Freewrite -- Day 1264

stone house

The goblin lived in a stone house. He lived alone: others found him intolerable, and he found them the same. His shrunken skin had a sickly light-green hue, and he wore it uncomfortably every day.

In the center of the only room in the stone house, he kept a fire burning. When he wasn't collecting firewood or foodstuffs, he was sitting beside the fire, snarking and grumbling. He was always cold, and he could never get warm enough.

His name, when he could remember it, was Stirken. He had been a man once, over 100 years of his black tallow now spent. And though death had not in that time done him part, the years had not been kind to him. Nor he to them.

Who? Who might it be? This or any day, come a-knock to see this fell he-fellow all bedecked in desiccated meat, once a man, and now....

In a crotchety rag of a voice, for no particular whim, Stirken did bid, "Come in."

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#freewrite #freedom #writing #goblin #story

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