Fingers cold, he tended flames meant to cook his dinner. Spitted flesh of small forest fowl to keep from growing thinner. But, oh, to taste of the meat from forest's favorite horse. Drool came upon his dry lips dreaming of this special course. Eyes wandered to mantel piece upon which laid a horn. A token from the days now past whence he slew the unicorn. Fondly now he remembered the hunt from which this came. But goblins, they are fantasy, with the unicorns the same. "So, now what?" he realized. "If they be fantasy, should not too I now disappear, for fantasy I, too, be." And with this, he and the horn vanished into thin air. The goblin signaled his own end through him taking without care.
E-mail Ian Albright at: albright_ij@rainier.navy.mil
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