Cameron Palmer
Bio
Just a hobby-writer looking for an outlet for my work. I hope you enjoy it!
Stories (4)
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Is anything we experience real?
It’s a cool Tuesday morning in October. I’m seated at my wooden desk, enveloped in the smells of perfectly steeped tea and a burning lavender candle. I stare at my empty screen, waiting for inspiration to strike when suddenly, I’m back in my bed. The warmth of my duvet tangled in my legs, the cool smell of the Autumn air in the room. Should I expect that this is reality, or will I soon wake up again? With my dream feeling so undoubtedly real, how can I determine that my conscious reality is not also a dream? What if I am no more than a mind living a dream, being convinced that what I’m sensing is real? René Decartes’ Dream Argument states that it is impossible to tell with certainty that any experience we may have is not a dream. While we may perceive them to be true, it is not wise to trust our human senses, as they tend to fail us.
By Cameron Palmer4 years ago in Humans
How I found myself through loss
I was a mere seventeen when I met the man I thought I would marry. He was just shy of twenty-one. I fell in love with how gentle he was. He, with how I kept the focus off of him. He was quiet, I was loud. He was shy, I was far from it.
By Cameron Palmer4 years ago in Motivation
All the boys who had my heart
For a long time, I wished for love. I was young, (I mean, really young) when I started dating. It wasn't really dating. I liked a boy, we held hands, and likely we went our separate ways because I was too young to get intimate. After a while, girls like me start to look desperate... and vulnerable.
By Cameron Palmer4 years ago in Confessions
Christmas morning
I am around eight years old; it's Christmas morning. I woke up to my little brother, six, jumping up and down on my bed yelling "it's Christmas wake up! Santa was here!". I look out my window; of course, it's still dark out. I comply, crawling out of bed. Hell, I'm eight. Why do I care that he woke me up early? Who does care? Mom and Dad. My brother races down the hallway to wake up my parents and baby sister, only a couple of years old. As expected, the parents kick us out of their room until the sun rises. We three kids sneak downstairs to see what Santa Claus has brought us. We approach the sunroom, a wicker-filled, window-walled paradise that is only ever used for the Christmas tree. The room is roughly 3 by 4 metres with a door at either end. It is filled to the brim with gifts. We can't believe our eyes. The room sparkled from the lights on the tree, emphasized by the shiny, sparkly wrapping on the boxes. My brother, the investigator, starts counting. He reaches into the pile to see who's presents are more abundant in quantity and size: A true detective at work. He says, "I can't even walk through to the tree!" The room is full. Unable to fully evaluate his Christmas, he grabs his stocking, overflowing with sugar-filled treats and tooth-care products (oh, the irony) and sits on the couch in the next room. His little legs bounce up and down, trying so hard to wait patiently for Mom and Dad. A few hours pass, baby sister is asleep on my little lap. We hear coffee grinding and fridge opening. Mom is making coffee. We don't exist until Mom's made her coffee. Dad is in his study, digging around for his camcorder. He sets up the camera on a tripod to capture the joy on his children's faces as they open their gifts because he knows he's too tired to enjoy it in the moment. Mom sits down, handing a '#1 Dad' mug to Dad. She sinks into the couch, crosses her legs, and gives a hand wave signalling to the kids 'go ahead'. I bounce up, grab more stockings, hand one to baby sister and get to work. I grab the sock by the toes and dump the goodies onto the carpet. I rip a toothbrush out of its wrapping and toss the garbage to the side. Next, a tube of toothpaste. An oversized lollipop, a container of floss, a bag of jellybeans. Wrapping paper already fills the room. Dad makes a sound of frustration and stands up. I notice, but brother and baby sister are too in the zone. Dad comes back with a garbage bag. “Put the garbage in here please”. We unwrap everything in the stockings and place all our new things back into the socks for easier transportation. Brother trots back towards the sunroom and looks for the largest gift with his name on it that he can find. Dragging it back to his seat, he tears open the wrapping. “Who’s it from?” Mom asks. Brother pauses because he didn’t check before opening. “That one’s from your aunt”. Brother nods and refocuses on the task at hand. Wrapping paper onto the floor, Dad makes a noise, wrapping paper into the garbage bag. I grab a present, baby sister gets help from Mom. There is no method to this madness. The room is chaos. Within twenty minutes, the sunroom is empty, and two garbage bags are full of shredded wrapping paper. Brother sits in glory as he stares at his pile of new toys that overtakes the couch and some of the floor. One by one, we each start carrying our toys up to our rooms. Handfuls and handfuls later, brother’s door closes. Mom starts making breakfast. Dad’s study door closes. Baby sister is on her bedroom floor, unable to fathom all her new things. I sit on my bed for a moment, listening to the new silence that is Christmas day. I turn around and observe my mountain of new things. I pick up a snow globe and think 'I don't remember opening this one'. I turn it on, it plays a classic piano tune. I go to the edge of my room and I close the door.
By Cameron Palmer4 years ago in Families
