If boots could talk the tales they’d tell of wearied limbs up random fell

I remember… Vivid sights.

I’ve lived in France for decades but still feel an outsider. Born in St. Thomas, I had Jewish parents of Creole-color, wealthy merchants who never approved of my valuing

How is it I will know them? shall it show in the white of their eye shining brighter than pure laid snow

I know we don’t share points of view you skirt ‘round me, I guard ‘round you

Pray to an ever-nigh somewhat, yet know thing With a fool’s knowledge spawned in unearthing voids

It is a common thing to see cattle or camels walking or sleeping in the middle of the street...

A completed Long-term artistic project examining the city of Baku

Eighteen months. Time to watch a riverbank used as a landfill slowly trashform...

The bones remember more than flesh allows: Each rib a record of a whispered past,

I vowed to you I would stay wild knowing you loved my teeth except when they chased other flesh

The afternoon we met, she joked about being a narcissist. It was one of the qualities that attracted me to her—a woman unaccompanied by the threat of permanence.

This language can't find anything that rhymes with orange.

He’s smaller than I expected. They always are. The stillness shrinks them. The room smells like lilies and furniture polish.

By Ángel Ruby Vásquez Angel Ruby Vasquez is a writer, actor, filmmaker, and poet-storyteller dedicated to the craft of inspirational creative writing. His work spans film, radio, fashion media, and education. He has worked as a camera assistant, public radio announcer, media director, educational facilitator, and substitute teacher. Angel Ruby Vasquez es escritor, actor, cineasta y poeta-narrador, dedicado al arte de la escritura creativa inspiradora. Su trabajo abarca el c

Like a dry fallen leaf blown by

At dawn, I press my palms to cold glass, watching the corridor stretch like an empty sky. Charts flutter: life, pulse, breath; each tick of the clock heavier than the night.

The air once full now slips away unseen, Each inhalation measured, frail, and slight. We mourn the quiet life that might have been.