Jorge Cross
@jorgecross.bsky.social
Mexican-American aspiring novelist. Weaving heart and mind with words and punctuation marks. #author #writer
Pinned
Jorge Cross
@jorgecross.bsky.social
· Feb 14
But it is perhaps in loving that one may—or may not—find love.
J Cross
J Cross
I put my first novel on the shelf after 48,000 words. It taught me that I love to write. I will revisit these characters and their incomplete lives eventually, they are dear to me.
Now I have a new set of people to meet in my mind with a new story.
Now I have a new set of people to meet in my mind with a new story.
March 15, 2025 at 1:16 AM
I put my first novel on the shelf after 48,000 words. It taught me that I love to write. I will revisit these characters and their incomplete lives eventually, they are dear to me.
Now I have a new set of people to meet in my mind with a new story.
Now I have a new set of people to meet in my mind with a new story.
We were exhausted. It had been a long hike. The fire was warm, and we all took sips from a bottle of mediocre bourbon. I had not done that since I college. I can’t remember why I began sharing about my marriage or what I said that made Judy cry, but that moment I knew we were becoming sisters.
Concept: Making new friends during a camping trip. #hbp116
February 19, 2025 at 3:28 PM
We were exhausted. It had been a long hike. The fire was warm, and we all took sips from a bottle of mediocre bourbon. I had not done that since I college. I can’t remember why I began sharing about my marriage or what I said that made Judy cry, but that moment I knew we were becoming sisters.
But it is perhaps in loving that one may—or may not—find love.
J Cross
J Cross
February 14, 2025 at 7:08 PM
But it is perhaps in loving that one may—or may not—find love.
J Cross
J Cross
Spring has begun in Southwest Georgia, USA. Don't blink.
February 13, 2025 at 11:24 PM
Spring has begun in Southwest Georgia, USA. Don't blink.
Writing begets writing—sometimes.
February 10, 2025 at 3:57 PM
Writing begets writing—sometimes.
“I don’t know. I just lost my mind. I was sad. I wasn’t thinking,” she said, pacing the room, pulling at her braids manically.
“You realize I have to call the cops, right?” She began inching her way to the door.
“No, you can’t! It wanted to eat me!” she screamed.
“It? It? ‘It’ was your husband.”
“You realize I have to call the cops, right?” She began inching her way to the door.
“No, you can’t! It wanted to eat me!” she screamed.
“It? It? ‘It’ was your husband.”
Prose/dialogue: “It wanted to eat me.” #hbp94
January 29, 2025 at 2:58 PM
“I don’t know. I just lost my mind. I was sad. I wasn’t thinking,” she said, pacing the room, pulling at her braids manically.
“You realize I have to call the cops, right?” She began inching her way to the door.
“No, you can’t! It wanted to eat me!” she screamed.
“It? It? ‘It’ was your husband.”
“You realize I have to call the cops, right?” She began inching her way to the door.
“No, you can’t! It wanted to eat me!” she screamed.
“It? It? ‘It’ was your husband.”
Her hand was clutching the bracelet.
“Jonah, are you sure you did not go to the lake yesterday?” she asked, trying to keep her composure.
“No, Mommy, I was here all day. Look! I made this for you today,” said Jonah, handing his mother a drawing of a flower.
“Jonah, are you sure you did not go to the lake yesterday?” she asked, trying to keep her composure.
“No, Mommy, I was here all day. Look! I made this for you today,” said Jonah, handing his mother a drawing of a flower.
Prose/dialogue: “It washed up on the shore and changed everything.” #hbp93
January 29, 2025 at 3:43 AM
Her hand was clutching the bracelet.
“Jonah, are you sure you did not go to the lake yesterday?” she asked, trying to keep her composure.
“No, Mommy, I was here all day. Look! I made this for you today,” said Jonah, handing his mother a drawing of a flower.
“Jonah, are you sure you did not go to the lake yesterday?” she asked, trying to keep her composure.
“No, Mommy, I was here all day. Look! I made this for you today,” said Jonah, handing his mother a drawing of a flower.
