Fridays are pizza for dinner days.

Fridays are leave the dishes, break out the paper plates nights.

Fridays are forget the laundry, curl up with a good movie evenings.

Fridays are write for just five minutes and forget the voices of fear that tell you you’re not a writer days.

How to Join:

Want to know how Five Minute Friday got started and how to participate? All the details are here.

Meet the #FMFParty Writers:

And did you know there’s a whole community of writers that connect online before the prompt goes live on Friday nights? They use the Twitter hashtag #FMFParty and are about the most encouraging group around.

Now, set your timer, clear your head, for five minutes of free writing without worrying about getting it right.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community..

OK, are you ready? Please give us your best five minutes on:::

See…

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GO

He’s been away from school three weeks and I ask him late one night when he’s already curled up in the top bunk what it’s like to be back. He rolls over and props himself up on one elbow, looks me square in the eyes. “They told me that my team isn’t good anymore,” and it’s not what I expected to hear.

“Your team? What? I mean, didn’t you tell them about how we went to the Lion Reserve and about going camping and swimming down those rapids? Didn’t you tell them that part.”

His eyes are intent and he props himself up straighter, like I’m the one who needs to really get it.

“They don’t care about that, mom.”

And I’m not sure what to say. I feel like maybe I’m eight and I want to let go a big long old “Whhhyyyy?”

He tilts his head to the side, tells me, “Mom, here’s the thing. If he went to Africa he would want to talk about it a lot. But he didn’t. So he doesn’t care. He only sees the things he cares about.”

“Oh,” I say. Just oh.

And it lingers there between us. What he is now old enough to see.

I reach up and rub my fingers through his short hair. He wore the hat his uncle gave him the entire three weeks we were there.

But he didn’t miss a thing.

STOP

Don’t have a blog? No worries, feel free to leave your five minutes in the comments. If you’re reading in an email just click here to come and join us.

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