the flash fiction trigger.

So, that's why I'm laughing. That's all I wanted to say. It's like the whole world's goldfinches, and you're a mangy old jay. 

#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 figure it's time to take stock. I look in the mirror and things have certainly changed, but at least I can still make eye contact. I haven't broken that contract. And it's not even about that. It's not about me. Not from what I can see. I'm just a jumbled rubber band ball of subtle faults and guilt trips. Long ones.

I should have packed my luggage. 

You want to be a shit about it? I don't. I just want to look over this cliff and breathe and then get a good night's sleep. I don't want to stalk brief moments of authenticity, hard to find when everything is so sparkly. But that's something I don't have to worry about. 

Boo hoo, poor me. 

Poor you. Poor fucking you. What happened? Were you born broken? Did someone use words to chip away at you .. or was it fists? Or was it nothing? A whirlwind flurry of old couch stuffing.

I'm flying this plane right into the goddamn wall. You might as well brace your arms. It won't make any difference, but it might make you feel better, petulant. You're stagnant. I'm vibrant. We'll both fall.

Or it's a lie and I'm you and you're me, struggling for some putrid epiphany. I don't care at this point. All I know is you can go ahead and ignore the oxygen masks. 

They ain't gonna help.

#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.

There is no sadness in it - merely a sense of resignation. It wears on you like water; you can shake it off, but in the long run it will wear you down. Carve canyons through the softer parts of you. So, listen to the rain and try to just breathe. You will be sick, inside and out. You will suffer, and there will be no dignity in the suffering. You will be human, and sometimes you will not be able to rise to the occasion.

You crinkle your nose, repelled by the smell. You cross streets to avoid confrontation. You are in the fallout bunker of your mind, silently tallying canned goods. You can never be too prepared. You can never be fully ready. You have to accept these things. This is no time for giving yourself the benefit of the doubt.

Slogging through the rain, you will chuckle and shake your head. Try to tell stories to folks long dead. You can't help yourself - you grant yourself these superstitions. It's only fair. Things are complicated, and you need to find some kind of grip. 

You're slipping.

The darkness surrounds you, but you don't make a sound. You hang your head just a little bit lower. Your neck hurts just a little bit more. You move slower. You wonder where the real you went. All of this is a waste of time. The train is being driven by a blind conductor. Or maybe he can see? Just has blinders on? You'll have to ride it out to know for sure, so suck it up buttercup.

The poison is no worse than the cure.

#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.

It was a subtle terror folded in the creases of his subconscious brain. He rolled toward the campfire and pushed himself slowly onto one elbow. There was a flash of two eyes from beyond the fire - his stomach clenched, and he swore he could smell blood. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

He could smell blood.

He lay very still and his hand moved slowly to the gun beside his leg, inside the bedroll. The gun would do little except make a lot of noise, but it was all he had. In the moment and in life. The only thing he really needed. He also knew that, until his leg healed, every shot was life or death. 

He almost chuckled. Waste one? Or was it a waste? Or should he save it? The shot? His life? The questions were hard to answer because he didn't know. Couldn't remember. He just knew that he knew certain things. How to shoot. How to build a fire. How to find water. He could not recall his name no matter how hard he searched the corridors. His life was minutes old every time he checked - he was unmoored. 

And the eyes flashed.

He aimed the gun in the direction of the eyes and slowly pulled the trigger. The night exploded in a thunderclap of light. He blinked and tried to see, but couldn't. His ears rang. He had made the wrong decision. 

Now, he would have to find out what the next minute held in store...

#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.

Man, it's a long way to the parking lot. You gotta know that. You feel it in the electric buzz of your numb legs - it walks with you: the white, sparking revolt. Your brain is a ball of tapioca, it's leaking out your ears. Your bootstraps are long gone. You got nothing to pull on. 

You started out all right, had your heart in the right place. You said the right words and people listened, but, somewhere along the way, you stopped listening to yourself. I wonder why? Is it that hard to live in a world this cruel? Is that even a fair question?

Me? I've been knocked down a bunch of times. Getting up is hard, but you need to do it. Otherwise you end up staring at blinking lights and a blinking box and wondering...

She stopped loving you, and I know that hurts like hell. I've been there. But I was honest enough to realize my culpability. Sometimes you make someone stop loving you without meaning to. Without being mean, too. It just happens, whips up like autumn leaves and you can feel the red and gold fire of it.

But you got to get up. And if you can't make it past the parking lot? 

Brother, I think you're stuck.

#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.

Still too sick to play. Have at it. 

#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.

