Fresh Blueberries

Boblin the goblin bumbled into the market square, staggering beneath a basket piled so absurdly high with blueberries it looked like a blue mountain wobbling on the brink of collapse. His green skin was blotched with purple stains, giving him the appearance of a mouldy grape with legs, and atop his head sat the ever-faithful wilted cabbage leaf hat—now dripping with juice as if it, too, had been dunked in berry jam.

“Fresh blueberries! Round, plump, and absolutely one hundred percent not bewitched to whisper all of your embarrassing secrets while you sleep!” Boblin bellowed, his voice echoing off the cobblestones like a drunk goose in a cathedral.

The villagers froze, baffled as ever. A goblin, selling blueberries? Weren’t goblins meant for hawking rancid turnip stew or suspiciously twitching sandwiches? But these berries glistened like tiny orbs of bottled dusk, and the basket seemed to hum softly as though it contained a choir of very small, very smug birds. One villager finally croaked, “What’s your secret, Boblin?” The other villages groaned as they all knew what the goblin was about to say.

With a berry-stained grin, Boblin jabbed a sticky finger skyward and announced, “Sing lullabies to ‘em every night, then dust ‘em with enchanted dust from inside the outhouse!” He gave a sniff, dignified as a royal gardener, while the villagers prayed such nonsense wasn’t true—though at this point, they are beginning to suspect it is.

With a wobble and a squish, Boblin marched onward, chanting, “Fresh blueberries! Guaranteed to make your dreams sparkle!” as he vanished around the corner and down the cobbled road toward the outhouse.