An elven nation in isolation. Hidden by enchanted vegetation. One insurgent. Broke the spell. All their safeguarding veils fell. Destruction by fallacious ambitions.
Art by Hoàng Lập (Solan)
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A femme fatale. Her hips sway, pendulous. Her weapon glows. With golden luminance. This princess is no damsel. No fiend her gun can’t handle. All her bounties complete. With elegance.
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A forest that only the lost can find. An enchanted woodland, warm and alive. Its comfort — a mother’s womb. Nature heals all lost souls’ wounds. A place where only the broken can thrive.
Courtmacsherry woods, Cork, Ireland by Keith Kingston
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History starts with an invader’s vow. A dim man. His dim men. Their lavish scow. A trespasser’s wretched flag. Stabbed it into foreign sands. History ends. The fool, dead by arrow.
It ensnares wanderers, the forlorn road. A meandering rowan berry grove. The fae’s realm, ethereal. Mystical. Arboreal. A dark, and mirthless timelessness forebode.
Heed caution. Full moons promise bad omens Do not be fooled by beasts who were once men Unbridled ferocity Hungry, wild, monstrosities Make meals of infatuated women
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The monarch, self proclaimed infallible Discovered dragon scales were valuable Sent his men to kill the pests Promised them untold riches Now dead men hang from dragons’ mandibles
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Weary from adversity, she slumbers. Her hunger — pure agony. They hunt her. Mortal darling. A mistake. The claim on his skin — cribrate. Her sole comfort, a stake from her lover.
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Munted remains of a mossy moon gate. Tangled in marigolds, it marinates. Nighttime’s zenith, it yawns wide. Lures our children. Echoes lies. At first light, its maw shuts. A golden grave.
Trying my hand at limericks.
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Rachel's Floetry 