Morning at the Clyde. Fall, 2024.
January 26, 2025 at 3:22 PM
Morning at the Clyde. Fall, 2024.
I have been reflecting. Is there a purpose to my writing? It began as a perfectly selfish exercise of personal amusement and recreation. Now: I write to avail emotions to my reader, to expand their capacity for empathy, in the journey towards achieving emotional neutrality with one another.
January 26, 2025 at 2:44 PM
I have been reflecting. Is there a purpose to my writing? It began as a perfectly selfish exercise of personal amusement and recreation. Now: I write to avail emotions to my reader, to expand their capacity for empathy, in the journey towards achieving emotional neutrality with one another.
…but Charles was different. As water in a mold, he always took the shape of whatever he was facing at the time. The lines on his face, though mostly fitting to his stoic expression, could be attributed to a life of smiles, or anger, or sadness, or tenacious courage. Fred felt adrift with him.
Character: Mood contrarian - miserable when things are good, cheerful and industrious when things are bad. #hbp91
January 26, 2025 at 2:39 PM
…but Charles was different. As water in a mold, he always took the shape of whatever he was facing at the time. The lines on his face, though mostly fitting to his stoic expression, could be attributed to a life of smiles, or anger, or sadness, or tenacious courage. Fred felt adrift with him.
“How many times is this now, Mr. Goo-tee-eh-rays?” he asked, looking at the business permit on the wall with the most despicable pronunciation of a Spanish last name—pathetic for a Texan.
“This is the third time in a week, but I am not pressing charges,” Mr. Gutiérrez replied, evading eye contact.
“This is the third time in a week, but I am not pressing charges,” Mr. Gutiérrez replied, evading eye contact.
Concept: An ill-tempered cop at a mom and pop shop. #hbp81
January 17, 2025 at 3:45 AM
“How many times is this now, Mr. Goo-tee-eh-rays?” he asked, looking at the business permit on the wall with the most despicable pronunciation of a Spanish last name—pathetic for a Texan.
“This is the third time in a week, but I am not pressing charges,” Mr. Gutiérrez replied, evading eye contact.
“This is the third time in a week, but I am not pressing charges,” Mr. Gutiérrez replied, evading eye contact.
He looked at her and wondered if those lines on her face would be different if she had ever been truly loved, if she had not traded her innocence for the crumbs she was fed by a lousy man; but when the heart is starving, even a small amount can create the illusion that the hunger has been satisfied.
January 16, 2025 at 10:27 PM
He looked at her and wondered if those lines on her face would be different if she had ever been truly loved, if she had not traded her innocence for the crumbs she was fed by a lousy man; but when the heart is starving, even a small amount can create the illusion that the hunger has been satisfied.
Reposted by Jorge Cross
Silence cannot obliterate
the echoes of conscience;
it merely veils their reverberations,
leaving the mind ensnared in the
quiet persistence of unspoken truths,
where the absence of sound magnifies
the dissonance lingering within
the soul’s still chambers.
#BraveWrite #vss365 #prompt #silence
the echoes of conscience;
it merely veils their reverberations,
leaving the mind ensnared in the
quiet persistence of unspoken truths,
where the absence of sound magnifies
the dissonance lingering within
the soul’s still chambers.
#BraveWrite #vss365 #prompt #silence
Ken Ferguson (Scottish artist, 1955)
"Silence," 2024
Watercolor
"Silence," 2024
Watercolor
January 14, 2025 at 3:19 PM
Silence cannot obliterate
the echoes of conscience;
it merely veils their reverberations,
leaving the mind ensnared in the
quiet persistence of unspoken truths,
where the absence of sound magnifies
the dissonance lingering within
the soul’s still chambers.
#BraveWrite #vss365 #prompt #silence
the echoes of conscience;
it merely veils their reverberations,
leaving the mind ensnared in the
quiet persistence of unspoken truths,
where the absence of sound magnifies
the dissonance lingering within
the soul’s still chambers.
