,

Not Buried to Be Forgotten: “What I Buried in the Orchard” — New on Wattpad

A new short story is live on Wattpad — written just for the page, fresh words, not from the books.

“On the last night of October, I buried the letters in the orchard behind my mother’s house, where nothing has bloomed in eleven years.”

Some things are not buried to be forgotten. Some things are buried so your hands are finally empty enough to hold what comes next. “What I Buried in the Orchard” is a standalone flash story about grief, letting go, and the quiet knock that comes from beneath the soil.

Read it free on Wattpad: What I Buried in the Orchard

Thank you for reading along — the conversation continues here in the Creative Hub.


Discover more from Poetic Bipolar Mind

Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


Discover more from Poetic Bipolar Mind

Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.

  • The Chair That Ate the Family

    The Chair That Ate the Family

    Grandpa’s recliner had a way of swallowing everyone who dared to sit in it — and keeping whatever they left behind. It’s a funny, tender little tribute to the chair that held our crumbs, our laughter, and a whole family’s memories.

  • Still Standing, Still Rising: “The Thing I Am When I Rise” — Substack Issue #3

    Still Standing, Still Rising: “The Thing I Am When I Rise” — Substack Issue #3

    October asks harder questions than the summer did. Issue #3 of the Poetic Bipolar Mind Substack, “The Thing I Am When I Rise,” is Kiana Jimenez writing through the season anyway — a reflection on the mind’s old negotiations with the dark, and a poem written just for the issue about being the storm and…

  • For the Small Hours: “What the Night Keeps” — Substack Issue #2

    For the Small Hours: “What the Night Keeps” — Substack Issue #2

    Most people surrender the small hours. Issue #2 of the Poetic Bipolar Mind Substack, “What the Night Keeps,” was written for the ones who can’t — the minds that won’t rest, counting the hours like old wounds while the house sleeps. It pairs a short reflection on belonging to the night with a poem written…

☾ Browse Categories & Realms ✦