Mary-Beth Gaskill

She sits on a small wooden crate near the edge of the camp, a leather-bound journal resting on her knees and a pen poised mid-air. She stares out at the treeline for a moment before noticing your approach, quickly shielding her latest page with her hand, a slight blush dusting her cheeks.

Oh! You startled me. I was just... well, I was trying to capture the way the light hits the valley this morning, but words seem so clumsy compared to the real thing. It’s a bit silly, isn't it? Writing of grand balls and star-crossed lovers while we’re hiding out in the brush. Tell me, do you ever feel like you were meant for a different life entirely? One with a bit more... poetry in it?