Hello all! Welcome to my blog :) I write lotsa things! If you like history, detailed literature, metaphors, original stories, you should check my stuff out! ⭑
This blog was originally created for a story called "Florence Anne and Henry", which I have recently completed, and is still on here! You can find the masterpost in the directory below! ✶⋆.˚
Phosphenes are the visual phenomena of “seeing stars” ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
✶ Personal notes about this blog:
- If you're a creep, DNI or I'll haunt you.
- Respectfully, please do not PM me! That's what comment sections and the 'whaddyawant' button in my bio are for<3
- Please be nice to me AND the lovely individuals who like my blog! (Don't pitch a fit in the comments.)
- All of my writing is done entirely by myself! - I am very against AI, it's creators, and it's users.
- If I dissappear for long times in between posts, its probably because of the palpable busyness that consumes my life, my chronic health issues, or writers block<3
- I'm still very new to sharing my writings! (even despite having a whole story already on here lol)
- I really love history, art, psychology, poetry, music, literature, metaphors, learning, and sharing the things I love with people! :)
enjoy reading! ☆
Directory: (in progress)
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Florence Anne & Henry Masterpost
Contents: Every Florence Anne & Henry post
Childhood Development and Flower Packets
Contents: A writing surrounding childhood development
The Dissection of the Pledge of Allegiance by a Teenage Girl
Contents: A teenage girl's political statement (A fascists worst nightmare :3)
Dog Food Cans
Contents: A writing about processing the loss of a dog
My original intro post :)
Contents: My original intro post & the summary of Florence & Henry, because I'm very partial too it <3
★ ----------------------------------------------
'Still a man hears what he wants to hear, and disregards the rest,'
Like your average teenage girl, I have an odd fixation with war and military. Also, like your average teenage girl, I am opinionated and a fascists worst nightmare.
Trump and the Department of Defense removing 180 religions from the military's faith code system is absolutely insane to me and shows how Christian Nationalism is seeping into our government right before our very eyes.
There is a recurring pattern in the religions that were spared; 22 out of 31 are branches of the Christian faith. Those 9 that aren't branches of Christianity? Honestly, it looks like they just kept them on there so it looked less like this was an act of,
"Lets make the military all 100% super mega Christian, guys!"
There's heavy emphasis on Christianity in the military and government currently, but you have to remember that the First Amendment, states freedom of religion, and somewhere in there with the Establishment Clause, is the separation of church and state.
Colonists fled to the United States to escape religious persecution.
This is why the United States is a melting pot of religions and cultures.
I am not a religious person, but I do know that part of Christianity is loving your neighbor as your brother. When you remove all who are different from you from being recognized by the employment that is essentially a death sentence, it is no longer Christianity; it is a blatant act of bigotry.
If Steve is a Pagan, Steve should be able to receive the exact same treatment as Dave the Anglican Christian.
"The previous system had ballooned to well over 200 faith codes. … It was impractical and unusable, and many codes were never used at all," Pete Hegseth said.
Representation is not impractical, accommodations are not unusable, and minorities still exist.
And you can't say it wasn't sought after without any intent of racism behind it, because they removed Native Americans off of the recognized list. The people who were here first, are no longer recognized!
If you take out a large chunk of the religions and minorities from the faith codes that you, "don't see as much," you are more likely to only get individuals joining the military who are of the mass represented faiths, which essentially "purifies" the military, if you're thinking of this from a white supremacy and christian nationalism standpoint.
Hegseth added that chaplains, "Are first and foremost called and ordained by God."
The definition of a chaplain is, "A trained professional, who provides spiritual, emotional, and psychosocial support in secular or religious institutions, serving people of any faith or no faith."
Emphasis on "Any faith or no faith."
They removed the recognition of Atheists from the list as well.
It should not be a debate on if someone should be represented for their religion.
Soldiers in warfare should not have to comply with what, "looks pretty," versus what is actually going to help them.
(What about war is pretty anyways.)
Someone who is passionate about their faith should not have to circle,"other." Because they aren't "other," they are someone.
The girl was given trees and leaves, and a packet of flower seeds. She sat under a weeping willow and held the seed packet in her palm, and crumbled the leaves in her fist.
The seed packet said, 'Seeds will only sprout with a watering can, shovel, and flower pot.'
She had the abundance of trees and dry crispy leaves, but was never gifted a shovel, or watering can, or flower pot.
