Ashes

There was dust in the air, dust in the cracks of the leather saddle he sat on. Dust in his boots and dust in his eyes. Ears. Hair. The whole world had become dust and, as loud as he screamed, he could only feel the tearing of his own throat. The wind took the words. The dust swallowed everything, made the world swell-bellied with a cataclysm that belied catatonia.

It was Goddamn dusty.

And dust is a misnomer ... this was sand, so fine it floated, but sharp. There were no dust bunnies, there were swirling dust disasters that cut like drill bits. Blinded the cattle. Choked the machinery. The dust was referred to as dust because "dust" seemed manageable. Even hopeful. "Dust" seemed almost silly.

He wasn't laughing.

It had a smell, the dust. Some folks claimed it didn't, but it sure as hell did. Ephraim knew the smell - it was the smell of fear and heartache and dreams destroyed. The dust was hellfire. The dust made Ephraim question his faith. What kind of God would send them storms that could strip whitewash off a fence, blind the livestock, force them to hunt cabin-gaps until it became an obsession?

The dust had a taste when he coughed it up, too. That light iron aftertaste - the grit of it was worse than the blood.

Goddamn, but he hated the dust.

He hated the dust, and he hated the whole Goddamned mess. He should have known. He would always carry that. It had seemed too good to be true, he'd known that, and it had turned out to be exactly how he feared it would be - now, they were sunk in it. Drowning in dust.

The bank owned everything. It owned Ephraim, and he would have rather sold his soul to the Devil than Jep Peters, but there was nothing else to do except watch the fat man get fatter while Ephraim's stock died, while his daughter tried not to complain about her hunger. He could see it in her eyes, in the fevers that were coming more often. The dust was killing them all, and he might as well have been shoveling it into their lungs because he couldn't stop it. Every day, the dust was worse, and, every day, he lost any ground he'd gained, fingers slipping, trying to find purchase in an avalanche of "dust" - at first they'd hidden their fear in morbid humor. Shrugged it off. There was no hiding now. And not a damn thing to laugh about.

*****

Ephraim stood by the freshly shoveled dust. His wife, beside him, spit into her handkerchief and cried silently, tears cutting fresh white swaths down her dirty face. Ephraim squeezed her hand. He thought she squeezed back. He couldn't tell anymore - where they stood - he couldn't tell about any of it. It was ludicrous. A word he'd kept and figured to never use. Mostly, he wished that the dust would just kill them all and get it over with. He was tired of waiting. Tired of burying friends. Tired of shooting his cattle. Tired of the whole thing. He'd taken to carrying his old Colt, and he didn't know why. 

Now, Annie. He couldn't live without that little face - he could see it clear as day, always smiling, always knowing that Daddy would fix things.

Goddamn it.

The preacher was doing good business, and it showed. The preacher and the mortician up to the city - both of them were doing real well for themselves. Lots of customers. His pulse stuttered.

The preacher had his sermon down now, you had to give him that. His words were fat and lofty. He did not speak the language of his parishioners. They humored him, figured that was the way God talked - all big words and theatrical flourish. Hell, when it wasn't one of yours going into the ground, it was almost a pretty good show. Almost.

Ephraim felt her weight shift, and he squeezed her hand one more time. He was hot. Not weather hot - hot from the inside. His heart pounded, and the wind screamed in his ears. He let the preacher's words wash over him, coat him like the dust. He knew it was winding down, and his hand was on the Colt before he had a chance to think about it. The weight of it felt good, true. He raised the gun as the preacher raised his hands. Tried to hold it steady, hands shaking. Tears turning his eyes to mud.

"So, we lay in one of your lambs, taken too soon. And we place our faith in the almighty goodness of God - God has a plan, and it is not for us to reason God's plans. So, we lay Annie into the ground that has nourished her these nine short years. We send her back to her maker with open hearts. Because we must. It is and always will be so. Ashes to ashes ... dust to -"

The gunshot was the loudest thing any of them had ever heard, but there wasn't one amongst them that faulted Ephraim. Some felt like cheering. It wasn't right, but nothing was right. They blamed the dust. They blamed those who could still say the word without feeling an empty sickness inside.

They did not judge Ephraim. You can't judge a man who already lives in hell.

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. 

Look at that cat, he's a humdinger. Light drips on hair shine, and the world seems so fine - goddamn, that boy can't be stopped. 

Check out that smile, it should be insured. Me, I'm inured to the wiles of the little turd. Watch him move, but don't get caught up in the swerve. He'll knock you down and you'll stand up turned around. Listen, can't you hear that sound? It's the sound of a million moon balls bouncing. 

Watch out for that man, he's not part of our plan. Look at the way he dresses, check that farmer's tan. 

Go to the funeral out of respect, it's more than the least they can expect. See if you can summon up one of them smiles. But it don't matter. 

It's a stacked deck.

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out MOST 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

Bleed

I spark the brilliant blasphemy, another bland epiphany. White room, too large walls and frost in air. You were glowing in your malignancy.

I spoke of steep towers, of canyons so deep the human brain cannot comprehend them. I went through the tubes and I kept going. I am fire and deception, the taint of smoke on hot wind. I am fear and bravery. I am striving towards a finish line, always moving, pulled by a lurid jester.

