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  • Where whispers whisper in deep dark wood,  
    Where shadows creep, and nothing’s good, 
    Where winds howl low and old spirits sigh,  
    A hunger stirs beneath a dark dark sky.

    In Mother Moon’s cold silvered light,  
    A growl, an echo, swallows the night.  
    Eyes hooded black, jaws hanging slack
    The famine beast comes, relentless and withered
    Its skin stretched tight, its all bone and all claw,  
    As it prowls black forests, lean and raw.  

    It feeds on the lost, those who stray too deep,  
    Guided by hunger, cursing the weak.
    Its voice rasps like dry fallen leaves,  
    "Come closer, come near," it croons in the dark,  
    "Feel the frost in my soul, share my empty heart."  

    Once it finds you, there’s no return,  
    You’ll feast on your own marrow, your own sinew, your own bone—  
    And, oh lost child, soon you will learn,  
    A hunger that gnaws, forever unfed,  
    Cursed you will wander, neither living nor dead.

    In the deep dark wood where no faery dares,  
    Listen for whispers in unseasonable airs.  
    For in shadowed forests where darkness lays,  
    All firelight flickers, cold and gray.  
    There, there is only night, never warm summer days—  
    Beware the old hunger, forever stalking its prey.

  • The fragment reads:

    “… tomes, manuscripts, pamphlets, scrolls, notes, and fragments in our world. Most are useless and trite, but some few rare texts survive from earlier ages. These special works can provide much guidance and understanding. The Bower Books, as you call them, are indeed such texts. As the story goes, one reveals the truth, one reveals the power, one reveals the way. I have not had the great misfortune of perusing these works nor do I hope to but there are those who exhaust great quantities of gold and blood in their pursuit and recovery. The rest of us can only hope those efforts continue to be frustrated and unsuccessful. And I might add, such books seldom reveal themselves. They possess great energy and each is said to be imbued with a will of its own. I pray your curiosity is sufficiently quenched. What is lost shall remain legend.”

    With all truth and honor,


    Amthalicus Groffer
    General Practitioner,
    Wizard in Residence at Hilsnth.

  • Brave Goblin Quart, he strayed far home,
    His eyes like coal, his heart like stone,
    But foolish goblins wander far too deep,
    And little Quart forgot what forests keep—

    Willows whispered low ‘tween tangled leaves, 
    Drawing him hither unto Faery’s Reach,  
    Mother moon went cold, thin as a knife,  
    And the air grew thick, humming with life.
    He crept through brambles, shadows thick,  
    While faerie’s laughed sharp and slick,  
    A game they played, twisted and mean,  
    And Quart was lost within a dream.
    All paths labyrinth, no end in sight,  
And each turn led him deeper into night,  
Faery lights flickered, bright then dim,  
Luring him further from home and kin.
    A rustle, a whisper, a shadow’s grin,  
    Laughing Faeries’ grew bright and prim,  
    Their songs played tricks across trickling stones,  
    “We’ll keep you Goblin, you’re ours alone.”

    Little Quart shivered, courage thin,  
    In faery woods, only faeries win.
    Still he fled, through father night, 
    Round and round and round he’d go,  
    But faery woods change fast and slow.
    Now he moans, forever lost,  
    Bound in service to Magic’s Host,  
    Coal-black eyes, dull as dusk,  
    A warning to goblins who dare to trust.
    In faery woods, where willows weep,  
    No goblin’s safe, no goblins sleep,  
    Beware night lights that gleam and glare,  
    Lest you find a faery’s snare.

    Brave Goblin Quart Illustration by Ber Schein
    Brave Little Quart shoeing away pixies. Illustration by Ber Schein

  • Hot wet long out cold—

    offshore kissing distant peaks,
    witness dreaming life.

  • Miso morning smiles,
    green whispers, creaking moss sways—
    distant waves rumble.