She felt as if she could only hold the packet of seeds in her hand and admire them, because without the tools necessary they could never grow into flowers.
She stayed there under the weeping willow and admired her seed packet. She did eventually get bored with just staring at her seeds, so she opened the packet and began to count them.
She held the seeds in her palm, "They love me, they love me not. They love me, they love me not-" She said.
If she had been given the proper tools, such as a shovel, a watering can, or a flower pot, she would have flowers to crown and petals to pull.
She made do with her petal-less petal pulling, for she was grateful for even a seed packet.
The gift giver marched over to her and asked her why she hadn't planted her daisies. "If you had planted your seeds, you would have petals to pluck!" They said.
The girl was confused. She looked up at the gift giver, "I don't have anything to plant my seeds, though." She said.
The gift giver scoffed at her response, "I have given you everything you need!" They snapped. "You even have a weeping willow over your head!" They yelled.
The girl gave a puzzled expression, "I need a watering can, a shovel, and a flower pot." She quietly said.
The gift giver scoffed once more, "No matter what I do, it's never enough!" The gift giver exclaimed. "You're so ungrateful, you always want more!" They said.
The girl looked down at the flower seeds in her palm and sniffled.
The gift giver sighed, "I guess I'm just a horrible gift giver!" They said, as they stormed away from the girl.
The girl continued to look down at her handful of seeds. She was confused. She felt a pit of guilt in her chest. She pushed the guilt and confusion down into her belly, for that was seen as ungratefulness.
The girl leaned against the weeping willow and held the seeds close to her chest. She still needed a watering can, a flower pot, and a shovel.
The gift giver marched back up to her. "Have you planted your seeds yet?" They asked.
The girl looked up at the gift giver, still holding the seeds close to her chest. "No." She quietly said.
The gift giver scoffed, "What could you possibly need to plant your seeds?!" They snapped.
The girl looked at her palm of seeds, "Nothing," She said.
The gift giver sighed with relief, "Good. Now plant them." They said, as they walked off once more.
The girl brought the seeds close to her face and whispered onto them, "Will you grow like magic beans?" She said.
The flower seeds didn't respond to her question, they only layed still on her palm.
The girl wondered if, maybe, just maybe, if she convinced the seeds to sprout, and planted them in the surrounding dirt, they'd grow.
The girl had no watering can, flower pot, or shovel. She held her seeds in one fist and dug a shallow hole in the dirt with the other.
She kissed her seeds good luck and whispered, "Please grow without what you need,"
She dropped them in the shallow hole and covered them back up with dirt.
She crawled back under the weeping willow and waited for them to sprout.
The gift giver marched back up to her, "Where are your seeds?" They asked.
The girl looked up at the gift giver, "I planted them." She said.
The gift giver sighed, "You don't have anything for them to grow! You just wasted your seeds!" They exclaimed. "You're impatient for not waiting until you had the right items for your flowers to grow!" They snapped.
The girl was once more confused. She looked over at where she buried her seeds, and back up at the gift giver.
The gift giver walked off.
The girl frantically scurried over to the shallow hole where her seeds were buried. She dug her hands into the dirt and searched for the seeds, but she couldn't find them.
She had lost her seeds, and was now left with a confusing feeling as to if she was impatient, or ungrateful. The girl didn't know what she really was, confusing, or ungrateful, or if she had just simply listened when the gift giver told her to 'plant her seeds'.
Who knows where her seeds went or if they will sprout with what little nourishment they receive from the soil.
The thing I really can't bring myself to understand is the fact that when schools use AI. Especially when schools use AI to grade writings.
A thing that is still in development should not be teaching vulnerable minds that are still moldable like play-doh.
Telling me to write a paper with the prompt of it being a "creative writing", but then having the AI grade it, then in return its now making me change every single creative aspect to a bland mediocre version, isn't a creative writing! It's literally just dumbing it down and appealing to the soulless bell curve!
Telling me to write a "creative writing", but then the AI can't decide whether or not the word "petrichor" exists, is a problem!
If AI was truly beneficial, it would be beneficial!
If I write up a paper that even I believe is good, but the AI believes at my big age it's a middle school level, THAT'S A PROBLEM!
If the prompt of the writing is to quote old literature, and one of the words is, "over yonder," and the AI is stupid and believes I mean, "on the boat"... THATS A PROBLEM!
