​
The Myth of Family
 
by Sophia Argyris

 
I was seven when I saw the goblin. He was squatting on the staircase, his head stuck through the banisters.
I wondered if he could get it out again, or if he'd found himself trapped that way. He wore a nasty grin like a
strange Cheshire cat.
 
Later, when we moved to a colder country, my sister started seeing ghosts. She told us there were two of them,
men in the old fashioned costumes of knights; one in blue one in pink (strange colour for a knight I thought, but
never said so). They were in our kitchen, by the window that looked out over the little street and the large stone
we used to sit on, dangling our legs. They were silent, she said.
 

My mother made a dragon out of clay; he sprawled in front of the fireplace, his nostrils flaring, ready for fire. I liked
to watch him, waiting patiently for him to move, just like I waited for the gnomes to come out from their tiny homes
in the roots of trees by the river. I sat cross legged and held my breath, but they were too timid I suppose, and
knew that I was there. I should have liked to see them more than the goblin. I never told anyone about him. It seemed
such an unlikely story.