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Free Write NYC, in association of Mind The Art, is a brand new, bi-monthly support group for the average writer. The function of the meetings are whatever you want them to be: Bring in your current project to read aloud and receive constructive feedback from the group; Get helpful suggestions to end your current writer's block; or just come to get the creative juices flowing through our writing prompts! The main goals are to have fun and to get you writing, all in a safe and welcoming environment!
I'm lost. Damn. What the hell was I thinking? I'd have sworn I smelled Jessica's perfume, but... how stupid is that? This is a sewer - nobody ever comes down here except me. Why would she be here? What would she be doing here? Stupid stupid stupid. I should've just hid in the entrance, cooked up a hit, and gotten out like I always do. Didn't even think it over - just barged in and started wandering around. And with the party in three hours, too. 
Erhardt watched the smoke curl from the end of his cigarette like the tendrils of some strange plant. In the near distance, past the swirling smoke, was Edward's face in soft focus, looking villainous as ever with his craggy nose, bad complexion, and high forehead crested with its tousled tuft of wiry black. He sat at the window bench, his pineapple-shaped head blocking Erhardt's view of the sea. He wore the same expression he always did, the one that was so deadly serious, yet so seriously full of it. Sir Edward Dalliance, Earl of Grift, Duke of Dupe. All pomp and no consequence.
At the end of Day Three of the conference, after the gathering with chilled beer and neatly sorted little appetizers, after the trading of business cards of varying degrees of texture, font and thickness, he declined a colleague's offer to share one of the peculiar-looking cabs idling outside of the conference center and opted to walk back through the now-silent streets. The odors of fish and garbage lingered in the humid night. Occasionally he passed other people. Their gazes would run quickly across his face and suit, but they didn't make eye contact.
After fifteen minutes and a couple of glances at a laminated street map his wife had insisted on slipping in his travel luggage, he crossed a short bridge and came to where the little pink hotel squatted, its small balconies unused. White-ish curtains moved softly through the open windows, pushed by a light and welcome breeze.
Photo: Kick The Bucket by Cody Kapscos
Diamond-Crusted Morning
Someone came, last night, and scattered diamonds out my window
And painted the sky a kind of blue there’s never been before
There’s nothing you can see for miles,
Just fill-me-up blue and carry-me-off green
I pull on my boots and stand on my doorstep
The crispy air enters me like a honey-covered knife
It races down to my toes, like a horse in a field
And makes me alive in a way that’s better than before
“Eyes, black eyes that carve hollow secrets into your skull, empty experiences that grey not only your hair but fill in the wrinkles of your skin. You are a white wash canvas lost inside a storage basements cranny,” thought Yoma.
Yoma had travelled nowhere exotic. He had spent the majority of his 65 years exploring nothing but the inner workings of his own banal life. “I will see the world,” he whispered. This hushed prayer had been heard by friends, lovers, children, grandchildren and strangers for as long as Yoma could remember, he whispered “I am a million pieces of rock spread across every pixel of blue sky.” Yoma often spoke in this manner. Weaving Kerouac phrases that could leave a person frustrated with wonder. As a young boy a brick wall could suddenly become the peak of Everest, his mutt of a dog a faithful donkey and the air that floated amidst his left ear his knowledable Sherpa. As a man, the brick wall melted from Everest to a steel prison where he wrote lascivious theatrical pieces along side the Marquis De Sade and other men of great evil abilities. But as time went on, the brick wall froze into, well, a brick wall. The day Yoma stopped seeing flowers in the stars is the day Yoma meant it when he said, “I will see the world.”
There it was in front of him. Arthur stared into the darkness at the pair of glowing eyes that stared back at him. He clutched the heavy wooden chair as if it were a shield, frozen in place. Were it not for the spot lights on the stage behind him, Arthur would be in darkness with only the flashlight in his back pocket to guide him.
What the hell is this thing? He thought. In the moonless early morning, Arthur could see almost nothing outside the little circle of light emanating from the stage behind him. It was one of those portable ones that had been brought in by truck the day before.
He slowly backed away from the beast in the darkness. For a moment he thought it might eat him right there on the spot, this whatever it was. It let out a low growl. Arthur jumped, dropping his chair. The beast began to inch toward the light.
I am a symbol.
buy me. Use me to sell your
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Their running made a breeze out of the standstill air. One by one, they would give chase. The others fled in whatever direction they could, attempting to escape in a torrent of running feet, exhausted breath and scared laughter. Eventually one would become two, two became three and so on until the one had become the many. Those who knew them may have said days like these were a glimpse at what they would become. But to the boys in the grey-striped shirts, it was just a game. Always just a game.
The area in which they played seemed almost tailor made for them: a bright blue sky hanging over a small expanse of green grass; an old wooden shed with a flower garden off to the side. Sometimes they would wonder about that old wooden shed that no one ever seemed to use, that clipped green grass they’d never seen anybody cut. But thoughts like those always got pushed to the back of their mind. This place was theirs, an escape from their nightly incarcerations. This place was perfect…save for the dark wood.
Look at him. He is so buff. When he wears his black Storm Trooper suit it drives me crazy. I would bite his butt right here if I could. But it always pisses him off whenever I get affectionate around the troops. And he can be such a bitch when he gets angry. He says he has an image to uphold. He needs to demand respect. God, please! What did he think he demanded last night? Respect! He demanded total respect from me, but I sure as hell got no respect from him. He was such an animal. And it wasn’t just physical; he uses The Force during our little trysts, and let me tell you, that’s something else altogether. I’m still sore as hell and not at all sure I can sit on this damn scooter all day after what he did to me last night. At least he was home early. I guess I should be thankful he was not running around with one of his little numbers.
