Lonely Fern

This started as a short story I was going to write, and it turned into this poetic piece. 


There is a river along the banks of beauty’s backroads. It never has to feel alone with the intimacy the banks bring it, offering their hands for the gentle strokes of the push-pull flow of the water. The wind nudges the shyness from its grasp, and the river makes friends with the fish, making homes in the darkest sections of the riverbed. A lonely fern stretches its skinny fingers for a chance to taste all that the stream provides, not quite reaching what it longs for. There is a river along the banks of beauty’s backroads. It mesmerizes everything within its view, unaware of the lonely fern among the trees, just out of reach. The stream, devoid of physical flaws, only inciting them in the ones it overlooks. On starry nights, the moon acts as a spotlight, illuminating the ridges in the gentle waves, furthering the tease on the poor, lonely fern, that yearns for the river’s embrace.



Thinking was never my greatest subject in school. It would travel off the task to darker places than what was assigned, but my friend became the teacher, and I’m confident I passed this exam. They told me they believe I’m addicted to the pain, afraid to get better, then asked me why I surround myself with the poetry and music. No beats are missed when I tell them my answer in three parts;

I. I read the poems in search for the comfort in knowing there are others with the same pains, struggles, and frustrations. That I am not alone in every thing I feel, think, and overthink. I love the realness every metaphor can hold.

II. I listen to the music for the same beautiful relationship between the lyrics and my life, carried along by the sounds they create.

III. I write not to be trapped by the pain, but to release it, turn it into something other than everything trapped in my brain, to keep me going until the next good day.

Raw Thoughts

My first Novel-in-Verse! I think this is finally a story I can create start to finish.

Ellie is a poet, Lucas has a past that would make for some powerful poetry.


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Behind the Wheel-Short Story

Wrote a short story, nothing else really to it.

Excerpt; “I nod solemnly, looking around at the mixture of emotions painted on the faces around me. Grief claims art in many forms, represented by everyone surrounding me, and I am the artist that never should have been behind the wheel that night.”


A Nurse in the Time of WWI

*This is a fictional letter written from the perspective of a nurse to her husband during WWI*


I’ve been in France for a while now, and it has been way harder than you can even imagine. They assigned me to what they call around here as ‘the tent.’ Though I’ve never seen them (we aren’t allowed to leave the tent, always available if need be), I’ve heard talking from the doctors who help bring in the wounded that we are somewhere near the trenches. They dug trenches to fight from, and it’s so loud. There’s screaming and crying and sometimes, we hear the drones overhead, the other nurses described as little planes used to fight with. I’m writing this over the course of a couple nights, so you’ll have to excuse any inconsistencies.

Before I continue, I need you to know that I care deeply for you. I miss you dearly and couldn’t imagine being in the position of these soldiers, or their wives at home. I understand their pain to a certain extent, but could never fully understand. I hope all is well with the kids. Please make sure that Gabe is eating well, and that Alex is watching out for her brother. Oh, I hope you’re dealing with this well, I hate that I left while you were so sick. I volunteered with the VAD (Voluntary Aid Detachment) because I wanted to help people where my expertise would be better utilized. I feel that these soldiers need someone empathetic to work on and with them. They are all so worried, being without their loved ones, not knowing whether or not they’ll ever make it home. I just want to make it at least a little bit better here for them, and give them some hope for a future. A shoulder to cry on, quite literally.

I work with a lot of nurses and doctors. The male doctors are rather rude. The think they’re better than us just because they’re male and we’re nurses. The only thing the other nurses seem to care about is going home, or swooning over the doctors. It’s a bit infuriating and sometimes I just want to go home too, but I always put my patients first. I just keep telling myself that these people need me, but it just keeps getting worse and worse. Yesterday, I saw a portable xray machine for the first time. A remarkable tool, really, but today, I witnessed a man with burns everywhere, and oh, the smell. It was horrible. They called me in to try and help him out, and I learned what a flame thrower is. It’s a horrible weapon they created that blows fire. He was a lost cause, and I cried for hours.

I fear that I might start becoming numb to others pain, a stone heart like the other nurses. I no longer cry or cringe at the wailing from the injured. They’ve had me working on the US and French soldiers and those that don’t speak English are harder to operate on because I don’t really understand what they need. I still do my best to give them the company they need while fulfilling my job as a nurse. Most of them are so grateful, and it makes me wonder how they got here. I guess most of them were deported, sent to war against their choosing.

I hope this makes it to you,