We’ll Call This 300

This time, Greg doesn’t go to the Wordpile.  He knows what they’ll say.

Instead, it’s through the cave, into the mines.  The walls glitter, rich veins of story, just under the diamond-hard surface.  His memories of the mines aren’t always fond – the things that seep here, the blood and tears, have a way of washing back over you.  There are the things you thought you lost.

But this is where he’s vowed to stay.  This is where he’ll toil till the bones show through.  Because underneath that rock and soot, maybe there’s something beautiful to find.

He gets to work.

To Those of You Still Reading

Hi.

So, obviously I haven’t been updating very regularly, recently.  That is in part because things have gotten a little busier around here (although still not as busy as I’d like) but more because I’ve finally got back into a regular writing habit.  I’m currently working on a play, something that will in all likelihood be used as part of a grad school portfolio in the fall (and for those of you curious about my grad school ordeal, feel free to send me an e-mail).  And, because I can only afford to dedicate a few hours a day to writing, I’ve been using pretty much all of that time and energy on this other, bigger thing.

Last week was the one year anniversary of the Two Minutes Project.  I’m very happy I made it that far.  And tomorrow, my 300th story will go up, so that seems like a pretty good place to back off for a little while.  That said, I’m not ready to retire TMP forever.  It’s more that I’m going to go on a bit of a hiatus, until I get some things sorted out, and until I feel comfortable enough about my day-to-day writing habits to take on a little extra.  I’ll continue to post stories here, on occasion, if the mood or an idea strikes me.  And I’ll be sure to let you know when I start up again for reals.

Just wanted to thank everyone for reading, and for your support and encouragement.  I wouldn’t have made it a week if you folks hadn’t told me you liked what you saw.  And if you’re interested in reading something longer, please feel free to send me an e-mail or put a comment up on here to that effect.  I don’t finish things all that often, and I’m terrible about going back and making things into workable, readable drafts, but whatever I’ve got you’re welcome to see.

I’ll be in touch.

Slight Inaccuracies

“Yeah, I’ve heard the songs,” says the Goat, oblivious to the summit winds.  “I get it.  You tell your story somehow, right?

“Thing is, he’s got it wrong.  He’s some tragic hero, betrayed by a friend turned scoundrel?  Nah.  I’m not daring him to get back up.  I just think he’s got the right to climb again.”

He scratches himself with his horns.  “The truth? I didn’t even mean to push him.  Pure accident.  But you get a moose to listen.  For that matter, what was a moose doing on a mountain to begin with?

“The analogy doesn’t really hold.”

The Goat And The Moose

The goat climbed the mountain claiming royalty
He looked across the land at those he deemed inferior
Began his speech demanding loyalty
Slowly revealing his jet black interior

Along came the moose who showed his might and power
Effortless, magnificent, with great technique
No one would deny this was his finest hour
He claimed his rightful spot atop the regal peak

The goat tried to usurp the throne but came up short
The moose was sturdy as a rock, the goat a feather
The goat made a proposal, his last resort
The moose kindly agreed to rule the land together

The goat stood proudly with the moose on the summit
But taking full advantage, pushed him over the edge
The goat began to taunt him saying, “Overcome it!”
“Oh no,” said Moose, “in other ways I’ll get revenge!”

Oh, I See How It Is

Something is rumblng through the fridge, clawing at the cold cuts drawer.  Greg flicks on the kitchen light, and Max hisses, his arms filled with food.

“So, what, you’re just gonna come in here and snipe my stuff?” says Greg.

“And insult you.  You spineless wretch.”

Greg leans on the doorframe.  “I get it.  You don’t want to settle this on the Word Challenge court.  That’s cool. You can hang out here, until you find your balls.”

Silence.

“I was also going to do some mudslinging.”

“I’m going back to bed.”

“I brought actual mud.”

“Clean up when you’re done.”

BROKEN PLEDGE

CARERE
VERBAL SMARTS
CARERE
CRACKS HEARTS

CARERE
DRINKS JUICES
CARERE
BREAKS TRUCES

OOOOOO OOOOOO
OOOOOO OOOOOO

CARERE (CARERE)
BROKEN PLEDGE (FEEBLE EXCUSE)
CARERE (CARERE)
MODERN BRUTUS (GRUBBY VERMIN)

CARERE

Knock ‘Em Down, Knock ‘Em All Down

“I am king now,” says 15, his voice a knot of bass, “Lane is mine.”

“Hey now,” says 12.  “There’s room for all of us.  More than one hand in the game.”

“Don’t matter how many hands,” 6 babbles, “’cause I’m always ready you just gotta get me on the wax right get me down there I’ll kncok ’em down knock ’em all down just give me a chance you can whip me down there.”

10 just sits there, knowing.  He’s been there the longest.  He doesn’t need to debate.  Any minute now, he might get picked up.  And he is ready to strike.

Mood: Introspective

All I’ve ever wanted to do is be with my friends, kiss someone I love, and tell stories.  It is a sign of the madness of the universe that those three things seem so difficult to do.

There are, I suppose, great complexities underlying all of our desires.  An urge, a yearning, a tracing of the route in the head, and a kind of despair that maybe we won’t be able to go back.  But the truth is, I don’t want much.  I’m not asking for the secrets of the world.

Friends.  Love.  Stories.  And I can’t pay the cost.

Crackle

His breath comes in ragged gasps now, like the air’s being pulled through a tattered wet cloth.  The muscles in his legs scream.  There is a drum beating in his head, and beneath it: the slow crackle of the stones under the car’s tires.

It rolls effortlessly behind, matching his speed, just far enough that when he stops for air (precious air) it takes a long moment for it to creep, idling, to his knees, so that he has to run again.  The windshield is ablaze in sunlight.

He wonders what will happen when he has to stop for good.

Swagga Like, Um

Can’t no one match his swagga.  Boy comes correck.  He stands on the corner like issa brand new day.

“What the fuck are you doing?” says Tom.

“Fuck it look like I’m doin’, bitch,” says Hugh.

“You look like you’re being a fucking idiot.”

“Man, you bess step up off my corner, ni-”

“WHOA.  Hey.  Listen.  You need to stop this shit immediately.”

“Ain’t no shit here, muhfuckah.”

Tom walks up to Hugh and flicks his ear.  “Ah!” Hugh winces.  “What the hell, man?”

“I had to snap you out of it.”

“Snap nothin’, this here’s -”

“YOUR NAME IS HUGH.”