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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
At 4:45, in ’95,as rain drummed hard on factory tin,old Eric Tollett stayed inside,with Leslie near, the storm shut in. The workers home, the rooms were still,just thunder stalking overhead.His brother Donald, age of sixty,played with Leslie’s boy instead. But suddenly the office doorswung wide with terror in the child.“He’s fallen down! He’s on the
Upon the calm New Zealand sea,bold Diana Stewart raised her lens.A trip for birds, for whales, for light—with fellow nature-loving friends. The boat was steady, morning bright,the waves were soft, the pictures grand…until she saw an immense shaperise from the deep and near the sand. A whale beneath, its shadow long,it surged toward the vessel’s
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
