Some days are yellow, some are blue. I know by heart my two-year-old’s favorite Dr. Seuss book and the rhymes repeat in my mind...
Dreamers Creative Writing is dedicated to writing that is from the heart.
You loved the rose-scented soap in my bathroom. You would rub it all over your body in the shower, and I would flinch, and think 'is that even hygienic'?
Run. Twirl. Swing. Dash out the door. Hop around squares. Kneel on the floor. Jump through two ropes that are turning. All as natural as a bird taking wing.
We're hosting a writing retreat in Hepworth, Ontario, Canada! Join us July 17-20, 2020 at the Dreamers Writing Farm near beautiful Sauble Beach in the Bruce Peninsula.
Gerry has a busted face. We could all see it coming, standing at the bottom of the hill, looking up at him hurtling down on his snow saucer.
It was the first beautiful Sunday of spring. You know that smell the air gets when the sun finally comes out? That’s what that day was. Winter had been grueling.
What I want the surgeon to know is not included in the pre-op interview, where my life of pain has been reduced to color-by-number shades: a lavender 4 to get out of bed, an orange 7...
Stepping out of autumn-chilled water, sun still warming my bare skin, I glance back at the lake wondering, will this be my last swim of the season?
What brings you here? I ask. My name badge tugs at my thin floral blouse asking me the same question. My name has sorrow...
When my grandmother died, my mother reported that her last words were: “Is that all?” Although I was not present at her death, I doubted this.
apprehension caused by awareness that a crucial detail has been left out | fear of putting into words things felt intuitively | fear that ...
It was an accident, he didn’t mean to, I forced him, I provoked, I should have kept my distance, should have shut up when told...
The pale-blue sky stretches to the horizon, broken up here and there by tendrils of white scudding along like wispy phantoms.
Each day he packs. Takes pictures off the walls, adds the dish that held his morning toast. The crumbs too. One slipper goes into his bag. One stays under the bed.
“It’s him - I’m sure of it.” “Lizzie, I think your imagination is working overtime. It’s not him.”
I walk into my parents’ home to pick my mom up for a family gathering, and like most days over the past few weeks, palpable sorrow greets me at the door.
