The Last Goblin __link__ Now

Then he turned and walked into the woods. Not to hide. Not to steal. Just to be.

And for the first time in a thousand years, Snikk felt something goblins were never supposed to feel.

All save one.

A song for the last goblin.

As the first gray light of dawn touched his back, Snikk walked to the edge of Harlow. He looked back once. The village was still asleep. The fountain gleamed. The new road stretched straight and true toward the factories and the freeways. the last goblin

The elves had sailed into the West. The dwarves had sealed their mountains against the clamor of a race that no longer believed in the pickaxe’s echo. The dragons had grown still, their bones becoming chalk ridges for shepherds to walk.

And if you walk into the deep wood on a quiet night, when the wind holds its breath and the moon is only a sliver, you might see him. A small, gnarled shape sitting on a mossy stone. He will not speak. He will not move. Then he turned and walked into the woods

“I remember,” Snikk whispered. His voice was like dry leaves skittering on stone. “I remember the taste of coal smoke and the smell of wet dog. I remember how to tie a knot in a horse’s tail and how to make a candle burn blue. I remember the old game where you swap the salt for the sugar.”