Count backwards from 100. I reach 97, then I’m gone. Off to dreamland, where sometimes dreams become nightmares that become reality.
When I was a little kid, my mom would sit on my bed and play with my hair or tickle my back as she tucked me in at night.
He fell from fatherhood, and said the fall was slow, like water through wood. He said he didn’t know. That’s all.
We’ve come a long way since the days of painting stories on cave walls. Just as storytellers have evolved over the centuries, so have their tools...
The man lying on the hospital bed knows that he is dying. Beside him, the heart monitor stutters, falters, returns to a steady pace once more, each time the rhythm slower.
In the bathwater I see rose petals falling on a little girl in pigtails & sundress reaching for your manicured hand In the mirror I see raindrops
Zen of Instruction
You say, “Hey, you know,
that makes a lot of good sense!”
I feel gratified.
She was already talking about me before I was born. She made the decision that I would be named Jacqueline. She would peek through the bars of my crib and blow me goodnight kisses.
We're pleased to announce the release of Issue 6 of the Dreamers Magazine, a "healing writing" special edition. Get your copy now before we run out!
I know how it feels to be overwhelmed by the darkness and to hide in the warmth of its claws. It can all be shifted in the moment...
This is the great unhappening. If a tree falls in the woods if no one is there to hear if your only child dies a mother unmothered. You sold the van. They are going to set your baby on fire.
Congratulations to the winners of the 2020 Dreamers Haiku Contest! Once again, hundreds of haiku were submitted to this year's contest...
Markus stood by the closed gate. The airport had been busy that day. He had arrived in plenty of time, gone to the lounge, read the paper.
“Am I dying, Mir?” he asks me, as we lie together in the narrow hospital bed, holding hands in the darkness. I sit up and turn to him. "Yes," I say simply, "You are, Bri."
The gully behind my aunt and uncle's new house intrigued me. It was deep and wild, and resembled a small canyon, with lots of wooded areas for city children...
I stopped ignoring him on a frozen February morning. It was the kind of Monday I pictured postal carriers calling in sick. Five seconds out the front door of my apartment...
Thank God things are quiet. I guess it’s medication time everywhere in the hospital, the same way it can be Christmas everywhere in the world.
...attempting to find the answer to “what do you write about” is quite possibly the most frustrating pursuit for me. I sometimes see other writers replying to this...
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