Uncategorized

One gray November afternoon, twenty-twenty-one,In Decatur, Alabama, a break had just begun.Nicole Pati sat at work, her coffee growing cold,And dialed up her daughter’s number, worried, brave, and old. The phone rang twice, then Hannah spoke, her voice was thin and weak,A sickness clung to every word each time she tried to speak.Behind her voice […]

On a restless night in eighteen ninety-seven,In Plymouth town where coal dust kissed the heaven,A widow lay awake, eyes wide with dread,Named Mary Titus, alone in her bed. The clock crept past two, then closer to three,When tapping rang out—sharp, wild, and free.Not steady nor kind, not easy to trace,It bounced through the halls, it

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morning in seventy-nine,John Parin stepped out, past his own quiet line.Sixty-four years old, from the world withdrawn,A coastal recluse in East London’s dawn.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