Sam Eliza Green
Bio
Writer, wanderer, wild at heart. Sagas, poems, novels. Stay a while. There’s a place for you here.
Stories (169)
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When the Birds Don't Migrate
In the Southwest there are birds who, for one reason or another, do not migrate. These residents are known to frequent golf course lakes, parking lots, and the trees in my front yard. In my years of bird admiring, I haven’t witnessed a resilience quite like these who weather the triple-digit summers.
By Sam Eliza Green4 months ago in Earth
They Key Between Stranger Realms - Day Fourteen
On this dark morning, I wake with a fright. The sun has yet to rise, yet I am unburdened by the haze of dreamy sleep. The walls of the concrete abode feel more like a lie as the mornings pass, and I begin to wonder if this was the stranger realm all along. I’m not sure about time, but I know that I don’t want to waste any of it. I need to find Clovis.
By Sam Eliza Green4 months ago in Poets
How I Accidentally Became a Poet . Top Story - September 2025.
I have always been a storyteller. I won’t bother you with all of the anecdotes, just one: I am eight, and I don’t know how to pen the complex words for my tale about a lost girl and her pirates. During class, my daydreams are occupied with memorizing the next scene. After school, I wait, not so patiently, for my mother to come home. Then, like an orator in a great hall, I stand beside her bed and recite the fictional unfoldings. She scribes them with a swift and loyal hand. Together, we revel in the newest imaginings, manifested, and she teaches me how to read cursive. It is like this for a year, maybe less, at least until I can string together a complete sentence and have become familiar with our second-hand thesaurus.
By Sam Eliza Green4 months ago in Writers
The Key Between Stranger Realms - Day Thirteen
On this melancholy morning, I wake, rocking a memory of someone in my arms. I’m uncertain what time it is because the clocks are broken, flashing green strobes and nothing intelligible. Here in this humble abode there is a vacant ache of something etched into memory yet mysteriously gone. A presence, a noise, a vibration.
By Sam Eliza Green4 months ago in Poets
The Key Between Stranger Realms - Day Twelve
On this hellish morning, I’m carrying forty pounds of water on my shoulder for money. Something is strange about this neighborhood. None of the house numbers are in order, and there are no doors, and I don’t know where I’m going. So I sit in the dry basin and crack open a bottle. There’s a tree in the distance. A little kid chases flies around it. When he notices me across the way, he screams, “Wake up!”
By Sam Eliza Green4 months ago in Poets
