United States of America

Nicolas P. Evans is an ambitious 17-year-old who fell in love with writing via interests in theatre. Writing, now, poetry, short stories, a novel and a musical, he plans to spend his upcoming years in college perfecting and honing his craft.

Message from Writer

Hey all! Please, please, please feel free to comment and suggest edits. I am, like most of you, writing so that someone can read; let me know, as a fellow writer and audience member, what you would like to see more of or what you think I can do better. I will be sure to return the favor (if you would like). Thank you! Can't wait to read from you.

Published Work

Into the Ether

    She walked, slowly, toward her chair -- her comfortable one. She sat slowly down into it, sinking. There was a thing on her front folding table. She opened it up: it buzzed, and it whirred, and it purred. She ran her fingers over the scales on its smooth, metal skin, and it purred even louder at the sensation of touch. It blinked open its eyes -- perhaps it winked at her, even -- and cast a hazy, dim-bright glow upon her wizened countenance. She basked uncomfortably in its light, alone. Her eyes took their time in adjusting. It was dark in her house, and that light filled the room; her only company consisted of that. She adjusted her back pillow, put on her glasses -- well, of course, she had to find them first -- and, when she was ready: woke up the beast.
    She waited patiently, unmoving, until it could fully thaw from unconsciousness; it had been hibernating for...


The earth sobbed torrents
All night long --
The earth throbbed, ebb and tumult:
And now it rests beneath the silence
After screaming -- 
Now it nestles in the rubble, 
In the echo,
In the echo of their drowning.
Indifference, aqueous and plain,
Would beat the barren
Into soil
Given time, ebb and tumult:
Now it flees as though a memory,
Wraith, and ghastly.

Triumph tolls unto the Victor --
Vile, vociferous are those intangible chimes;
They hang in heaven --
With the wind they sometimes go,
A lone survivor of the torrents
Of the silences,
The echo
Of the echo of their fortune.
Dew drops bleed into the grass;
Shards of rain-flesh shed the ground
Of whitely stillness: --
“Thank the earth,” those chimes would whisper. “Thank the earth:
It gives you strength, it gives you hope, it gives you life.”
I look to the carnages of an ambiguous kind of war
The carpets of the earth...

More Crumbs for the Scurrier

    A strange feeling scurries across the ground, and disappears into some out-of-sight blackness buried deep between the gaps of failing woodwork. I hear its patter quick and frantic -- fleeting. I hear it nibbling on some crumbs behind the walls.
    Truthfully, I’d known it to be there for quite some time now; and I’d be dishonest in saying that I hadn’t been a little more careless in my actions as of late, as to, perhaps, produce a few more snacks for the Scurrier to run away with when I wasn’t looking -- back into that darkness just there: behind the walls. And if I were to continue in my dishonesty, I’d tell you that I didn’t sort of enjoy its subtle presence, its phantom scatterings across the floor, its tracelessness. And I’d tell you that I wasn’t in love with a girl.
    Dare I describe the antecedent: Well, she was beautiful, -- but not in that shallow, direct way sunsets...

My December Competition 2019

Something Decorated

    She pulled back her head -- her eyes were still closed -- and took a deep breath in, to herself. I can only imagine what the air might have smelled like: marshmallows, hot cocoa, some distant bonfire-smoke humming and crackling in the wind, dead leaves, pine trees, snow. And I remember wishing I could breathe through my nose. Winter strikes and my allergies flare in a pitiful retaliation to the cold; I’m left only with envy for those who can sample Christmas successfully via functioning olfactory organs. Vicariously, though, as with most simple joys, I would be experiencing the vibrant effervescence of December festivities through her, my juxtaposition, my polarity: my girlfriend. She has always had a way with appreciating “the little things”, and an even sneakier way of coercing that appreciation into me, slowly -- but surely. Opposites attract, I could write, but that would be cliche: --
    Normally, I quite dislike cliches. Being a writer, I am...