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 forest canopy cut the sunshine, but it was too quiet. The animals did not like it. They burrowed into holes and screeched and sought out caves and dark places. The mottled light did not entice them - it seemed to be part and parcel with the irregularity. The ... something. A change in the air, perhaps?

The animals were not happy.

A young boy ran through the leaves, oblivious. The animals knew the boy and welcomed him, but they wondered why he wasn't seeking shelter, hiding - why he wasn't sharpening his claws. The animals enjoyed the boy's antics, but they did not understand him. 

In the thick of the forest, two men with hardhats smoked cigarettes. They were surrounded by old butts and empty coffee cups. They did not consider this littering; the whole thing would be gone soon enough. They were cold and wanted to be at home. So, they waited. When the men in suits showed up, and the papers were signed, they went home.

The younger of the two men took money out of the bank and headed for his favorite bar. The older poured himself a glass of bourbon and tried to hold back his tears. But he couldn't, and he rode them through the years.

He had grown up playing in those woods. He had kissed a girl for the first time in those woods. The first time he had ever gotten drunk had been beneath the benevolent boughs that cut summer light. He tried to unclench his jaw, but he couldn't. He could hear her in the other room. She was talking to the designer or the landscaper or someone. Someone who was going to turn their cabin into a magazine spread. He drank his bourbon and frowned.

She came into the room, and he was sleeping. She woke him with a kiss and a smile. 

"It's all coming together! I can see it. Wait until you see it!"

He nodded. She deserved this, even if the forest didn't deserve its fate. It didn't matter. It had been his mistake - he'd been trying to make up for it for years. He never could. The money would make her happy. Or something close to happy - the cabin would shine. It would give her something to show her friends. Maybe it would erase the memory of her public humiliation. Twenty years, but it still felt fresh. And he still couldn't forgive himself.

She would go to sleep. And he would take his shotgun to the woods. And the animals would know their fear was justified. And she would find a new man to live in the cabin - one who appreciated a good color scheme. 

And so, he left late at night. And he made the forest quiet. With a blast of light and sound that stilled everything.

The animals were not happy. They knew the old man, too. 

#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.

I work too hard, and I'm too high strung - I'm afraid I'm going to burn out young. And I remember when I didn't care, but it seems like a long time ago. Now, I want my daughters to have a Dad as long as possible. I knew a lot of girls who grew up without Dads. It's infuriating though, to find the medicine and then find out that the copay is so goddamn high. Guess I'll stay low. Easier to lift little ones onto your shoulders that way.

I've got a trunk full of long-expired Afrin and Mini-Thins. If you have a bottle of whisky, you can be my friend. I see him in dreams, sitting in the corner of a room, smoking. He wasn't happy. He was not-sad. Numb. There's a big difference. I've sold enough of my brain. Frankly, I'm surprised I can work a computer sometimes. I can sure as hell take back pain.

Sorry, Doc.

What I can't take is any more chances. I didn't see any of this coming. There was no Disney drummer drumming. There was freedom in the apathy. But it got damn lonely. So, I'll keep throwing away old shit when I find it. I'll keep that mental tape so I can rewind it. Remind myself that it wasn't fun most of the time. Most of the time it fucking sucked, but I convinced myself it was fine.

This? Hell, now things suck some of the time, but most of the time I'm styling. Coming home from a long day to three smiles smiling...

Yeah, this got sentimental fast, and that wasn't my intention. And I'm sure that there's still a lot of shit that I forgot to mention. But I got two minutes and my brain's still asleep. So, you get what you get. I'm going to try to keep what I can keep.

#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 bang your head against as many walls as you want - ain't gonna hurt the walls. Not if they're well made. Your head might hurt. Heads are made well, too, but it's like comparing cannonballs and cantaloupe. So, yeah. Stop it already. And quit looking for the most confusing trail through the forest. Stop sniffing for invisible gas leaks. Relax while you sleep. Hell, if your teeth were made of diamonds, you could bite through a lead pipe the way you clench that jaw.

Stop trying to play shit off like no one saw. 

You think they're that naive? You think there aren't more coherent lies to believe? I think you should focus more on the birds swinging electrical trees. You want a new car because your old one had bald tires?

What the hell are you going to do when you retire?

You hurt so much; you feel angry for no reason. Why are you so guilty if you did nothing wrong? You silly bastard. I'd like to cut you some slack, but I put my knife away. We can try again another day. Until then, you just keep putting one foot behind the other. Fake a pratfall. They'll love it. People crave that shit. And maybe it will shake things up a bit. Make them feel human.

You're a sad sight, wringing your hands like that. Pretending it's the cold because you don't want them to know. Hiding in drugstore shadows because you don't want anyone to see. Why don't you step out into the light? Let it be what it is. No one gives a shit. Period. And until you accept that, you're going to have weird dreams and heartburn.

Or go see your doctor. She has a magic notepad that fixes everything.

#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 open your eyes to two big, soft expanses of truth, thin blonde hairs against your cheek - your subconscious, resting, does not need any reminders about this. The rest of life is still an enigma, this is not. A small body climbs into the warm bed, and you hope she'll sleep so you can hold her. She moves so fast these days. 

