creative writing
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Have you ever loved a photograph? Not the person.The paper. Corners curled.Edges yellow.Your fingerprints pressed into it—again, again. A relic.A prayer. Flat image—yet it breathes.Two into three.Three into somethinguntouched by time. I fall inside.Invent the dialogue.Score the silence.Make the light softerthan it ever was. The picture forgiveswhat memory could not. I keep too many.They hold…
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The Trojan Horse, Revisited They say a Trojan horse works only once—unless it’s carved so beautifulit blinds the guard at the gate. And you—you were that beautiful. I opened the walls,welcomed you in,mistook the hollow for holy,the silence for love. You studied my blueprints,found the unguarded doors,and from your belly spilledarmies of half-truths,promises sharp as…
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Chapter Title: Silt I’m sorry.I didn’t have what you needed.What I gave was ordinary.Brief. The words—they wait in silence.Lined up like ghosts.But they dieon the way to my mouth. Only I’m sorry survives.Two small words.Tired.Misunderstood.Still, they walk forward. I’m sorry I couldn’t hold you.That I blurred in your eyes—like newsprint left out in the rain.…
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A fraud, they said. But to be a fraud one must first know the real thing.I never got the blueprint, only the ghost of a house.This rope, not hemp but memory, knots me to myself.I dream of Houdini-ing out, each kiss from my wife a lockpick made of breath. I was married once. I think…
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Chapter — The Alphabet That Couldn’t Sing I tried to build words from an alphabet that was not my own. Spanish at home, English at school. The letters felt foreign, cold to the touch, like tools meant for someone else’s hands. The sentences they made were like conversations overheard through a wall—recognizable as speech, but…
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from, Chapter 4: Walnut Season It starts like this: the end begins with the cards. For years, I kept my life organized on 3×5 index cards—neat, white, lined. They lived in small gray boxes stacked on chrome wire shelves above the kitchen sink. Stainless, or trying to be. Twenty boxes, two deep, three high. A…
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He sat undone. His left leg folded under him, his right stretched into the pale dark as though it belonged to someone freer. The air at 2:30 slipped through the screen and slid across twelve inches of open window. The blinds caught it, sliced it, and delivered it to his skin with the precision of…
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I grew up in that age when television screens stretched anywhere from a 13-inch “personal” set to a 28-inch family behemoth. In our house, we had one TV—24 inches, rabbit ears on top, wood panel sides, and a dial that clicked its way from channels 2 through 13 on VHF. Channel 3 was just snow,…
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Romulus—the dog that smelled of sun-baked fur and dirt,ten years pressed into the seams of his chest. He carried him through the glass doors,yelling something half-formed to the receptionist,“he’s in pain—just…”and the words dissolved into the silence of strangerswho already knew. Romulus on the cold stainless table,eyes too wide, whites swallowing the brown,staring at him…
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the old woman is making a war in the other room— shoving anything not nailed down, raising more dust than she ever sweeps up. I don’t look. looking is an invitation. and it’s Saturday. and Sunday is coming. “preach it,” I whisper to no one. I hold my phone like it’s a holy book. feel…
BB Grey--musings 