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.

The room was empty, and he didn’t like it. Walls white; he didn’t like that either. It was too stark a contrast. White room, white walls. Inside the boy’s head there were exploding rainbows of pain and confusion. Inside his skull, every color pulsed. He could hear them. The grumbling blue, the shrieking red. The bright green threatening to split his head. He had been in rooms like this before. He even knew why. It was supposed to calm him down. He could not tell them about the maelstrom of sickness the whiteness created inside of him.

The terror.

He heard the voice, but he told it to shut the hell up. Then another voice.

DON’T CURSE, YOU LITTLE BASTARD.

He wrapped his arms around his body and held himself. He could smell himself.

DON’T BE A BABY! ONLY BABIES CAN’T GO TO THE BATHROOM BY THEMSELVES.

Oh, the colors were awful. Worse than anything. He could feel his face peeling away from his skull. Smooth. One clean sheet of pain.

HERE’S HOW YOU TAKE THE DECALS OFF, YOU LITTLE SHIT. SLOW, EVEN. YOU CAN’T RIP IT! I WON’T GET PAID FOR WORK LIKE THIS!

YOU’RE FUCKING RIPPING IT!!!

He poked his fingers into his eye sockets and watched the bursts of white. They distracted him. His pulse slowed as if by magic. Carefully, he put his fingers into his mouth. All of them. He soaked them and rubbed saliva into the place where his face-skin used to be. Lose some skin and make some more. That’s what the magic spit is for. Rhyming is for kids, what are you, retarded?

ARE YOU RETARDED?!?

Stop it. Breathe. Slow and easy. Like the decals. He could hear that voice, too. A woman. She spoke much more gently than the man. She tried to help him. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. His back felt warm like there was a hand on it. He jumped when he realized that there was. 

He backed into the corner and watched the young woman’s lips move. No sound came out. Or not the right sounds. There was a wailing sound. There were beeps and screeches and his breath in his ears. He could hear himself live. The boy turned his head to the side and vomit poured out of him, his man-mouth.

YOU’RE DIRTY! STOP BEING DIRTY! YOUR MOTHER CLEANS THIS FUCKING HOUSE!

The young woman was moving closer one small step at a time. She had one hand in the pocket of her jacket, and he knew what that meant. He pushed himself into the wall, thinking: I will climb this wall backwards like a spider. She is small and she will never reach me. The colors started spinning, twitching. Orange, purple, yellow… He knew his colors. He knew them more than anything. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He knew that the woman’s hand would come out of her pocket, and he would have mere seconds before everything went black. He squeezed his eyes. Her shoes squeaked. White rubber, they were. White floor. When she got close enough…

Black. It would be black. Blank. It scared him, but it was better than the colors. He opened his eyes and smiled. Calm. Very. 

One more time around the merry.

#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 stood on the corner, cold rain dripping from his hat down the back of his neck, teasing. The breeze brought hints of garbage and rot from the alley, but the smell was almost comforting. It smelled like home. He pulled that idea out, turned it around. Played with it. Put it on the shelf. Let it ride. To be examined later. Yeah, boy, home smells like a garbage dump. For some reason, that made him smile.

He pulled a flat, glass bottle, wrapped in brown paper from his sport coat pocket and drank from it. It tasted like fire, but it wiped the smell away for a second. Pulled him further from home – to a place where he could think.

He’d been looking for the gash for two weeks now. Long after the cops gave up. Her husband was damn near frantic – had paid him ten grand in crisp hundreds, and he wondered about it. How deep would this run? How tight was the cliché? What were the sticking points? And who was he? 

A wannabe detective?

Naw, just a man who could do things in the neighborhood that other men couldn’t.

He knew she was alive. That was one of many differences between him and the cops. He also knew they’d never find her.

His apartment was small, but the walls were soundproofed.

#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.

Am I thinking? Yes, I am thinking. I am lost in a field of reminiscence. The smell of sunlight on the dry grass is overpowering. I know you are right behind me, although I can’t hear you. You’re so damn quiet. Makes some people nervous. Not me. I wonder about it, though. But I know you won’t appreciate the question, and I don’t know if I have the guts to ask, regardless.

You smell that?

Yeah, I smell it.

Nice, huh?

Yup.

And my mind is creating flowcharts, letting imaginary conversations blossom and grow firm and full on the stalks of social ambition. You are not interested in me. You look, but you do not see. I get that. I can hear it in the way you breathe. I can see it in the light, soft sneaker prints you leave. I don’t want anything more than you are willing to give. You are company on a day that is filled with silence. I’ll take what I can get.

We walk and walk. And, soon, we are at the creek. You call it a crick. I wish I did. But my accent is all fucked up from bouncing around the country. It doesn’t matter though. Not to either of us. You are content to enjoy the silence. I am content to let you be content.

I’m going to be moving in a few weeks.

I throw it out there, like a line with too much weight. I wonder if it will make a splash. But you don’t say anything. I am prepared to accept that, but then I look over and see you shaking with anger.

You’re leaving?!?!

Yeah, I don’t want to.

When did you find out? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?

I found out a few months ago. I didn’t tell you because … I don’t know. I was hoping it would go away.

We stare at each other and suddenly the trickle of water is overpowering. So loud. I want to cover my ears. 

(She is crying softly.)

I won’t forget you.

I smile.

I won’t forget you either.

