creative writing
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Give me the steel rails humming beneath, my head against the cool window, watching the rolling landscape unfold like a living movie reel. In this theater of motion, I become both scriptwriter and audience. The countryside slides by frame by frame, and I craft stories from each passing scene. A train offers a rare symphony
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I live in a roomwithout a heart—not that I’m gone,but it feels that part. They used to come,“Grandma’s new place!”—a pool, a clubhouse,wide-open space.But had I knownit was a guise,to strip me bareof dignity’s prize,I’d have stayedin my home, my own,where the hallway’s wornby children grown,their racing feet,their candy smears,walls alivewith fleeting years. There, my
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March 16, 2025—halfway through the month, and my birthday looms just weeks away. Fifty-something isn’t a number that demands a parade or a spotlight, but it’s another lap around this vast, spinning blue planet. Lately, I’ve been hearing Frank Sinatra’s I Did It My Way on the radio, its familiar notes pulling me into a
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Negative thoughts? Oh, they’re like that one a-hole ex who won’t stop texting you—just lurking in the back of your brain, ready to pop up and ruin your vibe at the worst possible moment. Research says you need three positive hits to cancel out one of those soul-sucking negatives, but in relationships? Buckle up, buttercup,
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Luna, It’s Saturday, and my pen itches to spill a line or two,to bridge the quiet miles and catch you up on this snow-draped day.A foot of white has tumbled down, with six more inches whispering near,and Monday looms with threats of yet another heavy shroud. There’s a hush in freshly fallen snow, a tender
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He’s sitting there, teeth clenched in his mouth,mouthing the last line of a Madonna song—a virgin, cherry popped—and it spirals: Hostess pies,lunchbox dreams,Twinkies, deep-fried in a skillet,sizzling next to a T-bone, rare. A dog flashes by, socks on its paws,German Shepherd, retired police,once ate a cat—had to put him down.Dad comes next,cancer stole his voice,then
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There are sanctuaries where I lose myself, where the world blurs into a soft hum and I am untethered, free. Writing and reading, of course, are the steady flames—ink spilling like a river over the page, words unfurling like petals in my mind. But there is another, a wilder refuge: running. It’s a solitary dance,
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What movie or TV series have I watched more than five times? There are likely a few contenders, but one stands above the rest: Chariots of Fire. This film entered my life in the 1980s, a golden era when I was in the prime of my youth—running track and cross country, chasing fleeting romances, and
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“Steps Back” (Song #2) [Verse 1]I’d take a step toward her, reaching out slow,Meeting her where she was, where she couldn’t go.The space she might’ve claimed, I stole it away,So she carved out more, stepped back to stay. From that new ground where we stood, I could see,Every move I made pushed her further from
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So I’m just a regular dude, right? Busting my hump every day, trying to keep the lights on and the fridge stocked. Then this word “tariff” barges into my life like some nasty black goo you’d peel off your flip-flop after a Santa Barbara beach day. You know—that tar that stinks like a bad decision
BB Grey--musings 