By the grace of a dead man’s hand, through swamp lit stars there the mellifluous songs carried me, through darkness and dreary moonlight. Those goblin-like toes tapped the forest floor; begging me closer to the edge of Someday where every sprig signaled the coming-close dawn where death might sing; beyond stone temples, and fantastic twinkling halls and I followed the rapping below dying moonlight, knowing that the wisp winged things watched me. 

A billion lantern eyes with white flames aglow replaced the stars themselves whose drunken shadows dipped lazily in the dim twilight; low with an amethystine nebulosity whereupon my own eyes became heavy by that spectral radiance. Still, nothing could keep me from the oblivion that pulled me along as the march of miniscule goblin feet grew louder like the Devil’s trumpet. A goodfellow appeared to me, and by the grace of a dead man’s hand beckoned me toward the forest’s brink; where I found the edge of dawn, too late, my soul consumed by debaucherous creatures. 

[Maxwell I. Gold is a Jewish-American author and poet with an extensive body of work comprising over 350 poems since 2017. His writings have earned a place alongside many literary luminaries in the speculative fiction genre. His work has appeared in numerous literary journals, magazines, and anthologies. Maxwell’s work has been recognized with multiple nominations including the Eric Hoffer Award, Pushcart Prize, and Bram Stoker Awards. Find him and his work at www.thewellsoftheweird.com.]