creative writing
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Daily Prompt: A Letter to My Hundred-Year-Old Self Dearest Me, Happy Birthday! Today, you turn 100—a century of breaths, heartbeats, and steps guided by a hand greater than our own. As I sit here, almost 50 years behind you on March 10, 2025, I can only marvel at the life we’ve lived. Half a century
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So, I wake up early because I crash early—makes sense, right? But 1:30 a.m.? That’s not early; that’s just rude. I tried to zen out, refusing to grab my phone or flip on the lights—basically avoiding the overstimulation trap I used to fall into with my little girls. Back when they were 1 or 2,
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So, where would I go on a shopping spree? Buckle up, because this might shock you. I’m a sucker for REI—give me hiking gear and tools any day—but deep down? I’m a mushy romantic. Yeah, I know, wild plot twist! If my employees or subcontractors caught wind of this, they’d choke on their energy drinks
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You carried wounds you never asked for,shadows that were never yours to hold.Yet, when it was your turn,you chose to fight instead of fold. No one showed you how to heal,yet you learned,through trial, through error,through nights you thought you’d break.Still, you rose. The weight of silence pressed against your throat,but you spoke.The echoes of
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Do you dream, my love,in hues of wheat and gold,a harvest ripe and radiant,glowing beneath storm-blue skies—their vastness flecked with gray,a tempest’s tender prelude? I see you,rain-rose petals, nude and pink,scattered soft against the ivory silkof your skin—smooth as clay,unmarred, awaiting the artist’s hand.A canvas alive,you beckon my brush,strokes bold and delicate—oil pastels in saffron
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I tally my days,a quiet inventory—wins and lossesetched upon a fragile card.Today, a single Woutshines the L,and tomorrow dawns,a tender promise,small at times,yet woven with hope nonetheless. I sought You today,in the shadow of my helplessness,in the fleeting breath of praise.I called to Youwhen strength faltered,when weakness bowed me low,in humility’s soft cradle,in honor’s fleeting
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“He fell for her so hard he forgot where he parked his spine—last I checked, she’s still driving it around town.”— Ring Lardner Oh, man, haven’t we all been there? You meet someone, and suddenly you’re convinced they’re the whole damn universe—stars, planets, cat’s meow, the works. You hurl yourself into it head over heels,
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Another morning creeps in,rain flirting with cold,teasing snow,not to clean the messbut to blanket sin—a frail shroud over oil slicks,debris,black heartsstill slinking beneath,white or wet be damned. At least the tears—that noisy splatter on metal roofs—hush under the drift.You can fake it now,pretend the sobbing’s done,that clouds—those fat, fluffy angora tufts—spin gray to white,weaving a
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that love endures, even when you don’t tend to it as closely as you should The last thing I’ve learned—truly learned, in a way that settles into your bones and rearranges the way you see the world—came to me just last night, over a quiet dinner with my sister. It was one of those moments
BB Grey--musings 