Chasing one’s shoe down a remote, mountain creek has a certain amount of romantic appeal to it, if not some strange contorted heroism.

I squinted through my drunkenness, though that didn’t accomplish much other than obscure my vision. There it was. I ran my clumsy hands over the rough leather, feeling that each little pock had its own story to tell, and I sat down in the old man’s warm chair….

I am but a small hobbit in a very large world, but I am loved in a manner greater than any I could ever imagine. God may use me to work His ways, and that is an encouraging thought.

“If decent means getting rid of your life’s troubles,” the hero said, rising and catching the long arms that immediately went out to grab him, “If that’s what you think is decent, then you’ve learned nothing from life. It’s those troubles that shape us, and make us stronger. And it’s up to us to decide what to do with that strength.”

Jonathan Allen and Davey Henreckson celebrate the beauty of myth and creation with a selection of original poetry.

Man, struggling forward, up from the mires of his first path. On he struggles, carrying his dirtied light as a guide.

“Arise, Pendragon. Take your sword and walk the straight path.”

I felt only the throngings of passion that conquered the lit woodlands. And my weakness faded as I became the enduring Song of the Woodland.

The fall of an epoch, or the descent of a people, is never seen in the burning, bright days of midsummer: death is autumnal. It was so many ages ago, as the days of summer were fading to the dusk of fall – on the eve of the feast day of Saint Bartholomew.

So far, it had gone like any other O’Byrne family gathering. His older brother, happily married, had asked, as his brother always did, if he had met the one yet. His sister managed to spend nearly the entire time on the couch necking with the guy she had brought. His mother simply pretended everything was perfect and pleasant. Ignore the family problems, and they go away.