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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A Sign, If You Need It. Top Story - October 2024.
You may wake one hazy morning and realize you have left yourself in a dream. Ghostly, you only half recognize the people and places surrounding. Perhaps you hurry to the mirror to find yourself, even a glimpse, but no reflection meets you on the other side. You might be terrified by this absence and try to convince yourself that this is the dream, after all.
By Sam Eliza Greenabout a year ago in Poets
The Key Between Stranger Realms - Day Nine
On this strange morning, I awake with sudden purpose. I must find the king who remains nameless. By the cafe where I first saw him, I idle. The Man Who Can’t Be Moved plays in my mind. I don’t yet know why, but the king means so much more to me, to the realms, than that one moment we shared in the forest.
By Sam Eliza Greenabout a year ago in Poets
The Key Between Stranger Realms - Day Eight
On this strange morning, I wake from a dream that feels terribly real. I hold my arms, my shoulders, my legs. No scars, no trace of suffering. I am on the couch in the little apartment, hidden from the world. No towers, no pirate ships. How long was I lost in the dream? How much of it was entirely fabricated?
By Sam Eliza Greenabout a year ago in Poets
The Key Between Stranger Realms - Day Seven
On this ordinary morning, I’m heading to the neighboring cafe for a hot cup of energy. I sing along to my new favorite song that reminds me of chilly sunrises and autumn leaves. On the sidewalk, a spry, elderly man kneels beside his rucksack, rustling through it as if digging for some lost trinket. He doesn’t eye me, too absorbed in his search.
By Sam Eliza Greenabout a year ago in Poets
The Key Between Stranger Realms - Day Six
On this ordinary morning, I am encircling the maze of buildings which are trying so desperately to be homes. Yet, they aren’t much different than metal cages, cold, dank, hidden from sunshine. There is a park, a single stretch of grass and flowering bushes that might or might not be aware that they harbor vitality for the entire block.
By Sam Eliza Greenabout a year ago in Poets
