Yesterday, he was a castle wall of stone. Today he couldn’t stand on his two scaly feet even if King Reginald demanded it.
The ogre slumped against the mossy trunk of the ancient oak. His forehead hot, his thick grey skin clammy. Even his sniffling sent wildlife scampering, but the untouched goat carcass was the biggest clue.
He was as sick as a plague-ridden goblin.
The ogre closed his eyes and begged for the gods to take him. Thirty-five winters he had survived while besting every enemy this kingdom had to offer.
Who knew old age was the cruelest foe?
The Weekday One Hundred 