– Fiction by Anne Ramallo –
Featured in Issue 22 of Dreamers Magazine, wins 3rd Place, 2026 Pen Parentis Fellowship
I wake to her fingers on my cheek, heavy and sweet-smelling. My body protests with a sharp yawn as I take her in through the sleep haze. Leg cramp? Nightmare? Do I need to change the sheets?
“Mommy…”
It’s 3:27 and, in the alarm clock’s greenish glow, I catch the glint of something metallic in her hand. Scissors?
“Baby?”
She must have sensed my sudden inhale, the fierce alertness entering my eyes, because she reassures me in her pillowy nighttime whisper, “They’re magic scissors. The kind that don’t show your bones.” She picks up my hand with a tenderness I can’t resist and calmly snips through my pinky finger.
I brace myself for waves of pain, but instead feel only pressure— a pulling at the seams of my inner fabric that transports me to my dark, formaldehyde-drenched biology classroom years ago. A slideshow about mitosis, knit threads unraveling.
Her dimpled fingers still hold my hand. I pull it away to inspect the damage. It’s a clean cut, not even bleeding save for one red, jewel-like outcry.
“See?” she whispers. “No bones.”
“Where—?” I can’t finish the thought. It’s all too surreal.
On the comforter, my severed finger lies uncomplaining, long and waxy like an echeveria leaf.
Sometimes I walk through our neighborhood cutting tiny pieces of succulents from the edges of yards—sedum, moonglow, jade. In pots, I watch them sprout roots, grow leaves. Could this cutting grow another self? Would it be more unbelievable than watching my daughter grow from kidney bean to eggplant to jackfruit, and now this walking, talking, scissor-wielding creature, wholly separate?
She yawns, her wide, solemn eyes scrunching to crescent moons.
I stand and slide the scissors from her hand. Her legs curl around my hips when I scoop her up, and her breath is warm on my neck. Before I carry her back to bed, I glance again at my pinky and wonder if I should be more worried. But it’s nestled cozy in the rumpled comforter and all I can think is, at least part of me is sleeping through the night.
About the Author – Anne Ramallo
Anne Ramallo is a writer, editor and mom living in Los Angeles, CA, USA. Her poetry and short fiction has been published in literary journals, zines, and anthologies and awarded in competitions by Reedsy, the Royal City Literary Arts Society, and Uncharted Magazine. She placed third in the national Pen Parentis 2026 Fellowship for parent writers. Anne is a co-founder of the micro press and creative collective Poets in the Pines, whose first anthology, Made From Midnight: a requiem, was released in 2025.
Meanwhile, at Dreamers…
Last chance! Stories of Place, Home, and the Meaning of Dreaming
The deadline for the Dreamers Writing Contest on place and home is January 31. Submit a heartfelt story, poem, or essay reflecting on belonging, memory, displacement, or the meaning of home. Open internationally. $250 CAD prize and publication.
Editor’s Note: Issues 21 and 22
We’re pleased to announce the simultaneous release of Dreamers Magazine Issues 21 and 22.These two issues were shaped during very different moments…