fiction
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and the sound of a drum. It’s March 1, 2026and somewhere in a desertan oil field away, we marchwith tiny dronesand lizards with legs that roll on steel wheels and trackslaid as they move.Rommel was a Fox.Bush was not a burning one.But this trumps them all—for now,until it doesn’t and we leavewith destruction behind.Say it…
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The Olympics finally gave curling some airtime this year — more than I ever remember seeing. Women’s, men’s, the whole slow-motion shuffle. First time you watch, if you’ve never seen it, your brain short-circuits: This is a sport? Olympic worthy? Really? You hear the terms — stones, brooms, sweeping — and it sounds like someone’s…
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***** a smear of days. a smear of light on the wall. the clock eats its own tail. got a number. a bad number. a cancer full of ghosts. google said: dead man. maybe. i thought: fine. i’ll just leak out quiet. didn’t tell nobody. told everybody. my boy’s voice on the phone. a crack…
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a letter to the dead… Hey Dad, it’s Monday again.I’m writing from where the cold snap brokeat 39 degrees, the mountains holding their breathlike a man waiting for test results.I wonder what sky you’re under now,if heaven is a temperature,a feeling of warmth after a long chill. Mom is okay. She still watches the news,gets…
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Good morning, Thursday. The week is nearly over. January is already in full swing—by next week, we’ll be halfway through the month. I went to the eye doctor yesterday. Doctor M has been my optometrist for over twelve years now. It’s a comfort, walking in and not having to introduce yourself all over again. She…
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I don’t trust white feet. If they haven’t seen the sun,how could they ever walk in my shoes?Or pretend to. Feet in robes?Think flip-flops—hardly up to the task,if you ask me. Blindfolded,they go where they’re told,peeking only at day’s end,no longer pretendingthey don’t smell,or that they’re a size smaller, larger,girl, boy. Brown, cracked,leather stretched over…
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There’s this L-shaped couch—sleeps four if you’ve run out of bedsand won’t surrender to the floor. The seller called it gold.I see beige.It belonged to someone with money—new tech, or maybe just old. It was meant for the curb last Friday,but saved three days later. Now I sit and wonderwhat asses have rested here,what secrets…
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The Chapter or: How Pat Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Algorithm It was immediate. It was what was needed. It was a point in a pointillism canvas of a prosaic mosaic rendering of the new times. Pat rushed to get thoughts down in the early hours of the morning. The start was journaling…
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Garth Mitchell had a crooked smile. He’d wrinkle and scrunch his nose, squint his eyes—hoped his nose was pushing down the middle of his upper lip in equal measure, making the edges rise. It was a wreck of a smile, all work and no reward. His hair went white at thirty-two, and he was quick…
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The market was sliding and gold with it. If there were rules once, they weren’t working. Jack crumpled a Post-it. A buddy’s buddy said Go West Young Man in the seventh. Go West went south. Jack lost his reserve. He knew better. He didn’t. He scratched the bottoms of his front pockets—jeans worn thin at…
BB Grey--musings 