Fall, Fell, Fail, Failing

God I’m lost
Or maybe you left.
I forfeit myself to you, but why am I still here?
I know lord, It’s my fault lord.
But why can’t I receive the help that was given
So long ago.
Dear God, where did I go?
Where did You go?
Where am I?
Am I Adam?
Or am I the serpent that tempts Eve
Eve, the eve, the fall of man
Dear god am I man?
I pray. I pray. I pray.
I fell lord
I fell from grace like the one that you held so highly lord
I’m here lord.
At least I think I’m here
I call to you, I’m kneeling lord and doing all I can to make you hear my call.
I know you’re there lord.
I’m in your house.
I’m with your people
I’m in front of you lord.
But still I hear you ask
With that booming voice
And those ever grieving words
“Where are you?”
Lord I’m here
I’m here lord.
Lord are you crying?
Am I crying?
I fell lord. I fell down
I’m falling
Heaving deeply and crying for your everlasting grace to fall
Fall on me
Fall on all of us
Or maybe it has
Maybe it has and the fall that fell has failed
Am I lost God, or are you?
Did I lose you? Did you lose me?
Lord, I fell. But as I fell, you have failed.
Lord, you are great
You are kind
You are gracious
You are angry
You hold the sinners in your hand,
You held the sinners in your hand and they fell
Fell like me
Down a slippery
Lord, I fell. I fell, and I failed.
I failed lord,
but as I fail,
you fall

​Aaron​ Fletcher

Whiskey Burning

They say it’s supposed to burn, But I don’t feel it.
What burned, Was the feeling of my lips against yours.
I thought it was passion setting a fire in my body.
I was Drunk. I was a Drunk. I was Drunk in love.
People will help an alcoholic.
But where do you go when you’re addicted to the pain she gives you every time she touches your
The whiskey will never burn the way your kiss did.
The pain will never be the same.
I can’t count the nights I tried to replicate that pain on two hands.
But I can count the times I felt your love on one with room to spare.
Your touch felt like fire, but it wasn’t the coveted burning love that is so sought after among
hopeless romantics.
I thought I had what they wished for, but I was surrounded by the painful passion which leads to
lives lost too soon.
I’m still healing. But, the pain will always stay.
I can feel the burning now.
But it isn’t from the whiskey running down my throat.

Gone Without Blame

Here I am again,
With my clumsy
Left Hand.
The literature class,
The same seat.
It’s Rainy today.
Well, it’s dark out
And someone has an
Had, they had.
They walked out of my sight.
And, therefore, out of my life.
Easily, Briskly,
Gone forever.
But I might see them again.
They’re gone because they didn’t
Want Me
Need Me
Know Me
They’re Gone for the same reason that
I’m Not Here.
And I Don’t Blame Them.


     What I would fear most about the storm outside, is that it would end. Thus, leaving the
storm to rage on inside of the place I know as home.
The rough and grumpy clouds, harboring the tumultuous thunder and ravenous lightning, would
lead us outside. My father was the first to go. He would see the rolling clouds and hear the
crashing thunder before any of us, and out he would go to face the forces of nature on his own
front porch. I would follow closely behind, wanting so dearly to be like my family’s patriarch in
every way. My mother and brother would soon follow suit, leaving the house empty, with all its
residents facing the danger outside.
     Lightning and then thunder. That is the only order I have come to understand. I would
count between the strike and the crash, listening to the rain in the calm silence between. The rain
isn’t always there; But it always seems like it should be. Without it, the calm is gone and the
void is left empty. The only occupants being the numbers I slowly count off to myself.
Distance. That is what I am trying to find. Do I just count the seconds? Do I count and then
divide by two? It doesn’t matter because I will never know and it keeps changing. It gets closer
and closer, leaving me hardly any room to count.
Strike... Silence... Crash... Strike.. Silence.. Crash.. Strike. Silence. Crash.
And all the while, the rain keeps count of the seconds in between.
     Once the lightning was gone, the rain would slow to a drizzle. All that was left to the rain
would be the thunder, which was now only a low rumble. And I would sit there with my father.
And that’s how I knew he loved me. I knew it because he was never scared through the crashing
and striking, and, if he wasn’t scared, I wasn’t either. For, with the lightning gone, the rain only a
drizzle, and the thunder reduced to a rumble, what was there to fear?
     The only thing that worried father, was the wind. The wind was like the lightning,
threatening to destroy all it touched. The only difference being that the wind would often follow
through with its threats. My father worried because the wind threatened so much. It could blow
debris into the house and cause damage to the structure he lived in. The wind could harm an
unlucky animal or pet or beloved family member. Or, the wind could take something and blow it
away to never be seen again.
      The wind often seems to cause the storms, and, therefore, causes the battles between
thunder crashes and lightning strikes. If the wind didn’t cause the battle, it brought the angry
cloud containing it closer and closer.
      All the while, the rain is both there and not. But, the rain can also be manipulated by the
wind. The wind can shove the rain to the side, making it fall forcefully in a direction it would not
have chosen on its own.
     The presence of wind always causes the rain to have an unnerving chill. This is what
would cause Father and I to come inside. The light splashes of rain that would come onto the
porch never bothered us. They were a refreshing kiss of mist, begging us to stay longer. But, the
harsh wind could cause bursts of icy liquid daggers to stag into us and threaten being drenched.
This is why the wind worried my father. It threatened so much, but never seemed to bring any
My father would often talk about taming the wind.
     “A windmill”, he says, “That will do it.”
He follows this statement saying:
“The wind isn’t here too often, and it isn’t always strong when it is, but a windmill sure could
I guess what he means is a wind turbine. This would allow us a source of renewable power that
could solve many issues, most of them monetary. But the taming of the wind always seems out
of reach. Freedom is what the wind wants, even if that comes at the cost of thunder and
lightning. Perhaps the wind is jealous of the rest of the storm. Maybe it knows that rain, thunder,
and lightning can exist without it. Especially rain.
     Rain is usually found alone. Guiding itself through the skies and onto the ground with
nary a push from thunder, wind, or lightning. Rain tends to help. It provides life to plants and
crops, renews dried creek beds, and cleanses dirt off the various playthings left outdoors by
     But there is danger in too much rain. Downpours can wash out gravel drives, flood a
farmer’s field, or ever cause a usually well-tempered body of water to swallow bridges. Through
this occurrence, I assume that the saying “all things in moderation” also applies to natural
weather phenomena.
     As I recall my experience with weather, I find myself in yet another storm. But, instead
of submerging myself in the thunder, lightning, and wind, I find myself within the walls of my
home. Even though my family is in bed rather than facing mother nature on our front porch, I
still count the seconds between each brilliant flash of lightning and the subsequent crash of
thunder like each number has a meaning to me. And, filling in every silent moment, the rain
continues to fall calmly onto all things exposed to the now blackened sky. The rain is always
there, whether you know it or not. All the while it is watching, listening, and counting. Trying to
figure out when one storm will end and give way to another.
     I no longer fear the end of nature’s storm. I merely expect it and prepare for all that
comes after. I find my center in the rain, which remains calm within the lightning, wind, and
thunder. My fear is taken by the numbers that quietly form on my lips, each one dropping like
the rain that falls between thunder and lightning.

East Fork:

A Journal of the Arts​​