Tag: troll

Flashback Friday: Candy is Poison

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This story was originally posted on August 24, 2017. I like to write about trolls. They can be simple or complex, and live alone or in groups. That gives a lot of room for different stories. They live on the edges of human society, which gives them an interesting perspective on people. As an added bonus, they usually have fun names!

The human laughed.   “Thanks guys for helping me carry this money from the bank to where I’d parked my horse. Now I can give all this money to poor people. Here’s your payment.”

He handed the trolls each a sandwich. Then, he started attaching the bags of gold to his horse’s saddle.   The poor thing looked really weighed down.

The trolls started eating their sandwiches. “No meat,” Gark said.

“Of course not,” the man said. “They’re mustard sandwiches. They’re very good.”

“Ok,” Gark said. He took another bite of his sandwich and made a face.

“It’s like stealing candy from a baby,” the man said.

“What’s candy?” Gark asked.

“Oh, sweet things that children eat. They’re very good.”

“Like mustard?” Gark asked.

“No, more like the opposite of mustard. Well, I’m off,” the man said. And he jumped on his horse and rode away.

Now that their job was over, the trolls wandered away to sit under their favorite bridges. Gark’s bridge was in a lovely park. There were lots of pigeons to eat and a fountain where people left money behind.   He fished out the coins at night for his hoard.

Today, as he dozed and listened to the children screech their high-pitched lullabies, he thought about candy. Mustard was terrible. Was candy wonderful? Wasn’t wonderful the opposite of terrible?

And just then, as he pondered this deep philosophical question, a child dropped his cotton candy onto the rocks beside the bridge.   “My sweeties,” the child wailed.

Gark turned and stared. Was this candy? The child said it was sweet. The child’s feet pounded across the bridge as he ran away. Gark darted out a hand, grabbed the cotton candy, and pulled it under the bridge.

It was very, very pink. And it looked like the part of sheep his mother said was not for eating. Gark was not sure about this.   It seemed like a terrible idea.   He reached out his tongue and touched the very tip of it to the candy.

His tongue was on fire. Gark tossed the cotton candy far away and dipped his head in the stream. It felt like his tongue was still burning. How could humans eat such things? If candy was the opposite of mustard, it was because mustard is edible and candy is not.

Finally, finally, Gark’s tongue stopped burning.   He started to brush the water out of his fur, only to stop in dismay. His fur was now bright pink! How could he hide if he was bright pink?

He coated his fur in mud. It was cold and slimy and heavy. And then it dried and he couldn’t move until he’d managed to roll into the stream and soften the mud. And then he had to start the mud applying process again, because some of it had washed away.

It was a week before his fur faded and he could risk traveling to attend the next troll gathering. That week gave Gark plenty of time for thinking. He came to some surprising conclusions.

“What happened to your fur?” someone asked when he arrived at the meeting place. “The color is all wrong.”

“I have an announcement to make,” Gark said.   “Candy is not very good. Candy is poison.”

“But the human said it was very good,” a troll said.

“Yes he did,” Gark said. “I have learned that humans can say things that are wrong on purpose.”

The trolls gasped. “But then how will we know if anything they say is right?” someone asked.

“Exactly,” Gark said. “I don’t think it’s worth the risk. I nearly died tasting candy.”

The other trolls yelled in outrage. “I will never work for another human,” a troll yelled.   “Me neither,” another said.

And the trolls warned their friends and relatives.   And that’s why you never see trolls anymore. They’re hiding from us.

Flashback Friday: Trolling Around

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This story was originally posted on October 26, 2017. I like the idea of modern trolls. Now I wonder what trolls of the future would be like. Would they haunt the bridges of starships, adding malware to the ship’s computers and changing the navigational coordinates when no one’s looking? Hmmmmmm.

Grag was under the bridge typing away when Frod came to visit. “Hey Frod,” he said. “Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in years.”

“Yeah, well, you know how I never paid attention in class?” Frod said.

“Of course I do. You snored so loud that we could hardly hear what the teacher was saying.” Grag rolled his eyes..

Frod laughed. “I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

“Do you remember any of the lessons?” Grag asked.

“Good point.” Frod scratched his arm. “Anyway, when we were talking about life skills, I thought I needed to live under a fridge to gather my hoard. Wow, it was a tight fit. I only ever managed to grab a handful of dropped change, but the food was good.”

“You’re joking, right?” Grag asked.

“Not really,” Frod said. “But enough about me, tell me how you’re doing.”

Above their heads, they could hear the pounding sound of someone crossing the bridge. Frod looked over at Grag. “Aren’t you going to go get that?”

Grag typed something on his laptop. “Nope.”

“Don’t stop trolling just because I’m visiting. I may have slept through all our lessons, but I could help,” Frod said.