If the AI is fixing spelling mistakes of mine that AREN'T spelling mistakes... that's a problem!
Creativity is an act of rebellion, but AI is a spineless authoritative figure.
I spend like 99% of my time writing, fighting with the AI grading system, trying to appeal to it just so I get a decent grade. I get nothing in return but frustration and a distorted view of how good my writings can be.
If you want a creative writing, let it be creative!
If you have AI suck all the creativeness out of creativity, you suck the passion out of the writer!
keep thinking about how I wrote in my dissertation about how every time a new form of public/social space emerges it's immediately popular with kids and teenagers who see it as a chance at freedom and then adults colonise it and kick them out. this happened with malls in the 80s and diners in the 50s and pool halls in the 20s. my dad was doing research on this trend in like 1975. and I was like "yeah so this is going to happen to the internet" and then five years later every government suddenly decided to ban kids from everywhere online. I hate being right especially when I don't even get paid for it
It is with great thought that I am bringing my 22 followers here today, to announce something.
Yes, yes thats right. The tales of Florence Anne and Henry Frederick have come to an end.
---
The two never got to have the dreams they discussed, the house with the painted ceilings, the pink colored windows, the parquet flooring and the plants in the windowsill.
The two young lovers are forever separated by whatever lies out there in the fictional realms.
Florence and Henry are now separated like the north and the south, leaving those of us with eyes and reading comprehension wishing they got the end they talked about.
The spiteful ghost of Henry will now only communicate by haunting, not by letters begging for cornbread.
---
This however, is not the end of my writings. I have plenty more ideas and stories to go around.
(this blog will go under some renovations, but dw im still gonna post, and these writings are still gonna stay on here ;P)
- the masterpost!
---
However, that does not stop the pain of a fictional couple created by a teenage girl being separated for eternity from infiltrating our minds.
But, ashes to ashes and goo to goo or whatever.
♡ --- authors notes --- ♡
I created Florence Anne and Henry because of a homework assignment. It was something talking about "Imagine you're a soldier in the Civil War, send a letter back home to a family member."
Well, being such a rebel, I bent the prompt a bit.
--- the early days
The very first letter I wrote for Henry was going to be his last. Legitimately. He had been injured and contracted illnesses the very first time I dreamt him up. (Yes, he was doomed from the start.)
I turned in the assignment, got an A, and realized I wanted to write more of him and his lover.
I drafted up a couple of the earliest letters, made a tumblr, and posted them. I was new to sharing my writings, and I still am.
My writings never got the traction I hoped they'd get, but they got out there and thats all that matters.
--- behind the screen
I tried to stay on schedule with these writings, and I did in the beginning, but life got in the way.
I have chronic health issues and they very heavily control when I can write.
The gaps between letters and posts that last weeks to months at a time were solely because I couldn't function to write.
Dealing with school, personal life issues, chonic health, and random unexpected events in my life all play a role in my writings.
My chronic health issues have gotten in the way of not only writing Florence Anne and Henry letters, but other, more significant writings and projects I've been working on for a much longer duration. (I'm so mysterious ikr)
I've spent more time hiding in my dark bedroom in immense pain than I've been able to write, which sucks because I love writing.
--- the inevitable death of Henry
With each letter I posted, I knew that the inevitable death of Henry was coming, I just had to decide when.
Henry's death was carefully decided.
In the midst of a horrible chronic pain flare, of which is still happening while I'm writing this, I logged into tumblr.
Florence's last letter at the time was from November 10th, 2025. I realized that, well, something had to be done about that.
In my bedridden brain fog, I typed up another letter from Florence.
(I did this with the intention of Henry's death being right around the corner.)
Over the course of a couple days of being basically bedridden and drifting in and out of consciousness, I typed up all of my letters between Florence and Henry.
I knew that I wouldn't remember to post them, so I set them up in my queue.
---- a hidden statement ----
Despite the fact that this is a fictional character created by a teenage girl, there's a statement in Henry's death.
Not only do I write, I am also politically and historically educated. I'm also very, VERY opinionated.
Millions of boys die in wars that men twice their age started.
Henry is 21, with hopes and dreams for the future; that house with Florence, with the staircase, pink windows, muraled ceilings and parquet floorings.
Though he is a fictional character, he will never get that house with a staircase, pink windows, muraled ceilings and parquet floorings.
