Freewriting

Dead weather. It opens its arms like a fog unannounced. It is trounced by the manly living that is partaking of the small animals in the fog. There is only one thing that matters and that is the living and the breathing the holy mother that sustains the blood within our veins. I hold tight to the fact that there is only one thing keeping this shipwreck from falling into the depths of the sea.

Dead weather. There is only one thing that hold me back from jumping over the edge into the storm gale that is circling around the recesses of harbored thoughts and forgotten dreams. The tale that is woven around my legs keeps me still and remembers that there are worse things than death. Life can take you down a dark path but there is one thing still gleaming in the sustaining glance.

Dead weather. Don’t park your car near the sidewalk where the marmots play. They will take your keys when you’re not looking and swap them for cold beer and a pack of cigarettes. You have to be careful not to keep your keys in your back pocket. Their quick little fingers are nimble and will snatch them right out of your pants before you can say “Hello sah!”

Dead weather. Jeremy wanted to go fishing but his father said no. There wasn’t enough time before the sun was going to rise and besides, father had to work on his car. It was an old 63 convertible he’d bought in Portland. He only paid $30,000 for it and he figured if he put enough work into it he could up the resale value ten fold. Jeremy went back to his room and began working on a model airplane. He imagined that he was trapped inside the bosom of the plane as giant hands worked magic goo over the hull and pieced the plane back together, like a demolition video in reverse.

Dead weather. It’s dark nights and stormy frights the like of which you’ve never seen. There are ghost towns with robot crowns awaiting a new festivity. People don’t walk here much anymore, they’ve seen the lies that perpetrate the moors of their unbridled hearts. They chainsmoke to forget the smell of the grass and the first crack of the window on a dewy morning. They can’t remember the smells, only the charred feeling in the back of their throats. They can’t feel it. They can’t touch it. They can’t see it. Does it matter?

Dead weather. Fuck this idle hand and the booming megaphone. I can’t lift my little pinky and it’s all your fault. You should’ve checked your mirrors before you crashed into the curb and took out my good side. My money maker is fucked.

Dead weather.

Note: This was a stream-of-consciousness piece, written in one sitting with no breaks in the writting process. The only editing was for grammar. Try it out, it is wild what you conjure up.