The house is sleeping, and you hear the creak of old wood, the heartbeat of family, the slap of limbs against the eaves. This is a dark green time. A time to close your eyes and try to decide what pancakes taste like. You've always wondered, for they are just the canvas. 

Everything around you is just the canvas, and you smile, think: we have painted well.

And you know the day will unfold with quiet moments, loud, sudden arguments and petty grievances: this is life. You know it. So, enjoy the moment, for you never know how long it will last. 

Another Christmas, still snug in it's chrysalis, is tapping on the door. You smile, wondering what's in store. Commercialism, sure. We've messed Christmas up pretty good. But there will also be games and jokes and simple things - damn important things.

You do the best job you can. I will do the same. It's all we can do. And a massive feat. But I'm slipping, dipping. Call me a cheat.

Right now, there are pancakes to eat. 

#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...

Dark, Now Light

I close my eyes and the blackness is tepid. Green blinking lights intrude, turning the ambient red into a schizophrenic obsolescence. This is the price I pay for having internet access. Goddamn lights. And it's never dark enough here. The neighbor's bathroom light antagonizes me. And I whine, I moan, I tumble in the covers and groan. I am surrounded by love, but feel all alone.

I want to punch my emo face to pieces. It's not just you. I annoy me, too.

I want to be one of those guys who doesn't give a shit, but I give a shit about so many things. And the glimpses of beauty I see - I wouldn't trade them for the world, but they are also a harsh reminder of ugliness. And I know, I don't know the half of it. Poor me. I'm going out to eat worms.

I remember when things were different. Because there is a way to make things dark as the bottom of an old country well. But it didn't turn out well. It was a carefree hell; I don't even have an adequate way of explaining it. So many rocks and hard places. I've used that line before, and I don't give a fuck.

Things are easier if you don't care, but it's hard not to. I know how to turn it off, but the tradeoffs aren't worth it. So, I lie in bed and my eyelids filter green and red and fluorescent nightmares.

But, fuck this.

Everyone has a hard life. At least everyone I know. So, I'm going to keep looking at the light. The sun. The flash of smile from the two best things I've ever introduced to the world. I'm going to try to wrap my brain around my thoughts so I can put them on paper. And we can all share the cost.

Light can kill darkness, but damn if the darkness isn't strong. It's like a constant gnawing pain. It's like being lost in a cold forest at night. You know there's nothing to worry about, but that doesn't calm the stomach. That doesn't stop me from thinking, holy shit, all my friends are suffering. I have no right. I have lots of wrong. It's been too long since I've written a song.

Life is a battle, and the enemy is different for everyone. For me, it's a fight for optimism in the face of cowardice. I am not a superhero. Hell, I'm not even the dorky disguise. I'm just a guy.

Tonight, I will cover the green lights and hope my neighbor snuffs her bathroom light early. I will hope that I don't clench my teeth all night, but I probably will. I will remember that life was easier when it was all one dark blur, but that it was a cop out. And that I missed out on a lot.

Life isn't supposed to be easy. It isn't supposed to be anything. It is what you make of it. And I'm getting out the glitter and glue. I'm going to paint a rainbow that includes every goddamn hue. And I'm going to try and smile when I see you. Shake your hand. Forget about light and dark for a while and just live in the dawn and twilight.

I will try to be the hawk waiting patiently on man's electrical tree. Rain or shine. I will sit vigilant. Waiting for the slightest movement. Glad that I don't have to kill. I will spread my arms and pretend at buteo silhouettes. I wanted to write a nice story, I swear. I have regrets.

Regardless, this is what you get.

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 drank wine while she cooked, and she always insisted on making dinner. And, certainly, no one thought of complaining. And she would tell them. Stay out of the kitchen while I'm making dinner. And hours would fall while she concocted dishes that smelled like symphonic need. Hell, the whole family agreed.

She did make the wine stay out of the kitchen.

Thus, it is hard for anyone, even me, to say. Hours. That's a lot of time, but they never thought about it. They had work to do -  had balls to throw and fields to traverse, and they were always going forward, never in reverse. 

The house was neat and orderly like a catalogue house. She had hiding places. These were for the vodka. Bottles of vodka snuggled in the linen closet beneath piles of blankets. She kept a bottle in every room. Behind a bookcase. In the back of a closet that no one ever looked in. Safe.

She was a perfect statue of poise and grace. Always. I can picture her now. Neighborhood barbecues. She stood tall, proud, hair that went from blonde to grey. The right way. She never put on weight. She wore stylish slacks and blouses. She laughed. Everyone loved her.

She did not laugh alone. She did not love herself.

Once the details were arranged, the kids decided to go through the house. Keep the treasures, give the rest to Goodwill - sell the house and split the profits. 

And then they found the first bottle. 

By the end of the day there was nothing to say. Shy tears hung to quivering eyelashes. The house smelled of chain-smoking. 

And they sat, wine glasses in hand, wondering how much one can really bottle up.

#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...