I am a quarter percent finished with Phantaisia’s Realm (its final edit)

I am framing the next three books, Phantasia’s Echo, Phantasia’s Threads, and Phantasia, Willow’s Way. My goal is to make these readable in any order. Here is a sampling.

A Draft from Phantasia’s Threads

Reclaiming Memory

In twilight hush where shadows lean,
I as mortal child with eyes serene
Wandered past the veil of green—
Drawn by whispers, soft, unseen.

I drank the stream of memory still,
Where time forgets and dreams distill.
The water sang of love and lore,
But I left my voice upon that shore.

For Fae did not take breath or bone,
Nor leave one bleeding, lost, alone.
They pluck the thread that weaves the soul—
The name, the truth, the longing whole.

Yet through the hush, I call to me—
The voice once lost, now memory.

A Draft for Phantasia’s Echo

Echo of the Fae Forest

I walk where moonlight breaks,
Among the thorns and silver lakes.
No feet to tread, no lips to speak,
Just fragments spilled from hearts grown weak.

I murmur love that went unsaid,
Regrets that bloom where hope has fled.
A lullaby of might-have-beens,
Of stolen truths and silent sins.

The forest listens, never still,
Each leaf a witness, each root a will.
As I, Echo, drift through the trees,
Repeating the soul’s lost symphonies.

So if you seek the Fae for fire—
For beauty, knowledge, or desire—
Beware the stream, the hush, the gleam…
For I, Echo now wait beyond the dream.

And from Phantasia, Willow’s Way

The Weeping of Cedar for Willow

In the Mortal realm the fae winds sigh,
And silver mists begin to cry,
The veil grows thin, the world turns slow—
Where mortal hearts should never go.

There stands Willow, bent and pale,
Her bark like parchment, soft and frail.
Her roots are knotted deep in grief,
Her leaves sing laments, sharp and brief.

Cedar comes with quiet tread,
Not for the tree, but her mother, dead—
A love once bright, now lost to time,
A song unsung, a broken rhyme.

She kneels beneath Willow’s shade,
Where sorrow blooms and light decays.
Her tears fall soft on moss and bone,
Each drop, a memory overgrown.

Willow drinks the mourning deep,
Her final breath begins to seep
Into the soil, into the air—
Wisps are born through Cedar’s prayer.

From that mingled grief and grace,
Spirit stir in this shadowed place—
Not mortal, not Fae, but of beings born,
Of love that lingers past the mourn.