#BraveWrite #vss365 #prompt #silence
I am glad that self-doubt only appeared at the 35,880 word mark, because I would not have made it there otherwise; but now that it is here, it is welcome to leave.
January 12, 2025 at 12:25 AM
I am glad that self-doubt only appeared at the 35,880 word mark, because I would not have made it there otherwise; but now that it is here, it is welcome to leave.
“Try something new, something creative to let out your frustration,” she said calmly, still working on her embroidery, stained with blood.
“Like what? You think painting goddamn flowers will keep me from wanting to bury more of those pieces of shit?”
“It helps me.”
“Like what? You think painting goddamn flowers will keep me from wanting to bury more of those pieces of shit?”
“It helps me.”
Prose/dialogue: “Painting flowers to suppress violent urges.” #hbp71
January 7, 2025 at 1:57 AM
“Try something new, something creative to let out your frustration,” she said calmly, still working on her embroidery, stained with blood.
“Like what? You think painting goddamn flowers will keep me from wanting to bury more of those pieces of shit?”
“It helps me.”
“Like what? You think painting goddamn flowers will keep me from wanting to bury more of those pieces of shit?”
“It helps me.”
“So, did they like it?”
“Did they like it? Ha! They fuckin’ loved it!” he said, unbuttoning his shirt and scratching the hair on his chest. “They ate the hell out of it—like a pack of ravenous, vicious teens thinking Taylor Swift had baked the damn cake.”
“Did they like it? Ha! They fuckin’ loved it!” he said, unbuttoning his shirt and scratching the hair on his chest. “They ate the hell out of it—like a pack of ravenous, vicious teens thinking Taylor Swift had baked the damn cake.”
Prose/dialogue: “Vicious as a pack of teens.” #hbp70
January 5, 2025 at 4:26 PM
“So, did they like it?”
“Did they like it? Ha! They fuckin’ loved it!” he said, unbuttoning his shirt and scratching the hair on his chest. “They ate the hell out of it—like a pack of ravenous, vicious teens thinking Taylor Swift had baked the damn cake.”
“Did they like it? Ha! They fuckin’ loved it!” he said, unbuttoning his shirt and scratching the hair on his chest. “They ate the hell out of it—like a pack of ravenous, vicious teens thinking Taylor Swift had baked the damn cake.”
“Where did you say you got this?” Luke asked, astounded by the painting. A man in the foreground was carrying a torch.
“At Miss Sally’s; she was having a yard sale for her son’s Scout trip,” he replied.
“That is my childhood home in the painting, back in England. It burned down 30 years ago.”
“At Miss Sally’s; she was having a yard sale for her son’s Scout trip,” he replied.
“That is my childhood home in the painting, back in England. It burned down 30 years ago.”
Prose/dialogue: "Weird painting bought at a yard sale." #hbp69
January 4, 2025 at 10:50 PM
“Where did you say you got this?” Luke asked, astounded by the painting. A man in the foreground was carrying a torch.
“At Miss Sally’s; she was having a yard sale for her son’s Scout trip,” he replied.
“That is my childhood home in the painting, back in England. It burned down 30 years ago.”
“At Miss Sally’s; she was having a yard sale for her son’s Scout trip,” he replied.
“That is my childhood home in the painting, back in England. It burned down 30 years ago.”
“Our names were etched here, on this very pew, by tears and fingernails—like water on driftwood—relieving the trauma of the day our Charlotte was murdered. But the defense was strong, and he walked free,” he said, running his hand along the woodgrain of the pew from which he had heard the verdict.
Prose/dialogue: “We etched our names there.” #hbp67
January 2, 2025 at 4:44 PM
“Our names were etched here, on this very pew, by tears and fingernails—like water on driftwood—relieving the trauma of the day our Charlotte was murdered. But the defense was strong, and he walked free,” he said, running his hand along the woodgrain of the pew from which he had heard the verdict.
From my work in progress. Fitting for today, as New Year's Eve is such an important part of the story. Cheers to a year in which I will be able to say: I wrote a novel. All the best.
January 1, 2025 at 1:25 AM
From my work in progress. Fitting for today, as New Year's Eve is such an important part of the story. Cheers to a year in which I will be able to say: I wrote a novel. All the best.
