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.
I pick up this morning’s newspaper and read another article about displaced Ukrainians, whose lives have been upended by a war instigated by Russia.
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.