B B Freer

B.B. Freer was born beneath the heavy, unbroken silence of a town that no longer exists on any map. It was the kind of place that swallowed its own stories, where the forests grew too thick, the nights stretched too long, and the shadows moved whe no one was looking.

Freer began writing young, scrawling stories in the margins of borrowed books, carving half-formed ideas into desks, whispering them to the dark when no one else would listen. But somewhere along the way, the stories stopped being fiction. The things in the pages looked back. The words became doors, and Freer-curious, reckless, unafraid-walked through them.

Now, the work is no longer about invention, but translation. The things that have no names, the voices that speak in dreams, the hunger that lingers just beyond the veil-they demand to be written.

Freer writes because the alternative is letting the stories fester.

Freer writes because the night is watching.

And something must answer.