The village square was already crowded, thick with bodies in the summer heat. Rowan’s legs trembled as she climbed the tall crate by the well. She let her voice rise over the villagers. “We are poisoning the river.” A few heads turned. Someone laughed. “I’ve watched the mill runoff turn the water black. I’ve seen forge ash choke the stream. Trees are turning pale.” “Get down,” someone spat. The mill master rose, red-faced...

Every night at 3:33 a.m., she heard the familiar voice and laughter. “Come play.” She thought it was a recurring dream about her childhood memories filled with fireflies and sidewalk chalk. She sat up in bed and saw the loose floorboard jiggling to break free again. “Are you finally ready?” She pried open the board. She reached down into the darkness. A warm hand grasped hers. The world flipped. She was six again, barefoo...

June 1938 Papio Creek’s crystal clear water moved steadily under the Nebraska midday sun, a gentle wind skimming the surface. The Roma’s brightly painted wagons rolled along the trail and settled into the soft prairie grass near the banks. Buckets and spare harnesses clanked against the wagons’ heavy wooden sides. They stopped in a line along the creek bank. The Roma had made this stretch of land near the Papio their summ...

They gather in the grooves, soft and unseen, A chorus of echoes where thoughts have been. A flicker, a murmur, a doubtful refrain, A whisper of truth, beneath the strain. One hums of longing, of futures untold, Another recalls the missteps of growing old. Change the world!—Or get back on track! Feed your ambition!—Or maybe have a snack? You're a genius!—You haven't a clue! Everything's fine!—You're doomed, you're through!...

At 5 a.m., the bakery is silent, except for the scratch of Madame Thorne’s pen. She believed fortunes should be handwritten. Typed words felt hollow, devoid of the weight true destiny deserved. She shaped each cookie with practiced precision, leaving just enough space to slide in a tiny slip of paper. Each cookie was a secret wrapped in dough, each personal, each burdened by fate. Then came a sharp knock. It was not polit...

Breathe in peace, that’s what they say, to reduce anxiety, better yet, take a holiday. Imagine a white sandy beach, oh, I've done that before. Closing my eyes, all I see is a door. Daring myself to open it, greeted by Munch’s Scream. Why is stress like a very bad dream? I slam it shut. I prefer it that way. Letting tension manifest in my body, erupting out in illness someday.

Fingernails diving deep, into the flannel green. Picking up the puzzle piece, the one we’ve never seen. Feeling the rough edges, cardboard corrugated. The colors and shapes match, much anticipated. Adjoining touch, press. Angles instantly click. The image becomes clear, our own bailiwick. Blind-sighted so many times, dreams perhaps our foes. Being in the moment now, fears and worries, dispose. A bird's eye view of decades...