fiction
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“I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”— William Ernest Henley, from “Invictus” (1875) Bathsheba, Veiled in MistI watch, unblinking,through the shadowed pane—I’m a silhouette cloaked in intent,my gaze a thread you can’t hold.Your form falters under my stare,cloth clings too tight,a confession I don’t need to hear.I feel
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Morning crashed in like a drunk stumbling through my door—too damn soon. I squeezed my eyes shut, faking sleep, hoping the dark would swallow me back. Didn’t work. My head flickered with the big shit—the kind that jolts you awake at 3 a.m., all jagged edges and no mercy. I told myself it was just
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The day stretched long, yet held its grace,I toiled in fields, dirt beneath my nails a trace.My back groaned low, lifting burdens high,A job or two I sought beneath the sky. A younger me, with frustration rife,Spoke of bills, of girls, of a carless life.Gas too dear, the reason he was late,I heard his woe,
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Home from a long day, I turn on Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and let my mind slip free from the shackles of routine. I drift into the music, becoming part of it, letting it steer my thoughts. It builds a world through one voice and many—instruments weaving together, tempos shifting, crescendos rising, then resting, only to
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Oh, this one’s a cinch—let’s roll through it. Ever? Jesus. Strolled across water, turned H2O into happy hour, and owned it like a boss. All human, all God—confidence dialed to eleven. (We’ll table that divine chat for another day—maybe over nachos.) In history? Alexander the Great. Dude didn’t just call himself “The Great”—he lived it.
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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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“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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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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Letting go wasn’t a choice, but a season—winter, relentless in its hush.I fell with no ground, no direction,only the ache of motion without meaning. The warmth fled, roots curled inward,and endings did not ask permission. Yet even winter must break,ice must bow to thaw.I did not say goodbye—I let it turn to earth,to feed what
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“The life that I have known is gone, but in its place, a strange new music plays.”— Adapted from W.H. Auden His head bobbed gently, resting against the cold windowpane of the train as it carved smooth, silver lines across the waking landscape, steel wheels humming beneath steel tracks. Dawn crept in slowly beyond the
BB Grey--musings 