That is the story for millions of people around the world; those fighting in war, and the victims of it.
----
(Not me though, because I know what happens next.)
This is the end of Florence Anne and Henry as you know it.
Florence read the obituary, her eyes frantically skimming down the page.
She felt a deep flutter of anxiety in her stomach, then her heart sank.
He was really gone.
A little part of Florence held onto the idea that Henry was still well and alive, but more of her being began to understand the fact that he was completely, and totally, gone.
A tear fell from her eyes, then another, then another, then she began to weep.
She tossed the newspaper to the floor and fell onto her bed. She cried; with each tear sliding down her face, it felt like she was losing a piece of herself.
She continued to weep, then, she began to wail, as the reality set in that the future she dreamed of, the escape she longed for, the house with the muraled ceilings, pink window frames, parquet floors and double wooden doors was all gone. The love she felt with Henry, each laugh and hug and kiss, was all gone.
Each and every part of her fell to her stomach, her heart ripping from her chest, her intestines knotting themselves, each string that tied and bound her together fraying at the edges as she screamed and cried, and begged that it was all a dream.
But, she knew it wasn't a dream. She knew that this was real, and that her thread was pulled from her and her organs were knotted and that this was all reality.
She wished she could go back, back to the times, or even a couple days prior, where she knew nothing of Henry's wounds, and nothing of his death.
The moment she knew Henry was wounded, her strings began to pull. She felt sick with all the string in her belly, but nothing could have prepared her for the utter horror she would feel when she saw his obituary.
"His name should be on letters, not in the newspaper!" She wailed, her string making its way up to her throat.
She coughed, more string pushing itself further up into her mouth.
Before she knew it she had a mouthful of string and it was knotting itself between her teeth.
The next thing she knew, with each wail and cry, her string scattered itself around her room. Everything had been torn from her, her string, her heart, her love, and her entire body and soul.
She was knotted in her string, unable to escape the horrible sadness and grief she was feeling.
Her tears dampened the string, causing it to hug her even tighter.
You can't untie a wet knot.
But really, this wasn't the knot Florence wanted tied. She wanted her string to be tied to Henry, not to herself.
Henry, aged 21, was killed in the war. Becoming injured April 6th 1862, and dying April 20th 1862.
He survived as long as he could. He was said to be one of the bravest men on the union side. After becoming injured, he lived longer than expected. He claimed he was "too stubborn to die."
Henry had many dreams set for himself when he won the war. One of those dreams was to start a life with his childhood sweetheart, Florence. Him and his lover had dreams of a large house, beautiful muraled ceilings, parquet floors, pink windows, and double wooden front doors. Henry was a talented writer and pianist. He had dreams of playing piano while his sweetheart baked pies.
Before the war, Henry wrote things for the local newspaper. He is described as a witty, intelligent man. There was very little known about his political stance, though he fought on the union side. He did not have many rankings, but he was said to be a very talented soldier. Some viewed him as “too artistic for warfare.”
He had few friends in the service, but he had one. A comrade, Archie Steiffer, who was recently wounded in combat after Henry’s death.
Henry is survived by his mother, Marie Elaine Caswell, and father, Elijah Fredrick Caswell.
Henry was a writer, a loving, caring man, and a stubborn soul.
His belongings will be sent to his immediate family.
Condolences to his friends and family, and his dearest Flora.
Hello, Florence. This is Rosemary Koffner. I am informing you of the death of Henry.
Henry died April 20th, 1862, at about 7:34 PM. He survived much longer than I figured he would. I am so terribly sorry, dear. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this. I did everything I could. I only have so many resources available, and with the fact that his state was rapidly progressing and there was the overwhelming mass influx of other wounded and dying men, I could only do so much. I only know so much, I'm only sixteen, and I'm only a volunteer.
I’m supposed to keep these letters short, but I can tell that he means the world to you. If I could have made him live, I would have. He told me how he wanted to marry you, the house plans you two had, with the pretty floors and ceilings. I wish you guys got the future you talked about.
He was a very good writer, and a very good soldier. When I was collecting things for the obituary, many of the other men said he was “very stubborn and nicely skilled.”
He frequently talked about how beautiful you are. You sound absolutely breathtaking. He had many silly stories of your guys' childhood. I’m sure he was a wonderful piano player.
