creative writing
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The bartender polishes a glass that’ll never be clean – appropriate. I’m on my third bourbon, neat, the kind that burns like regret. Sully Erna’s growling through the speakers about devils and crossroads, which feels about right. Another night unraveling at the seams. You’d think by now I’d have learned – the world doesn’t give
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April 2nd Mom had her eye fixed today. They carved out the cataracts—peeled back the fog so she can see clear again. Not that there’s much worth looking at these days. Now she won’t have an excuse when she ignores the dishes in the sink or the way my boots track mud over the linoleum.
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A Letter in the Spirit of Seneca My friend, You speak of freedom as the composer of your days—this is wisdom. But let us examine the score more closely. The blank page you cherish is ruled with invisible lines: the ledger’s demand, the body’s need for bread, the promises made when ambition outstripped the moon.
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“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.” -Ernest Hemingway (Beginning: The Letting Go)I watch your shadow detach itselffrom mine—no fanfare,just the quiet severingof what I thought was permanent.Your eyes, once warm as whiskey,now reflect only absence. (Middle: The Falling)They say what goes upmust come down.But no one warns youabout
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There’s an echo in my chest where your wings used to hum— a flutter pressed against me, bright as morning’s first yawn. It wasn’t long ago, that fullness. Now the space stretches wide, folding me small— a damp kite tangled in branches, a paper cup buckling under air. I’ve tried filling it with anything but
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“Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
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I’ve retired from naming shit after myself. The last one ended in a divorce decree and a lawyer’s bill. A building, park, or library wing? Yeah, I can see it now—crumbling foundations, overgrown weeds, or a dusty annex no one visits. Hard pass.
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Marylyn murmured “good night” through the phone, and Hank fired back a curt “Night,” thumb smashing the end call button before her rejection could hit—just a silent void now, no echo of the old days when a handset’s clunk marked the end. Gone was the heft of plastic in hand, the small speaker and microphone
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Struttin’ Your StuffYou’re struttin’ your stride,threads loud and bright,pants huggin’ tight,feelin’ just right.Shirt’s a snug tease,assets in view,glidin’ with ease,king of the crew. Think John Travolta,Stayin’ Alive on blast,(beat thumps—boom, you’re fast),head bobbin’ side to side,back and forth, so fly,every eye’s glued,you’re the guy. Boom, boom,chakka, chakka,strut’s in full swing,you’re owning everything—then your big toe-tipsnags
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“The years apart folded into a single breath,and the greater homecoming—to her, to Him—lit the universe with a quiet, unending hello.” It’s been twenty-five years, give or take a shimmer,since I last saw your shadow spill across the floor,a silhouette I knew for thirty-three tender turns of the earth.I’m older now—older than you ever carved
BB Grey--musings 