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Around four in the afternoon, August twenty, seventy-five,A granite giant called Moro Rock scraped at the sky.Up its steep spine climbed Michael McQuilin, just eighteen,Young, fit, and fearless, a climber well-seasoned and keen. Behind him trailed Sean, just twelve, and Mary at fifteen,Their steps growing slower, their breathing not quite so clean.The trail was short—just […]
On August eighth morning, heavy and green,In Peru’s deep jungle, where few had been seen,A bungalow waited, half shadow, half light,Where rainforest breathed through the warm humid night. Ludmila sat cross-legged on splintered wood floor,Forty-eight years old, seeking something more.A Russian-born mother, a wife far away,She closed tired eyes, tried to drift and to pray.
On an October morning, crisp and clear,In nineteen-ninety, the trail drew near.Lee Honsho, thirty, with friends in tow,Climbed Beu Mountain, steps burning slow. For hours they pushed as muscles screamed,Till rocky ridges in sunlight gleamed.They stopped to breathe where the cold wind sighed,A bank man by trade, but a hiker inside. This climb was a
At one in the morning, March cold and raw,Through Italy’s mountains a freight train clawed.Young Michelle Paulo held brake and chain,In the last lone car of the climbing train. Snow mixed with rain on the iron spine,Slick were the tracks in that steep incline.The engine coughed with its coal so weak,War stole the good—left ash
One cold late-November morning in seventy-nine,John Parin stepped out, past his own quiet line.Sixty-four years old, from the world withdrawn,A coastal recluse in East London’s dawn. Through a forested park by the ocean’s cry,He walked where the treetops kissed open sky.Though waves roared below on the far-off sand,He hardly came here—this wasn’t planned. No friends,
On December’s cold and silent night,In Chahenkalo dim by lantern light,Priya slipped on her pajamas slow,Brushed sleepy dreams in moonlit glow.She climbed in bed with hopes held tight,Waiting for Anand, out of sight—From steaming bath he’d surely come,To rest beside her, heart and home. The house was hushed, the silence deep,A quiet that refused to
On September fourth as daylight fell,In southern Taiwan the story swelled,Young Zhu ran fast through glass and sound,His last ride north was leaving town.To Taipei’s lights, a six-hour way,He feared late seats and tight delay,But breathless still, with ticket clutched,He reached the bus just as it touched. The doors swung wide, the driver stared,Zhu climbed
At seven o’ clock on a storm-beaten night,Seventeen-year-old Jason sat holding the lightOf a landline phone in his trembling hands,Trying to say what his heart had long planned. At Grandma’s house in Scotch Plains he stayed,With cousins who teased him and jokes they had made.Rain hammered rooftops like drums full of rage—All day they’d been
In whispered tales of blood and dread,One name stands tall among the dead.A phantom born from London’s night,Whose shadow swallowed gaslamp light. He killed in ways that chilled the bone,Yet left no reason, truth unknown.No motive penned, no public plea—Just carnage veiled in mystery. But once, he chose to break his spell,And sent a message
On a cold Texas morning in eighteen-eighty-one,Through the woods of Hill County where the wild rivers run,A search party wandered through brush thick and deep,Looking for George Arnold, gone two days without sleep. Sunday had passed, and his family had prayed,But George stayed behind—though he never delayed.He always joined church, every sermon and hymn,Yet that