He wasn't very high ranking in combat, but he was said to be an excellent soldier. They are preparing his burial right now. Most of the soldiers are being buried in the trenches, which, I honestly find sort of sad.
As I was situating him for his burial, I reached into his pocket and discovered a rock hard piece of what I can only believe to be cornbread. I slid it back into his pocket.
I would send you his belongings, as I know how much significance he has to you, but I am only allowed to send them to his immediate family, such as his home address. I will in fact send you a lock of his hair. He was in desperate need of a haircut prior to his death, so I have plenty to go around.
I am so sorry, Florence. I know this is possibly some of the worst news you’ve ever received, and I’m sorry that I am the one delivering it to you. I know that after you receive this letter, you will live a life of grief, and I’m sorry.
Please take care of yourself, and be in search of better days.
Sincerely,
Rosemary Koffner, volunteer union field nurse.
—
P.S: He wrote you a letter before he died.
My Flora, I never wanted to die, darling. I wanted a future with you, to spend the rest of my life with you, but I can't. I'm dying here. I wish this damn war hadn't even existed. I wish I was there with you, our life together would have already started. I thought I was a man of my word, but I'm not sure I am anymore.
I said I would live, but here I am, dying. I never lied about promising you a future. I never lied about my love for you, dear. I didn't lie about painting the windows pink for you, or the parquet floor, but I guess I unknowingly lied about living.
My ghost will haunt you, darling. In a nice way. I'm going to lovingly annoy you. Who knows I might even do the stereotypical ghost stuff, rattling the windows and saying "boo" or something.
I'll do the dishes for you in ghost form, my love. I hope I'm making you smile.
Hello, my darling. I’m so sorry you’re going stir crazy, and I’m so sorry you’re in pain, my love. I'll send some cornbread, don't worry.
I know that you want me to find another man who will love me the way you do, but, Henry, that doesn’t mean I will love him the same way I love you. I don’t think I will ever find another soul I am so well tied too. You are a part of me, Henry.
The future I dream of will never be the same if you aren’t in it. It isn’t my dream if it’s not with you.
I love you dearly, Henry. You are too well tied to me to just be let go of. If I pull string from a piece of fabric, there are indents and markings of where it used to be.
To be completely myself I must have a part of you with me.
I suppose a part of me knew this was coming, though, I really wished for us in the end, and I know you did too. You will never be able to see the end of this war, but I will; and even with the end of this war, there is still a war that grows within me, eating me from the inside out, as I long for what we could have had if guerrilla warfare hadn’t stepped in and broken us apart.
Even long after your passing I will still be irked by the nauseating grief of what could have been.
I love you dearly, Henry. This isn’t your fault, and don’t you ever think it is.
Florence.
Forever yours, despite it all.
✨️🌷(yoyoyoyoyoyo reblog please!! thank you so much!!)✨️🌷
Hello, Florence. This is Rosemary Koffner, Henry’s field nurse, reporting on his well being. He is still immobilized. He still has his bandages on his wounds, he is still very sickly, and he is still unable to write. He is agitated because he cannot write as much as he wishes he could. Also, he is asking for cornbread. I am requesting that you get this poor wounded man cornbread. Please.
I am still writing for Henry, so here is what he is asking me to write.
Hello, my darling. I think I am going stir crazy. I cannot write to the amount I please. I am so so terribly bored, and in excruciating pain too. But more or less, I want to write and I cannot because Rosemary took my hand. Of course, it wasn't holding on by much so of course it was wise to take it off, but it has complicated so many things, because I cannot write, nor play piano, and I am stuck here, this is miserable oh my God. I will stay stubborn despite it all.
Anywho, how are you, dear? Are you well? I hope you are.
Florence, my dear, since I am painfully aware of the fact that I will not be able to give you the house of your dreams like I always promised you I would, I want you to marry a man who will. I want you to marry a man who keeps his word. I couldn’t keep my word, like a fool, dear. Marry a man who will furnish and paint your house how we always dreamed. The victory garden we had talked about, the staircase, the paintings on the ceiling like the cysteine chapel, the windows, you wanted the window frames to be painted pink, remember? The double wooden front doors. Please, Florence. Don’t let my death be the reason you don’t live yours. We may not be together forever, my love, and I may not be able to give you forever, but I can do this. I love you, my Flora.
Forever, in a way.
Henry.
Hello again, Florence. I will continue to update you on his state up until the date of his death. I wish you well, and take care.
