What's all this, then?

Gross \grohs\
   adj. glaringly noticeable usually because of inexcusable badness or objectionableness.
   adj. gravely deficient in civility or decency : crudely vulgar.
   n. a dozen dozens.
   n. a gathering, group, or congregation of goblins.

What, indeed! This, dear reader, is A Gross of Goblins! It is a repository of various and sundry individual denizens of the shadows. It is a reminder that sometimes you really did see something move out of the corner of your eye. Or that feeling of something touching your nose in the dark whilst you try to fall asleep just might not have been your imagination. Perhaps there really is more to that feeling that you're being watched. And maybe you really did leave your keys right there where you thought they were. And we won't mention that taste in your mouth when you awakened this very morning! Or... did we just?

A Gross of Goblins is the work of Sean Hexed, described opposite, wherein he catalogues the many diminuitive beings that lurk on the periphery of our perceptions, known collectively as Goblins. A Gross of Goblins will offer up, for your amusement, one of these miniature miscreants per week each and every Wednesday midnight [pst].

Who makes this rubbish?

It was a windy April 3am when a sharp rapping rang out, as if made by a small hard object tapping against the glass of an ordinary front door of an ordinary brick home in an ordinary suburban neighborhood. Investigating, the couple that lived there found sitting upon their doormat a beat up old tophat. And in that tophat was a tattered sleeve cut from an old black sweater. And wrapped in that sleeve, snoring gently, was a tiny human child. And lying atop the child was an old yellowed playing card. Scrawled upon the back of that card in smudgy black ink was simply this: "Ours is no life for a child. Give him a good home and he will bring you good fortune."

Mystified, the couple brought the hat and the sleeve and the child and the card into their home, watched by several very black crows sitting, for once, quietly in a very black night. Overjoyed at their fortuitousness, as they had no children of their own, they did as the note said. As the door closed, the crows nodded and murmured before returning to the carnival.

Despite his mysterious origins, Sean Hexed is just some guy. He wears black. He has strange hair. And angry boots. Left to his own devices, he tends to be nearly completely nocturnal. He's an artist and a writer and a creator of many strange things. By day, he works as a designer in the videogame industry. He tends to have far too many projects going at any given time. And sometimes he even finishes them. He is an inventor. And a maker. And an imaginer. He sleeps far too little. He is an information junkie. He is a mad scientist. And a witch doctor. He is an optimist in a cynic's trenchcoat. He is about 65% water. The rest is candy and cheap wine.