I shouldn’t say “should”, if I want to be happy. But who can be content while they are wasting borrowed time?
Dreamers Creative Writing is dedicated to writing that is from the heart.
Cardamom cloves. Poured into mismatched cup and steel glasses. Sipped over gossip and a twin-tailed mermaid.
fat weighs less than depression, but has greater volume, filling the space between id and ego, a gelatinous buffer against world.
If you had had just a little more time, I might have pulled up my sleeve to show you the bruises.
Don’t mention my divorce or deferred adolescence but apologize for the times I was a lousy parent.
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He’s tired of feeling like a criminal. He’s tired of being in a country that needed him, needed his people, but didn’t want their kind.
Animals move—it’s our birthright, a gift from ancient ancestors in the form of genes that could eventually code for leg or wing or fin.
The boat stares back with many eyes. Some closed in prayer, others close to fainting. A few people imagine childhood homes or hold photos of a small Italian port. Some cry. Some are confused.
I do know that slowly, my own heart healed as patients and families invited me into the special intimacy of illness.
The roots of a dysfunctional family are deeper than unhealthy thinking; they are steel wire cords.
You were special, hard... but so are gems. You were a shard of glass embedded under my skin.
A decade and two years of prairie farming. His hands touching her limp silhouette; Laid in the comfort of her bed.
The girl laughed at her mother, a bigger laugh than was necessary and took another brownie. She was high.
Bodies - One by One - which flail out the Rivers like Salmon, already caught by haunting Men.
Only an expanding heart . . . one that under-stands Those who ignore their history are doomed to repeat it.