I am sad because I expected more. It's a set up, you gotta figure. You're young and you want to be old. You're old and you want to be young. I want to sing the truth of a song I've never sung.

You are cold depth.

Sitting in a booth, small town, spider-web cracks in the red, sparkle vinyl. You joked about the small juke box and I laughed, fingernails deep in thigh flesh.

I am the ghost of memory, twisted for the entertainment of no one, granted small glimpses of clutch bouquets and June mornings.

Honey, I'm tired, you say. Baby, that's alright, that's just fine. Tired is alright. That's what I say, while I hear the steel on the grindstone and imagine the depth. So deep you can't see the bottom. Can't see the heart for all the blood. But someone's gotta bleed.

There ain't a whole lot that's sure in life. But someone's always gotta bleed. You mark my words.

2 Minutes. Go!

ANNOUNCEMENT: MY BEST FRIEND IS GETTING MARRIED TODAY! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WRITE MORE THAN THIS PIECE OR COMMENT ON ANY PIECES. SORRY! I TRUST YOU WILL DO YOUR BEST TO #BREAKTHEBLOG :)

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.

Inside the bunker, there is stasis. The believers sit with legs crossed in soft linen; they are in a state of bliss - nothing matters now. They will live in the bunker for the next year. They are prepared. When they emerge, they know the world will be reborn - they will take their birthright. That's what the Leader said. In singsong voice, eyes kind and bright - the Leader has very white teeth.

They do not speak. There is nothing to say that hasn't been said before with more eloquence. The Leader does most of the talking anyway - he is, after all, the enlightened one. They are just grateful for the whole thing. For the bunker with it's rich, wet smell. Thankful for the provisions they collected. Not counting the leader, there are ten women and four men.

While they sit, the Leader breathes deeply - this is the culmination of years of planning, years of shaded lies and sanguine promises. The men will be easy to poison. The bunker is soundproof and the rest will live there as long as they can. Then, the women will die, too. The Leader will live on to preach again. He will leave when they are sleeping and lock the bunker from the outside.

He will live.

Thanks for stopping by! 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 garbage truck doesn't care about you, doesn't care if you're tired. The driver might, but he might not - he's probably tired, too. Sure, it's easy to look around you and see 'just miss' flashes of mystery; it can even make you question your sanity. It will all wash out in time, that you need to believe - not because it's true, but because life is too hard not to believe it.

Today is a day for smiling into the moment, filling every space you see with cheer; whether it's real or not, you owe it to the world. Not every day, but today. Because one day is something you can wrap your mind around. Like basic arithmetic. It doesn't have to be hard unless you make it hard. And that's a lie, too, but today is a day for letting the world smile and lie to you. You ask me? The world throws back pretty powerful reflections. 

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out MOST 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. 

"He recognize you?"

"I reckon."

The men folded themselves in silence, sealed themselves off. They smoked cigarettes that lingered, proffering ash like broken twigs. Grandma ash. That's what they'd called it. Back when they'd laughed about things.

"Well. Shit."

"Yup. Shit is about right."

There was a bottle of bourbon between them and the level dropped steadily, barometric. Their eyes stung and they squinted, but they did not move. They were lumps of plasma glued to old wooden stools and their backs ached, but they had long ago become accustomed to the ache.

"But I like the fucking guy!"

"You like him? Fucking hell. He coached Leroy's t-ball. Hell, I've BBQ'd with the motherfucker."

Inside the room, there were no clocks. No windows to admit the twinge of morning. They were in a void, and they did not want to leave. There are good and bad parts of any job. They were postponing one of the bad parts, but it was no longer possible. They had to act. If not, the boss would call and it would be them leaving kids with no Dad to throw the ball around with.

"We'll kind of take his boy under our wing, maybe? Not get him into the life - I mean, we should look out for him. Like Uncles or some shit. This is so fucked. You sure he saw you?"

"What, I'm retarded?"

Both men shook their heads slowly. They stood stiffly, checked the cold, black guns that would seal a man's fate. He would give his life because they'd make a mistake. That was the worst part. It dug at them like a deer tick. Their mouths were dry. The room smelled like a rodeo.

"We might as well fucking do it. You think he knows we're coming?"

"Yup. But he won't run. He'll be waiting. Maybe we'll tell him about how we're gonna look after the boy. God, but I wish I hadn't lifted that mask."

"Mistakes happen."

"I reckon you're right. I just don't like when I'm the one making them. Not like we got a choice. He's a good man, but that don't matter a damn. We've killed lots of good men. This one knows our names? He knows how we like our burgers? So what?"

The walk to the car was slow, as was the drive. The bullets were much faster, but they would never stop hearing the man's last words - that would be a low, grinding torture - one they deserved:

"I never would have suspected. Guess I'm a fool. But you stay the fuck away from my boy. You ain't doing anyone any favors, and I ain't taking the sting out of this for you. You want to do me a favor? You forget he exists. He don't need you. Nobody needs you. You're trash. Bastards."

Sure, the bullet was fast. As they drove away, they couldn't help thinking about bullets, though. Fast as they were, they were still too slow.

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