The Last I Ever Wrote - By Delroy Grant

Written By: Delroy grant

Category: short story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Delroy Grant presents a powerful narrative in his short story, "The Last I Ever Wrote," featured in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This reflective piece delves into themes of identity, redemption, and the human desire for understanding and acceptance. Grant's work captures the essence of life's complexities through the protagonist's introspective journey, offering readers a poignant exploration of personal history and self-awareness.

About the Work

"The Last I Ever Wrote" by Delroy Grant is a deeply introspective tale that explores the protagonist's journey through life, marked by regret and introspection. The narrative evokes a somber mood, where the protagonist reflects on past choices and their consequences. Grant's eloquent storytelling and vivid imagery bring to life the struggle between the desire to be remembered for more than one's mistakes and the harsh reality of past actions. The story's emotional depth encourages readers to ponder the importance of legacy and redemption.

The Last I Ever Wrote

Original Submission by Delroy grant

THE LAST THING I EVER WROTE

A Final Letter

I don't know if the dead get to tell their stories.

Maybe this letter will disappear with the rest of me. Maybe it'll sit somewhere in a drawer, collecting dust, until somebody who never knew me finds it and wonders who the hell I was.

I suppose that's the funny thing about dying.

Everybody remembers you differently.

To some, I was a sinner.

To others, a killer.

Some called me the plug. Some called me a meal ticket. To a few, I was the big brother who always knew how to fix a problem, find some money, make a call, or get somebody out of trouble.

To my mother, I was simply her son.

A son who disappointed her.

And maybe that was the name that hurt the most.

I wasn't born bad.

I wish people understood that.

I was just a boy once. A skinny little boy who thought his mother was the strongest woman alive and believed that if he worked hard enough, one day he could give her everything she never had.

But life has a funny way of teaching you that wanting something and knowing how to get it are two very different things.

I grew up watching people struggle.

I watched men work themselves tired and still come home with empty pockets. I watched mothers stretch a dollar until it screamed. I watched boys disappear into prison and come back with harder eyes. I watched some disappear forever.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped asking myself what was right.

I started asking what worked.

That was the beginning.

Money came first.

Then respect.

Then fear.

And once people become afraid of you, they start telling you that you're powerful. You believe them.

That's the dangerous part.

I became good at being the person people needed.

If somebody needed something, they called me.

If somebody wanted something, they found me.

If somebody had a problem, somehow my phone would ring. I told myself I was taking care of people.

And in some ways, I was.

I fed families.

I helped friends.

I paid bills.

I looked after people who would have gone hungry without me. But money has a way of making you forget where it came from. And violence has an even worse way of making you forget who you were before it. I lost people.

Then I started becoming the kind of person people lost.

My mother saw it before I did.

She never liked the cars.

Never liked the money.

Never asked where it came from.

She already knew.

One night she looked at me and said, "Son, money can't buy you another life." I laughed.

I was young enough to think I had plenty of those.

I didn't.

Eventually, the police caught up with me.

Then came jail.

Concrete walls have a way of making a man honest.

There are no crowds in a cell.

No people calling you important.

No one cares how much money you used to have.

You're just a man sitting on a bed, listening to the door lock behind you. And that's when I started remembering things I'd spent years trying to forget. My mother's voice.

My childhood.

The people I hurt.

The people I couldn't save.

The boy I used to be.

I wondered what he would think of me.

I think he would've been scared.

Maybe disappointed.

Maybe he would've asked me when exactly I stopped being him.

I never found the answer.

When I finally got out, I thought I had another chance.

That's the lie we tell ourselves when we've survived something.

That surviving it means we're free from it.

I wasn't.

The streets remembered me.

The people remembered me.

And worse than that, I remembered myself.

I tried to disappear.

I really did.

But you can't outrun every person you've ever been.

Eventually, somebody I trusted betrayed me.

Funny how death works.

I spent years watching strangers, enemies, police, and rivals.

I worried about everybody except the person standing close enough to put a bullet in me. When it happened, I wasn't angry.

That's the part people probably won't believe.

I was hurt.

Not because I was dying.

Because I finally understood.

All those years I'd spent building a name, building fear, building respect... and in the end, none of it could save me.

Not the money.

Not the connections.

Not the people who once called me brother.

Nothing.

I remember lying there thinking about my mother.

I thought about that little boy again.

The one who used to run home before dark.

The one who believed his mother could fix anything.

I wish I could have gone back and warned him.

I wish I could have told him that being feared isn't the same thing as being loved. That having money isn't the same thing as having peace.

That being somebody in the streets can still leave you a nobody when the lights go out. My phone was beside me when I died.

Her name was on the screen.

Mama.

I couldn't answer.

Maybe that was God's way of making sure my last thought wasn't about money or revenge or the life I'd built.

Maybe He wanted me to remember where I came from.

So if anybody ever finds this letter, don't remember me as the sinner.

Don't remember me as the killer.

Don't remember me as the plug.

Those were only the names I collected along the way.

Remember that before all of that...

I was somebody's son.

I was somebody's brother.

I was a little boy who wanted to make his mother proud.

And somewhere along the road,

I forgot how to find my way home.

That's the last thing I ever wanted to say.

Not because I was innocent.

I wasn't.

But because even guilty men have stories.

And sometimes the saddest part of a man's story isn't how he dies. It's realizing, too late,

who he could have been.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event celebrating the art of storytelling and poetic expression. It gathers creative talents from around the world, offering a platform for writers to showcase their unique voices and narratives. Through various categories, the competition aims to inspire and recognize literary excellence, fostering a vibrant community of writers and poets.

We express our gratitude to Delroy Grant for sharing "The Last I Ever Wrote" in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. His evocative short story encapsulates the timeless themes of reflection and redemption, leaving a lasting impression on readers. Delroy's contribution enriches the literary landscape, and we celebrate his talent and courage in sharing such a personal narrative.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.