Her Eyes Were Limpet Pools

“ARE YOU READY,” the third year girl cried into a rolled up paper that served as a megaphone, “for this fine institution's FIRST. EVER. MAGIC DUEL?”

The sea of girls that had flooded the theater of Melieh’s Academy of Magic screamed, and Bostwick had an eerie premonition of things to come. He had agreed to this ridiculous duel only because he knew he would win, but standing here on stage for the first time, he couldn't shake the feeling that Clarence had something up his sleeve.

“In this corner,” the announcer continued, as if the hastily cobbled-together stage performance was a boxing match, “is Bostwick von Dogsbody, top of the second year class. His goal in life is to become a court magician for one of the royal families of the Empire.”

Meet Bostwick!

Full Name: Bostwick von Dogsbody

Age: Seventeen (Fourteen in "Her Eyes Were Limpet Pools")

Height:  5’8”        

So grumpy! Illustration by Claire Corcoran.

Eyes: Blue

Hair:  Brown, short

Likes: magic, poetry, hearty food, reading

Dislikes: Delilah, being disrespected, getting wet, being annoyed, nonsense, chaos

Occupation: Court magician Door-to-door magician Butler

Favorite Food: Stew

Place of Birth: The Capital, Empire

Spirit Animal: Badger

Spirit Vegetable: Eggplant

Little Known Fact:  Though he pretends not to care about it, he has learned a lot about stationery from his parents and actually likes it a lot.

Taking a Walk with You

The sun is high overhead,

and the gravel is low underfoot,

and I’m trying to think of a word to describe

how I feel, and I want it well put.

There’s light through leaves like stained glass,

and light in your hair like a glow,

and I’m soaking it up as we’re walking along

and that’s why we’re taking it slow.

A zephyr glides gently our way.

It’s warm as our honey-gold bands

and just as soft as your palm in mine

in absent-mindedly intertwined hands.

Now I’m catching the scent of the brook,

that wonderful cattail bouquet.

It’s getting mixed up with your orchid perfume

and I’m getting swept clean away.

Light laughter comes from the distance,

from a potluck-and-picnicking crowd,

but all I can hear is my love for you

and I hope that it isn’t too loud.

Sestina: After the Fall

Piercing raindrops fall

down like a marionette’s strings.

Women crowd the street mourning your death, and my life.

The whole world is weeping, just for you.

Sorrow drips down the walls like bloody black

ink soaks the newspaper, obscuring my name. The letters crawl away, fly

Welcome!

If you've found this site, it means I've done something right! As you can probably tell from the state of things, I'm not very good with websites and HTML. As such, the layout and look of this sight will most likely change from time to time as I try to resolve issues and make everything look less slap-dash. It already took me half an hour to fix the font size on one page, and that was only with the help of Sophia's Favorite (click on the link. Go there. Read things. Thank him for helping me by giving him page hits). Ahem... What I'm driving at is, please bear with me.

But enough about that!

Welcome! This website is devoted to writing. Whether you like poems or prose, I hope you will find something here that entertains you. As it says on the "About" page, there will be a new post every week. This week is a poem about goblins and the type of poems they write. There will also be short story tie-ins and information about Miscast Spells, a fantasy novel that features tea, pineapples, goblins, magic, and maids. We're currently working on formatting the finished copy and doing cover art, but will be forthcoming with release dates and purchasing information it as soon we've hammered out details.

For now, enjoy browsing what little content I have and please subscribe.

--Your humble author, Rose Corcoran

Goblin Poetry

Ask a goblin, ask a ghost,

And you’ll find they love to boast

About what it is they do most with their time.

They may say hiccupping for hours

Or maybe trampling on your flowers,

But really, all their power lies in rhyme.

It could be Sonnet Number Six

Or a limerick about Styx

Or most often just a random mix of styles.

Form and meter do not matter;

They’ll make it longer, shorter, fatter,

And the iambs they will scatter round for miles.

As for subjects, they do more

Than just love and trees and war,

For they feel these things are boring bits of tripe.

Instead they write about tea pots,

Scarves and slime and snouts and spots

And pineapples, both rotten and unripe.

Now I feel that I should mention

They do all this with intention.

What exactly are their inventions meant

For? They write to hopefully engage

A sense of chaos and enrage

Those of nongoblinical persuasion or descent.

They tweak the org’nization

And poetic combination

To cause maximum frustration and distress.

Chaotic thirst cannot be sated

Till they’re sure that they’ve created

An addlepated,

Mutilated,

Torn apart and fumigated,

Schemed and planned and orchestrated mess.