creative writing
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What’s the one question I hate being asked? The last one I just answered. Seriously—were you even listening? I just laid it all out, and here we are again, round two. As a business owner, I’m used to fielding questions—nonstop, all day, every day. The buck, the puck, the rubber duck, whatever you’re tossing my
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“The snow fell soft as memory, blanketing the world outside, while the fire within whispered her name—Jacklyn, the spark that never fades.” The last-minute bustle had swept through town like a fevered wind. Shelves at the local grocery stood barren, picked clean by hands clutching canned goods and bread. Firewood was hauled indoors in armloads,
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“In the beginning”—nope, already claimed. All the golden ones are, nabbed by the greats who either slaved over them or tossed them out like they were born to it: “Mother died today,” “Call me Ishmael,” whatever sticks in your craw. Me, I’m not so slick. Life doesn’t always deal you a killer first sentence, especially
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I hit a dead end today. No sirens, no flashing lights—just a flat, unblinking fact. The road stopped, and so did I. You get to a dead end one of two ways. Sometimes you see it coming, the signs piling up like cracked pavement, and you still drive toward it, half-curious, half-resigned. Other times it
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I embarked on ritualistic quests—reading Russian short novels in the twilight,playing timed chess as minutes slipped like sand,fasting to one humble meal a day,drinking bitter espresso to puncture the haze,smoking in the quiet solitude of dusk,and pickling myself in vodka’s icy embrace,laboring until every morning,my limbs begged gentle guidancejust to stir into motion. In that
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Three Objects I Couldn’t Live Without At first, my mind jumped to the obvious: faith, love, hope—the big three. And of course, loved ones. But since those aren’t exactly “objects” (and I don’t want to get lost in philosophical rabbit holes), I’ll stick to material things—stuff you can touch, hold, maybe even drop on your
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It’s too cold to climb out from underUnder the weight of this weighted blanket. A blanket of snow, too cold to runRun barefoot through frozen memories. Memories drift as I retrieveRetrieve the Sunday paper, unread. Unread cartoons make me smile—Smile as I sketch the last frame. A frame smudged with black ink,Ink staining everything clean
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Through the Potter’s Hands I have been poor, I have been rich,I have held love, and I have watched it slip.I have known life, and I have met loss,Children close, then distant—a breath, a reach, a fading echo. These are the moments that have shaped me,some I recall with clarity,others still whisper their lessons in
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A Fifth of Jack Blank pages later,you etched your name into my mind—a spark I could never quench. Pastel prose and smeared art,oil vibrant yet marred,a still life rewritten in hesitant strokes. In charcoal hues my heart smolders;pain shatters into shards of broken glass,a quiet river of a bitter past. You turn the page—an indifferent,
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Fate? Destiny? They sound like the tagline for a cheesy rom-com—or maybe a buddy cop flick where Fate’s the brooding loner and Destiny’s rocking aviators and a cocky grin. I can’t help but picture that moment in Titanic where Billy Zane’s character, all smug and slick, whips out his gun and declares, “I make my
BB Grey--musings 