From his attic room, Hans stares longingly out beyond the line of trees. All winter he’s slept restlessly, in a bed that has grown unaccountably small, dreaming of faraway places.
Head west they say, for a hundred days, and you’ll reach a city where men and goblins walk free and unashamed – women too, of course, and perhaps a goblin girl with a wide smile and coils of green hair.
He’ll wait until the lambing is over and the top field ploughed, for the last hard frost.
Hans straightens up, banging his head painfully on a low beam.
M J Lewis ©2015
Oh, those 100 words! Poor Hans was milking a goat, when Rochelle looked over my shoulder and said, Lose the goat! And apologies to any hard working parents and/or porridge makers – you were reduced to two words. What larks! Thanks to all fellow Friday Fictioneers – elves, humans, goblins, whoever – who drop by to play. And of course thanks to Rochelle (at Addicted to Purple) for linking our tales together and to Sandra Crook for the photo prompt.
Finally, I stand humbly before the very brave, very lovely Terry Pratchett; he will be sadly missed.