This is my stop, and I want to get off. I don't want to ride on your train no more. You got such clear eyes, where did you get them? Your hands are so soft, how do you keep them that way? Your smile is a flashbulb, turn it the fuck off. It's too early. My head hurts. Don't you understand how one small thing can kill a man?

I'm passing cornfield after cornfield, and I want to stop and look. They don't all look the same. Don't give me that shit. They don't all smell the same either. Some smell like crap and some smell like sunshine. Some smell like the apocalypse and some smell like chamomile. They all sound like wind and song. Don't look at me like that. I'm done with you.

Your clear eyes and your soft hair and that little kink in your vacant stare. It's starting to make me uncomfortable. Not in an existential way, no, I mean I can't sleep at night because my brain can't find a cool spot on this jacket bunched on rough, old wood. The damn thing keeps turning all night. Flipping and flopping. I can't shut it off. That's why I aim to get off. Just like Aaron did - you never tried to stop him.

Sure, the sky's pretty once you leave the city. Sure, the clouds float higher here. Sure, I like the folks we meet and the smiles they pass us while we eat. The problem isn't them. The problem isn't you. And it's not me. It's those clear eyes and all the things they see.

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 held the report card like it had been dipped in a urinal. I could see the heat rising, the slight twitch in her lip that seemed to pull in the corners of the room - she was a magician about to yank everything. But. I'd. Still. BE. STANDING!!! No audience, no matter. And it wasn't like this was new territory. So, I waited, choking on the smoke from the scented candles she sold and therefore felt compelled to use.

My purgatory smelled like cinnamon apples.

"Jimmy..."

And she let that ride. Held it like a high note on a Casio keyboard. And what was I going to say? Sorry, Mom, there's this girl in my class and she stole my brain, twisted it, and then put it back - the damn thing don't work right now. Can't sit still. Can't concentrate.

Sorry, Mom, I'm more worried about getting my ass beat in the bathroom. If they gave grades for holding your piss all day, you wouldn't be this kind of mad/sad that makes me wonder if it would be different if Dad hadn't died.

The light in the room flickered when Mom threw the report card on the table. Everything stopped. My heart. The world. Evolution. Probably satellite signals and animal migrations. I flinched. I didn't want to, but I did. And then I closed my eyes so hard I saw red.

When I opened them, her eyes were thick with tears. Voice, too.

"Son, it's been a hard year. I hated school. Did I ever tell you that? Got tired of being judged. And your father ... I don't know, do they make human report cards? I still miss him just as much as you do, though. He drove me crazy, but I loved him."

I couldn't move, and I didn't think I'd be able to speak until the words were already out of my mouth.

"Mom. Let's order pizza. I'll buy. I still have that birthday money from Grandma."

And that's just how it happened. The pizza was even good considering the journey it had taken. It had done it's best.

I would have given it an A+.

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.

It gets to you; it does. You wonder if you got taught a different golden rule. Maybe it's a scam? Maybe they teach everyone something different? Or maybe there are just a lot of people who want to be treated like stupid assholes? 

I don't know. It's complicated.

It makes you want to dip yourself in tar and feathers and find a tall building to fly from.

See, you weren't made for this world. You poor, silly fool. No one actually does the things they say they're going to do. Not many at least. But there are some, and that's enough. They hang like bright, plump apples among the shriveled fruit of fruitless discontent. So what you had money; that shit got spent. Where?

I'd ask my friends, but I don't know where they went. 

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.

"So, I had this dream last night. I was drunk as all hell. I just want you to know about the dream. It wasn't anything. Except weird. But I thought you should know. It brought back some stuff. I know I've said it before, but I'm sorry. I know it could have been worse, but it could have been a damn sight better. It took me away from the family. There were a lot of things I was trying to get away from, but family wasn't one of them. I wanted to be the kind of guy that was always their for their kids, their wife. It took me a while to figure out that being present wasn't the same as being there, and that wasn't fair to anyone. You. The kids. Wasn't even fair to me, really. I'm not looking for sympathy. Just blows my mind how much better things are now. God, I wasted so much time. I missed so many little moments. Didn't seem like a big deal at the time, but those moments add up. Did I ever tell you about the time Jenny asked me why I drank beer? I think she was two. It still breaks my heart. She... Hey...you listening?"

"...Hmm, yeah, hold on. I just have to finish this post."

The phone flickered in the dark room, sending weird shadows into the corners to dance and mock me. I knew I shouldn't say anything. It would just start another fight. But I did say something.

And I was right.

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! :)

#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. 

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