Release – Evanescence is out! Release 1 C1 The Crypt


Evanescence my Gothic Horror / historical Mystery.

” For only in the Dark, can you truly see the Light.”

Through a window darkly.

Things that aren’t quite what they seem to be.

Something primordial restrained deep in the bowels of an ancient Abbey.

In 1746, Don Augustine Calmet, a respected erudite and renowned Benedictine Monk, learned in, and a prolific publisher of works on Philosophy and Theology, visited by the Enlightenment Philosopher Voltaire, published a Tome on Demons, Spirits and Revenants or Vampires in Hungary, which was expanded and reprinted in 1751.

How did this stalwart figure of the Church and prolific Theological writer develop an interest in Eastern European Folklore and Tales of Vampires and the macabre?

Thus, beings the Tale.

I’ll be releasing a full copy soon. A small number of advance copies are available, in return for an honest review! If interested, please contact me on the form below.

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Serenity 2 (inspired by #SUNWip)

Subtle the morning sun 
Through falling autumn leaves,
Soft the winds gentle sorrow:
Tender touch on goose bumped skin,
Quiet the hush of tree enfolded glade,
Serene the pool in which I sank and bathed.
Yet the Forest held its breath, as I held mine,
The image of that anger in her eyes,
Calm before the storm.
In the distance thunder rumbled,
And dark clouds gathered.

© Greg Richards

Dreams (#Rhymer)


Dream enfolding, holding, absent embrace,
Wisps drifting, anchor free, nowhere, everywhere,
Inchoate, unbegun, potentiate,
Infinite portals pending, past, and present,
Multiple, multi-threaded, multiversed,
No time to wait, no time at all;
Time was not, never had been
And never would be,
In space that held her
In its formless, soft, silken, ethereal embrace.
A ripple, disturbance, a moment in future past,
One heavy lidded eye lifted, pupil, dilated,
An image of the future, a man from the past,
A rhyme infused it all.
Limbs twitched, muscle memory, time twinge,
Pain long since past, yet to come, if at all.
And yet she willed it so.
Threads unwrapped, unravelled, time touched,
Troubled the fabric of the Dream,
And pierced that sacred endless place,
And in the vision painted on that
Canvas crowded with Empty Space
A river bank, man prone beneath a morning sun,
Trees swaying in the gentle summer breeze,
A mind that sang her wake, awake, a fate foretold,
No longer past, yet still not sure to be.
Beside her supine canine forms,
Etched from the ether, taking form,
And distant music began to skirl,
Whilst on the river bank,
The Poet paused, hand held to hold
The Summons from his men,
“Thomas, Thomas,” they called,
But it was not that summons that he heard.

© Greg Richards
Part of the Rhymer Chapbook released soon.