by John Xero
We never asked the goblins for their protection, always called it oppression.
Bunch of us kids would sneak past their patrols every dark moon, down to the whispering heather. Right dumb, but I was trying to impress a girl. Little Annie MacCready, a true fiery Scot with hair like a flicker o' ginger flame.
The gobs came after us one night, only it wasnae us they were hunting, was the wolf in our midst.
I remember them circling us, hemming us in. I remember their savage cries, their wicked spears. And I remember Annie shifting, twisting, and tearing them apart.