But that is a lie. A flat out lie. She doesn’t know it, but I do. My brain has gotten good at this. Sever and cauterize. Don’t look back. Don’t open your eyes. Stumble blindly forward. Are you there? Can you hear me? Who am I even talking to?

But for that day, for a moment, I pretend it’s true. Sure, we’ll write. Sure, we’ll stay friends. Sure, the summer will never have to end ...

#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.

We were mighty then. Thumbs looped through ragged belt-loops, lips supporting dangling fags. We were fearless. But we were so afraid. Oh, how the mighty fall. Oh, the mountainous bullshit of it all. Here’s my pager number. Give it a call. I’ll meet you at the corner. 

Trust me, we’ll have a ball.

Folly. Volley. Pass it to me, and I’ll pass it back to you. Too young to know the truth – never too young to scream. FUCK! YOU! I can drink a forty in less than forty seconds. As long as it’s warm. 

Can you? 

Who the fuck cares? 

We care. 

Why? 

Bored. 

Why? 

Defenseless. 

Hear that distorted minor chord?

I’m gonna use it to beat you senseless.

And fuck you and your jock-ass friends. We came here to make amends. To sway and lean against each other, friends. We came for support. This ain’t a contact sport. This is important – why don’t you understand how important this is? I’m staring out over a hundred heads, sweating. But they’re not picking up what I’m laying down. They’re taking. 

What are they getting?

Are you aiding? Or abetting? Or will you strike a pose of supposed righteousness with me and my crew? We’re half chicks, and we’re not going to fuck with you. That’s not what we do.

Slugs off the whiskey tit? Sure, I’ve had a few.

How can there be such beauty in self-destruction? I’ll tell you, but you won’t listen. But I’ll tell you anyway.

Look. There’s only so much anger one boy can absorb. There’s only so much pain you can pretend to ignore. It’s got to go somewhere. And I didn’t want it hurting anyone else. So, I took one for the team, blood running down my arm in one long, thin scream.

I’m not saying it’s noble. It’s fucking retarded. You think I don’t know that? You think I didn’t know that then?

I didn’t know any other way to get them to listen.

And it didn’t even work.

I’m not Christ. It was selfish. But at least we weren’t busting heads in the pit. At least I wasn’t calling some kid a faggot because that’s what my Dad called me. Naw, I blew those brain cells away with stagnant, pulsing apathy.

You’re welcome.

It didn’t do anybody any good, but it didn’t do much harm. Put that on my tombstone. Carve THAT onto my fucking arm.

“He didn’t do much good, but it could have been a whole lot worse.”

Now, I gotta go. Show’s over. My ride’s here. And, yeah, I know it looks like a hearse.

One more chorus. Fuck the verse.

#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 don't think about you often.

But sometimes I do. 

Sometimes, I can remember the soft, forgiving darkness and forget that you alway, always, always fucked me over in the end. 

Sometimes, my mind can tuck its feet under its chin. 

And gee golly jumping beans ...

It all seemed so neat. 

Simple. That's what it seemed. As simple as a pissed-off polecat. Simple as a desperate, hungry hobo in a Woody Guthrie song. 

Sometimes I'm so sorrowful.

See, I played along.

And it did all start with one dance. One song. One young man's realization that you could stop everything. Just for a little while. And the consequences would be dire, but that was part of the fucking point, man!

And it was soft at first. The repercussions gentle. Yet to become concussions, sinful. Years until it would find us bent over a sink in the morning, puking shot after shot of bourbon into the rust-stained steel until one stayed down. Eyes watering. Couldn't even smoke a cigarette right. Then, one more. 

Then, the pain starts to go away. 

Then the blackness returns. 

Oh, Jesus, how we danced. Gee golly, son. It was like a goddamn movie. And a bad one, at that - poor acting. Shabby actors. 

So, it's something I think about. And I miss it the way you miss acne. But I remember that it was a sword with forty edges. The sharpest one, control. It let you feel like you were in it: sexual, buried to the hilt inside some wet, soft place. Smelling of freshness. Like a fucking drier sheet commercial. 

With sex. 

But I don't think about you often. You seem like a woman I once knew. One I barely remember until, randomly, I catch a whiff of perfume on the breeze.

And freeze.

And make myself breathe.

#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.

Can’t you feel the sharp edges on your words? I know my ears are fucked, but they’re not that bad. They’re not whetstones. You think I’m putting a good edge on your syllables before they hit the old ear canals? 

Please.

Don’t they taste bad, those words? They have to. I imagine they taste like battery acid. Probably burn like acid, too. But they’re effective. My brain feels lacerated, septic, and I don’t really care to keep talking about it anymore to be honest.

Mission accomplished.

Show me a cool, dark cave, and I’ll go live there. You can visit every once in a while. Make sure I’m not wearing animal skins or making mannequins out of small, sharp bones. Those will cut you just as quick as words. 

Lonely or not.

Maybe it’s a problem inside of me, but I think it would behoove both of us to look inside ourselves. Your shit is real important; I get that. My shit is my shit, so why should it concern you?

Let’s be sensible; it’s the reasonable thing to do.

So, on that note, I’m taking my leave. You can keep yapping away, shooting darts into the space I used to occupy. I’m going to be up high, past the stars, beyond the sooted sky.

Or I’ll find a place where people let their words be soft, round. Where people speak, but I don’t have to run from the sound. You got wares to sell, clearly. And your poker face works. 

Nearly...

Just not on me. I’m gonna go make a shield out of my words, now. You laid down the gauntlet. But you don’t get to make all the rules.

Fool.

#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...