“Can we pray for my brother?” She asked as I petitioned the class for prayer intentions. “We just found out he is going to be incarcerated...”
Dreamers Creative Writing is dedicated to writing that is from the heart.
Congratulations to the winners of the 2020 Dreamers Stories of Migration, Sense of Place and Home Contest. This contest honours the term “Dreamers”...
Mid-way through a week of walking the vales and fells of the Lakes | My new friend Judy asks: | What do your parents do?
The Sunday I first went to the quarry was after I made Tito choose. He’d been back in the States a few weeks. This is what his mother...
I arrive late at my writers group, stepping into the quiet swish of pens on paper, of fingers tapping on keyboards. I love that look of concentration...
Two days before the bicentennial and Madeline Harper’s tenth birthday, someone rowed an eighteen-foot Statue of Liberty constructed entirely of Venetian blinds...
It’s all here: the good, the bad and the sketchy. Hulla parties were an exciting and risky destination for the underground kandy kids of Toronto...
I hold the paper in my hand. My case worker is friendly, not callous or distant. I ask him to decode the letter I have received in the mail. I think it says what I hope it says...
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about sunflowers—the kind that kept Van Gogh tethered to his body and that convinced Hannah Gadsby that human connection can shield us...
The room is small, jail-like, with windows high in one wall. The air is humid. Breathing requires deep heavy intakes of energy. The bits of daylight filtering through...
It was a delight to discover Tammy T. Stone’s Formation. In this collection of poetry written left aligned and in fairly loose form...
Over the last twelve months of life at the Alvarezes, from fall of ‘65 to fall ‘66, the seasons gained momentum. The autumn equinox passed.
Congratulations to the winners of the 2019 Dreamers Flash Fiction and Nonfiction Contest. In a flash story, it’s important to make every word count...
My father left his barbershop to work in construction years before I was born, yet he never stopped cutting hair. If you knew Gennaro well enough to visit his Italian home in the inner city of Cleveland...
In our living room, a box sits atop a record player, with a black and white photo placed upon the box. All three items act as a tabletop for collected dust...
A chick on a board. Rise, drop, hot wheels singin’, the wind in her hair. Ready for Scarecrow man – break on your board, slide under his skinny arm.
