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Just A Dream

United States

I am a mystery even to myself.

Message from Writer

A dream is when when your brain spills a box of thoughts.

When you forget the dream, your brain is cleaning up.

Published Work

The Windswept Girl With The Flowered Backpack

“Who is she? What is she doing here? Where did she come from?”

The entire lunchroom is whispering it as she walks into the room. Choppy, self-cut brown hair. Raggedy shirt, jeans with the cuffs cut off. A grey backpack with pink and white flowers. She’s very windswept and very short, and when she looks around the room, her eyes widen. 

“I don’t know her,” I say. 

But it’s far from true. I do know her. Or I did, once upon a time. I helped her pick out that misshapen, flowered backpack no one else would dream of wearing. I helped her cut her hair just the way she wanted it. 

Once upon a time, I knew her. 

Flash Fiction Competition 2019

The Grave Digger

He digs by the light of the moon, his shovel old and rusty. When morning comes, he lies in the grave and sleeps with the ghosts. 

He’s been seen just once, by a little girl come to visit her father. He told her that her father misses her, that he longs for the day when they will be together again. 

And now, as he digs grave after grave and wipes his brow, he waits for the day when he will see his own daughter again, and waits for the day when he will dig a grave of his own. 

Chapter Two, "The Artist": The Princesses

February 20th, 1653

     “Matilda, where are you going?”

     “Out to the garden. I shall return in an hour.”

     “You’re sneaking off to visit that servant boy, aren’t you? Jacob, was it?”

     The conversation between Princesses Agnes and Matilda happened in lowered-yet-excited voices, one at the prospect of seeing her love and the other at the prospect of catching her sister in the act. It was one that happened far more often than you’d think, but never more than once a week.

     “It’s Thomas,” 15-year old Matilda corrected, but her face grew hot as she realized she’d given herself away.

     “So you are!” Agnes said joyfully. “I knew it!”

     “Oh, stop,” Matilda said, covering her cherry-red face with her hands. “Please don’t tell Mum! I’d never see the light of day again. Besides,” she uncovered her face and raised an eyebrow with an air of hidden knowledge,...

Chapter One, "The Artist": The Room Upstairs

England, February 19th, 1653

     The servant James walked up the stairs quickly, balancing the tray on his fingertips. After a moment he paused to adjust it and attempt to stop his knees knocking.

     He was rather apprehensive, you see, due to his status of being a newer servant to the castle as well as his destination. The highest room in the castle was forbidden to most, with only the King, Princesses, and select servants allowed in. Why, you ask? To this I tell you only that it was the residence of the Artist.

     Most artists, as you know, are not typically revered, and this was not quite the case with our Artist either. However, while he was not worshipped, he had never been seen in person and was a subject of great curiosity and wonder. A total of two pieces of his art had been released to the public: the oft-displayed portrait of the...

Flash Fiction Competition 2019

The Grave Digger

He digs by the light of the moon, his shovel old and rusty. When morning comes, he lies in the grave and sleeps with the ghosts. 

He has been seen just once, by a little girl come to visit her father. He told her that her father misses her, that he longs for the day when they will be together again. 

And now, as he digs grave after grave and wipes his brow, he waits for the day when he will see his own daughter again, and waits for the day when he will dig a grave of his own. 

Flash Fiction Competition 2019

The Grave Digger

He digs by the light of the moon, his shovel old and rusty. When morning comes, he lies in the grave and sleeps with the ghosts. 

He has been seen just once, by a little girl come to visit her father. He told her that her father misses her, that he longs for the day when they will see each other again. 

And now, as he digs grave after grave, he longs for the day when he will see his own daughter again, and waits for the day when he will dig a grave of his own. 

Perfection

Short for his age
but so am i

a blond
but he’s not an idiot

doesn’t live close 
but we’ll make it work 

“anger issues”
but i can handle it 

no such thing as a perfect person
but perfect for me

Two Boys

I spy
with my little eye
two boys 
who walk the streets at night
curly headed, starry eyed

They could be brothers
but their songs sound different
and when one note rises
the other falls