Reposted by Jorge Cross
My New Year's resolution is 1440p.
December 31, 2024 at 10:39 PM
My New Year's resolution is 1440p.
“I just need a few more days. I got some money coming in,” he begged.
“I am not a patient man, and I have been rather patient with you—excruciatingly so. But I am afraid that is expiring, at midnight to be precise. You have seven hours,” he said, polishing his weapon. “Go on. Tick, tock.”
“I am not a patient man, and I have been rather patient with you—excruciatingly so. But I am afraid that is expiring, at midnight to be precise. You have seven hours,” he said, polishing his weapon. “Go on. Tick, tock.”
Prose/dialogue: "Expires at midnight. " #hbp65
December 31, 2024 at 7:21 PM
“I just need a few more days. I got some money coming in,” he begged.
“I am not a patient man, and I have been rather patient with you—excruciatingly so. But I am afraid that is expiring, at midnight to be precise. You have seven hours,” he said, polishing his weapon. “Go on. Tick, tock.”
“I am not a patient man, and I have been rather patient with you—excruciatingly so. But I am afraid that is expiring, at midnight to be precise. You have seven hours,” he said, polishing his weapon. “Go on. Tick, tock.”
“It is the sharp point of pride that drives itself into your heart, ever so slowly that you hardly even notice it. Humble as you may feel, Charles, your soul is intoxicated. It is systemic; you are sick. You are sick with Self,” Rick said, holding back tears as he collected the last of his bags.
Prose/dialogue: “It's a point of pride.” #hbp64
December 31, 2024 at 1:21 AM
“It is the sharp point of pride that drives itself into your heart, ever so slowly that you hardly even notice it. Humble as you may feel, Charles, your soul is intoxicated. It is systemic; you are sick. You are sick with Self,” Rick said, holding back tears as he collected the last of his bags.
She felt pity, finding her like that, knowing that others would see her that way: the sick on her clothes, the mascara running down her pale cheeks, and those horrid, chapped lips.
“I had warned you, sweetheart,” softly whispered Death as she drew out the last of her breath with a kiss.
“I had warned you, sweetheart,” softly whispered Death as she drew out the last of her breath with a kiss.
Character: An UNWELCOME GUEST at the worst possible time. #hbp56
December 23, 2024 at 3:09 AM
She felt pity, finding her like that, knowing that others would see her that way: the sick on her clothes, the mascara running down her pale cheeks, and those horrid, chapped lips.
“I had warned you, sweetheart,” softly whispered Death as she drew out the last of her breath with a kiss.
“I had warned you, sweetheart,” softly whispered Death as she drew out the last of her breath with a kiss.
It started out as a knitting club—a way to gather and chat while avoiding eye contact. They would discuss trivial things of no consequence. Debbie was the first one to voice out her frustration of being a mother: “I sit on the toilet at home just to be alone, just for five quiet minutes.”
Prose/dialogue: “It started out as a knitting club…” #hbp55
December 21, 2024 at 4:16 PM
It started out as a knitting club—a way to gather and chat while avoiding eye contact. They would discuss trivial things of no consequence. Debbie was the first one to voice out her frustration of being a mother: “I sit on the toilet at home just to be alone, just for five quiet minutes.”
Coming from the city, living in a penthouse, he was mostly unfamiliar with the feeling of grass on his bare feet. His soft skin tickled, and he felt the need to walk on the tips of his toes as he left a trail of his clothes.
“Come on! The water is amazing,” she smiled, charmed by his hesitation.
“Come on! The water is amazing,” she smiled, charmed by his hesitation.
December 20, 2024 at 3:59 PM
Coming from the city, living in a penthouse, he was mostly unfamiliar with the feeling of grass on his bare feet. His soft skin tickled, and he felt the need to walk on the tips of his toes as he left a trail of his clothes.
“Come on! The water is amazing,” she smiled, charmed by his hesitation.
“Come on! The water is amazing,” she smiled, charmed by his hesitation.