We were all dreamers, the four of us. Didn’t have a choice, the dream and a bowl of stale fruit loops was all we had. That, and each other.

The milk we slurped up was watered down and teetering on expiration, but we weren’t. We sat wide eyed around the kitchen table, clamoring to tell our dream first. A daily ritual that never got old.

I told them in detail how my 2nd grade teacher turned into a monster with distinct and poisonous pickle breath, but I could fly. I could always fly.

The littlest sister had an eerily similar dream to mine, but no one minded. We nodded in horror, all of our pillow smooshed hair reaching out in disarray.

The only boy and the youngest of the quad, hadn’t quite grasped the game yet. All of four years, he described a cartoon we had seen the day before. He sat up on his knees in excitement, his too small pajamas stretched and pulled at the seams. Batman and villains, smoke bombs and cars. His arms told the story. His baby blue eyes as wide as the now soggy fruit loops that sat before him. We looked around the table at each other. ooh-ooooh- ahhhh.

And then there was the third in line. She told her dream as if it was for the first time, and we listened as if that were true. A dream of going to the beach and playing in the waves, going to eat crabs later that day. We knew the outcome, it was always the same, but no one interrupted. We just let her carry on, only stopping to take a forkful of cereal. Yes, a forkful of cereal. She liked her cereal strained and sifted that way.

We sat around the table, the four of us. Letting each other be dreamers. Starting the day with a filament of tangled tales that sleep brought. Anything was better than the reality and crust filled corners of our eyes that day brought. We were all dreamers, the four of us.

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We read to learn, to feel, to laugh, to understand others. We write to teach, express, communicate, to inspire others. I created Invisible Ink as an outlet of sorts, an area where I can organize the chaos; a place where hopefully I can be true to myself, and my readers. Writing is personal, it takes a brave and dedicated soul to formulate a piece and then share it with the world. That being said, I get just as much out of reading other's work as I do sharing mine ( I am always open to manuscript review swaps, just send me a message). Words read off a page evoke emotions. When taken out of context, or through an out of focus lens - anyone can mold the words, shifting their meaning to fit their agenda or distorted outlook. Staying true to form and myself, I won't censor my content, but I will censor my audience. Whatever lens you happen to be reading this through - I hope you enjoy!

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