The Real World
Sharon’s dreams make more sense than the truth. She dreams night and day. Like Snow White, she hopes to sleep until the world is made right.
Sharon’s dreams make more sense than the truth. She dreams night and day. Like Snow White, she hopes to sleep until the world is made right.
Sunset blooms like a bruise in the wintry gray sky. Gentle night will bring snow flurries falling like stars. Kia waits on the porch to see.
Mia whistles, not a song, but a cry like the wind. Twilight mockingjays answer. Tidying her one plate, one cup, one fork, she calls to them.
The child’s hat has never been crushed. Its taffeta bow shines crisply white. She reaches up an unmet hand as she leaves her only ever home.
Leigh rode to the end of the line, walked the last mile, sailed to the edge of the sea, until she was off the map. And still, she was Leigh.
Jackie worked the night shift in a diner. Partiers came and went by 3am. Truckers showed up at 5am. 4am meant dishes and blue waking dreams.
Em packed pantyhose, pumps and lunch, but her snowy hour commute east became 2,000 miles west to a place where ruby camellias were blooming.
Evie is a journalist. She takes license to ask and do and be things. In the cab of a 220-foot crane, she forgets the medical tests tomorrow.
A quiver of green brightens the blue of wee Cleo’s eyes. She presses her nose against phantom glass. Today she will breach her fragile wall.