journal entry
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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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Saturday. Thirty degrees.The cold makes staying in beda theological act.Winter remembers itself here, briefly, in the mountainslike a ghost that forgotto leave completely. The heater hums a midnight hymn.I lower the dial to fifty,a small rebellion against the dark.Still, I waketo its murmur—faithful,fighting a chill I cannot name. They promise warmth next week.Santa Anas will
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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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Fifty words hardly seems a story. At 57 I’m over by seven,trying to write an endingappropriate to the characters. This life made moviewhere happily ever afteris six feet below dirt— fodder for red roses to bloomwith thorns that cut deep enoughto match.
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…Texas. Miles came on smooth,took the wrinkle outof speakers too tinnyfor his magic. The skyline could have been Tokyo,Manhattan, Paris,but it wasn’t—it was Pasadena. I settled for a Pasadena somewhere in Texas,not even California,sandwiched at Jake’s Baron a Taco Tuesday,35 floors of heat abovea mixed-use zoning fiasco,where business sucks bad enoughthey serve two-dollar fish tacos.
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It’s 3:40 in the morning, and I’ve been here before. More times now than I care to remember.I wake up maybe a little before, open my eyes, stare off into darkness and think I can make out shadows within the stark black. I bring my hands close to my face and check—I can’t see them.
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November 9, 2025 Father, I believe; help me with my unbelief. Most honest thing anyone ever said to God. This father with a sick kid, desperate, saying yes and no in the same breath. That’s it. That’s the whole deal. The story’s simple enough. God comes down, walks around, dies, comes back. Believe it and
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I pray I still have coffee.Find a pod.Plop and push—she percolateswarm brown juice. Grab a enameled steel mug with a handle,but make the oats in a white bowl first—microwaves and steel don’t mix.I’m sure there’s a dead cat somewherewhen I tried.Pour them in after,add blueberries and walnuts because I read they’re good for you.But blueberries
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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 