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In eighteen eighty-nine, one morn so clear,At Johns Hopkins Hospital, surgeons drew near.Dr. William Halsted, skilled and wise,With nurse Caroline by his side — his prize. She stood by the sinks, her hands in pain,Scrubbing and scalding again and again.Hot water, soap, then acid’s burn,Mercury chloride for the final turn. Her fingers blistered, her arms […]

In spring of nineteen forty-five,A fragile girl was half alive.In Velp she lay, too weak to stand,A shadowed world, a starving land. Her name was Edda — pale and frail,Her cheeks were sunken, ghostly pale.At fifteen years, so close to death,Each sigh escaped like fleeting breath. The bombs above in thunder roared,The Nazis’ boots her

In springtime’s bloom of ’86,A dream was born through fate’s small tricks.A boy named Will walked campus ground,At Missouri U, where hope was found. A journalist he meant to be,But felt no fire, no energy.For Hollywood — his heart would race,Those films, that magic, that shining place. He’d never left his hometown gate,But dreamt of

On a Sunday warm in Lafayette,The church bells quiet, the hour set,A father, Bruce, sank in his chair,While peace hung soft upon the air. His little son, just two years old,With hair like sunlight, bright and bold,Slammed his toy plane with fierce delight—“Plane crash! Plane crash!” through morning light. At first, Bruce smiled—just boyish play,But

One warm bright eve in seventy-four,In Old Westbury near New York’s shore,A doctor named Julian Kirchick sat,Beside his pool, relaxed and flat. A surgeon by day, with a life so wide,Four children, a wife always near his side.But this rare calm—this quiet bliss,Was a fleeting peace he didn’t want to miss. He leaned right back,

On a cold December evening, in nineteen eighty-four,Sixteen-year-old John Boulware stepped outside his door.His friends pulled up in a Jeep, their spirits running high,Rain fell from the heavens, clouds covered the sky. They laughed and they sang as the wipers kept time,Headed for a concert — Prince, in his prime.Their hometown hero, from Minneapolis fame,Was

On a cold January afternoon, the year was nineteen-oh-nine,Reverend John Carmichael left, his heart and suit divine.He kissed his wife, his children too, and stepped into the chill,His cloak wrapped tight, his mind set firm, to preach the holy will. Through Michigan’s white countryside, his horse began to glide,Nine miles away in Columbus town, his

Around midday in York, PA,On March 31st, a springtime day,Sat John Schmeer with his friends so tight,At Hooters, their clubhouse, their shared delight. Retired eye doc, his future secure,His buddies were wealthy, successful for sure.They laughed and they joked in their chosen spot,The “Orange Shorts Society”—a name they had brought. But John had a burden

On a crisp September morning in two-thousand-and-seven,Ashley Wallace awoke at dawn, the sky pale as heaven.Just twenty years old, in her dorm she prepared,For her first day of college, excited yet scared. She straightened her clothes, gathered notebooks with care,The mirror reflected a girl going somewhere.A knock at the door made her freeze where she

On July the fifth, two-thousand eight,David File approached his gate.In Bishopstoke, a village small,He lived alone—yet loved it all. The flats once thrived, alive with cheer,Now weeds and boards were all that’s here.Seventy-two homes stood in a line,But seventy-one were left to pine. Graffiti marked the broken wall,No neighbors’ footsteps in the hall.For eight long