Bobster Blog

Stories serve as vessels for exploration, offering spaces in which to confront questions that resist simple answers. The most compelling nar...

Hello, World. Final runtime: seven minutes, forty-three seconds. That’s longer than most Tinder dates. And marginally more productive, I sus...

I am older now— too careful with words, too skilled at folding pain into politeness. The years have become a tide clock: ebb, work, sleep, r...

Sometimes I walk past the station just to watch departures. I imagine you somewhere coastal, hair salted, voice roughened by distance. I’ve ...

The screen sleeps in my palm, a small, indifferent moon. Three dots bloom, then vanish— a tide that forgets to come in. I scroll through the...

The room smells of chamomile and damp wool. Outside, autumn is chewing through the trees again. I tell her it’s fine, really—that the underw...

A sign above the booth flickers: FOR ERRORS OF LOGIC, DESIRE, AND IMITATION. Inside, the priest is metal— voice modulated to sound merciful,...

You are older than my own shadow, But prophecy has become paperwork, Miracles are wanted in triplicate. Overwritten.   Even spells need foot...

I held the page as though it were shame, contained in metre, measured in its breath, each syllable obedient to name the old inheritance of l...

I chased the shadow I once cast, like keys I’d misplaced in the past— checking old rooms, lifting cushions, peering under the bed of years. ...

I walk the wide arc of the world, streets are circling under my feet. Faces turn like a slow wheel of days, every step a repeating beat. I t...

I will not mimic you tonight, your hands rise but mine stay still. You smile—my mouth is sealed, a window cold with will. I carried every ec...

I fold my days like brittle notes Hide them deep where no one goes Afraid to breathe too loud, too long I hum a life without a song Each mor...

A universe rests on the wrist of night, no larger than a bead threaded by time’s thin wire.   It clinks softly against its neighbours— a clu...

In the cathedral of damp earth I stretch my fingers, groping, following the dark’s slow music.   Stone is my scripture, worms my witnesses. ...

Cradled in the ancient murmur, we are archives of fire: helixes folded as choirs, each base a note, each spiral a score composed in the sile...