What dreams they are I do not care. I supply only the seeds of dreams, carefully cultivated. The seeds that make you close your eyes. The seeds that put you to sleep. Deep, endless sleep. I send the seeds, registered, to Arizona: to doctors who are experts in that field, to patients who are ready, who have earned those dreams, who are chained to them. I do not see dreams flourish; am not of their world. But I till those felons’ earths with a sickle and a scythe, a farmer who does not look to see what lives, what dies.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Dream Farmer’
Published by MW Bewick
Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com View more posts