Is This The Place?
The taxi drops me off in front of monumental Victorian gates of stone. The guard hands me a tourist map and
directs me to the genealogy office when I tell him I’m looking for family.
The taxi drops me off in front of monumental Victorian gates of stone. The guard hands me a tourist map and
directs me to the genealogy office when I tell him I’m looking for family.
Sometime between the murder of George Floyd and the confirmation of Amy Coney Barrett, I started to think about killing myself.
Albert, our black lab, is scratching his large head, but the Yorkie, Biff, has not begun to stir. I stretch my hand along the sheets to touch George’s shoulder; his absence startles me. It has been six months. But for a moment, I had forgotten that he’s gone.
The bathroom medicine cabinet—It has been three weeks. This will be the easiest I think. It isn’t. I can’t stop the mist in my eyes as I toss everyday medicines left over from normal ailments, the healthy days, the pre-cancer days.
“I never told anybody this, but…” These were the last words I remember writing at the Third Street Writers’ workshop. It was midmorning in February, two days before Valentine’s day.
Congratulations to the winners of the 2025 Dreamers Micro Nonfiction Story Writing Contest, for nonfiction stories between 100-300 words.
CRISPR technology lets us edit genes—targeting DNA at precise locations to replace harmful genes or limit their expression.
Hiding in the closet, as far back as possible, I wrap myself up in my grandmother’s beaver fur coat. The warmth envelops me, swaddling, calming me.
You would be twenty-one now, the age I was when I made the choice. I wonder what life would have been, a mirror universe where a different me made you possible. Not regret, but second guessing.