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.
My daughter, now eighteen, is vibrant and healthy. Julia Rose has wild curly blonde hair that frames her face like a lion’s mane.
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.
a darkening sky
feeds on a bloodied woman
dawn beckons freedom
An interview with author, Steven Heighton, featuring writing as re-enaction, exploring obsessions, and the night-mind.
While growing up in Spanish Harlem - El Barrio as we knew it during the exhilarating years of the 1970s and 80s - diversity was my monarch, acceptance my culture, and faith my freedom.
Social media has provided writers with an abundance of opportunities. From networking to marketing; it's now possible for their work to reach thousands of readers, in just a click of a button.
I’m pleased to announce the release of Issue 3 of the Dreamers Magazine. In this issue you’ll find...
A new mother doesn't need words to pray. Her body is a pulsing prayer in motion. If there's a part or fiber of her body not engaged in nurturing I don't know of it.
On a long inland lake shaped like a kidney bean, banked by low cliffs and surrounded by miles of boreal forest, brooded over by a solid grey sky, a lone canoe zigs and zags about the central waters...
in a split second | life shifts | you fall | not sure if | you heard it correctly | sprawled on the ground | truth has you pinned | writing about death | placing it on paper
Blame the promiscuous breeze of Chernobyl, diesel fumes, warp-walled genes. Blame payback. Blame the consorts of unhappiness, Freud shouting Get a grip.
Cooler by the lake was no longer heard on the evening news, and in the sunbaked hills that ringed town, the cherries—normally at market by now—clung to the trees like peas.
I’m a blondish plucked chicken underneath my burgundy scarf
though I thought I was bold and tough when I cut my hair short weeks ago ready with wigs and peacock-bright coverings
If Lady Liberty could open her copper and iron lips and formulate words, would she emit French, a French accent? Would she say your fatigué, your pauvre, your huddled masses?
Dreamers Creative Writing is dedicated to writing that is from the heart.
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