“No one trolls in person anymore.” Grag pointed at his laptop. “It’s all online now.”

Frod looked around. “On what?”

“Online. Look.” Grag turned his laptop screen around.

Frod squinted. “Your dog is ugly and has fleas,” he read. “Did you write that?”

“That’s modern trolling,” Grag said.

“But what good does saying weird things online do?” Frod asked.

“What do you mean?” Grag started typing again.

“Well, you can’t eat your words,” Frod said. “Or gather them up to keep you warm at night.”

“You really missed a lot sleeping through all those lessons.” Grag kept typing. “I don’t troll to make a living. I do it because I’m honoring my cultural heritage.”

Frod scratched his head. “But you still have to eat. And you still need to build a hoard so that you can find a nice cave to settle down in, right?”

“Of course I do.” Grag closed his laptop and turned to look at his friend. “I work as a customer service representative.”

Frod frowned. “Are those really words?”

“Of course they are. I work for a human company, answering questions about the stuff they sell and handling returns. Things like that.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good job for a troll,” Frod said.

Grag laughed. “You’d be surprised.”

“But…”

“Listen,” Grag said, leaning forward. “Do you want to build a hoard and earn money you can exchange for food?”

Frod nodded.

“Good, good,” Grag said. “It’s the modern troll way. I know of a collections agency that’s hiring. I think it would be a great job for you. Do you know how to use a telephone?” Grag held up a cellphone.

“That’s a telephone?” Frod asked. “It’s so small.”

Grag sighed. “I think you were under that fridge too long. Don’t worry. You’ll pick it up really quick. Are you hungry? We can talk over lunch.”

“I found some bread in the park this morning, but I had to fight some ducks for it,” Frod said. “I’m starving.”

“Let’s get a pizza.” Grag stood up and put away his laptop.

“That sounds wonderful.” Frod smiled, showing his crooked teeth. “Thanks for being a good friend.”

“Don’t mention it,” Grag said. “Ever. I’ve got a reputation as a troll to keep up.”

Charlie’s Room: Just Charlie

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When Isaac returned home from work, Charlie was waiting for him by the door. Isaac smiled at him as he changed his shoes. “Hey, kiddo. What’s up?”

Charlie scuffed the toes of his shoes against the carpet. “I need help with my homework.”

Isaac hung his coat up. “Okay. I’m ready now. Lead the way.”

He followed Charlie down the hall to his room. Charlie turned his desk chair around and sat down. Isaac pulled the chair by the bookshelf over and sat facing him.

“I’m supposed to write about what I want to do when I grow up.” Charlie picked up a paper off his desk and turned it to face Isaac. The assignment written on it was just as Charlie reported.

“You mean like a bucket list? Things you want to do before you die?” That sounded like a fun assignment. Someday Isaac wanted to sit down and write a list like that. The challenge would be to narrow it down to the things you really, really wanted to do. There were just so many interesting things in the world, and not enough time to see and try them all. Read More

The Youngest Billy Goat Gruff and the Troll

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Once there were three billy goat brothers named Gruff. They ate grass, and it took a lot of grass to feed just one billy goat, let alone three. And so, there came a time when they needed to move on from the meadow where they were and find a place where the grass wasn’t quite so close-cropped.

To their great fortune, they quickly spotted a green hill in the distance. It looked covered in lovely, tasty, long, green grass. “Hooray!” they cried and headed towards the hill.

Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap went their hooves on the road. They paused by a delicious looking field, only to be chased away by a farmer. Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap they traveled on.

They marched through a town and nibbled on un-tasty laundry and were shooed away from a market. They marched around a lake and snacked on the wispy grass at the water’s edge.

At last, they were almost to the hill. The only thing standing between the three hungry billy goats Gruff and their meadow of plenty was a long, narrow bridge. They could only cross the bridge one at a time.

“Perhaps I’m to large for such a small bridge,” the oldest billy goat Gruff said. “See how narrow it is!”

“It is terribly high above the river,” said the second billy goat Gruff. “What if we slip and fall. It is a very narrow bridge, after all.”

“Perhaps we can find another meadow,” said the oldest billy goat Gruff.

“One without a bridge,” the second billy goat agreed.

They turned around and started down the road. Trip, trap, trip, trap… “Wait!” said the youngest billy goat Gruff. “I will test the bridge and see if it is safe. I am small and the bridge is small. If it is safe for me, then it is probably safe for the second billy goat Gruff. If it is safe for him, then it is probably safe for our oldest brother.”

The oldest billy goat Gruff nodded. “I will fish you out of the river if the bridge breaks.”

The second billy goat Gruff nodded. “I will fish you out of the river if you fall.”

The youngest billy goat Gruff shook his head. “You will not need to fish me out of the river at all. Watch and see.” And he turned and started across the bridge.

Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap went his hooves on the bridge. He was almost across and the bridge had not collapsed, and he had not fallen. And then, he heard a voice roaring from beneath the bridge.

“Who’s that trip-trapping on my bridge?”

“It’s me, the littlest billy goat Gruff. I’m crossing the bridge so I can go to the meadow and eat the lovely, green grass until I’m fat. Who are you?”

“I’m the troll who lives under this bridge. I will eat you up for my supper.”

“Oh, don’t eat me. I’m so small and hungry and skinny. Even my brothers who are coming behind me are larger than I am. And they’re hungry and skinny too. Maybe you should wait to eat us until after we’ve eaten all the tasty-looking grass in the meadow. Then we’ll be nice and fat and a much better meal,” the little billy goat said.

The troll growled. “I’m hungry and don’t want to wait any longer. Besides, why should I believe that you have brothers or even that you’re small and skinny? I am going to gobble you up now!”

And the troll climbed out from beneath the bridge and stood in the middle of the bridge between the youngest, smallest billy goat gruff and the green hill full of lovely, tasty grass. The little billy goat stared at the troll. It was barely as tall as his little knees. How did it expect to eat him?

“If you don’t move, I’ll toss you aside with my horns. You’ll land in the river and have no one to fish you out,” said the youngest billy goat Gruff.

“I’m going to gobble you up,” roared the troll, and it charged at the little billy goat.

Head down, the billy goat waited. When the troll was close enough, he tossed him over the edge of the narrow bridge with his horns. The troll landed in the river with a splash. His older brothers, waiting behind him on the tall riverbank cheered.

And the youngest, littlest billy goat Gruff trip-trapped over the rest of the narrow bridge and into the long, green grass. With his brave example to follow, it wasn’t long before he heard his brothers crossing the bridge.

Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap his middle brother joined him. Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap came their oldest brother. The three billy goats gruff ate the tasty, green grass until they were fat. And if they haven’t eaten all the lovely, tasty, long, green grass yet, then they’re there still.

The Heroic Picnic Table

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Once upon a time, there was a happy picnic table who lived in the shade of a tall oak tree on the bank of a small stream that murmured cheerfully as it flowed over its bed of river rock. The leaves of the tree whispered in reply, and the picnic table was content to listen to the conversation as it waited for happy people to come picnicking. And they did come.

The people brought their baskets and coolers and rested in the shade of the tree and waded in the stream and they were happy. The children shrieked with laughter as they splashed each other with water and hung from branches. Adults smiled and talked quietly and gazed around in wonder, as if they’d forgotten how lovely the world could be.

The picnic table absorbed the happiness around it until it felt like it surely must glow in the dark. Those were the happy times. But the happy times didn’t last.

One summer, the weather grew hotter and hotter. At first, this meant more families came to splash in the stream. But the stream slowly ran dry. There was no more water. The leaves of the tall oak tree turned brown and began to fall early. The people stopped coming.

There was a late summer storm. The wind blew the rain harshly against the table, scouring the paint that had begun to peel in the summer sun. There was a horrible cracking sound, and the oak tree lost several large branches. It didn’t live much longer after that.

The picnic table was all alone. It had no stream, no tree, and no people. Everything was too quiet. But the picnic table had absorbed too much happiness to give up. It knew that life could be better than this. It just needed to find out how to make that happen.

It gathered some acorns and planted them next to the old oak tree. Then it followed the bed of the dry stream back towards its source. If the stream was blocked somewhere, the picnic table would figure out how to fix it.

It waddled along on stumpy legs through briar patches and cockleburs until it came to a small bridge. An even smaller troll was sitting under the bridge, curled up into a ball and radiating misery. As the table shuffled closer, the troll straightened up. “A table?” The troll stood up and shuffled over. “With the stream dried up, I’m all alone. If you are traveling to a better place, please take me with you.”

The table paused and lowered one of its benches and the troll hopped on. The misery had changed to hope. The table felt a little bit stronger. The troll and table followed the stream together, moving at night, and finding shade for the troll during the day. The troll ate roots and bugs when they stopped, and sang odd warbling songs as they traveled. The picnic table almost felt at home.

One night, as they trundled along, they heard a loud cracking sound in the dry river bank. The troll stopped singing, and the table crept closer. A grumpy river fairy looked up at them from a pile of broken river rocks. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“We’re on a quest,” the troll said.

“You and the table?” The fairy raised an eyebrow.

“We’re going to find a new home or save the river or something. I’m not really sure. But we’re going to do something,” the troll said.

The fairy nodded. “That sounds much better than staying here. I’ll come too.” The fairy jumped on the bench next to the troll. Anger shifted to hope. The table felt happy and strong. And now the fairy sang strange lilting tunes that wove around the troll’s songs on their journey.

And so they traveled on, picking up confused dryads and lonely wood elves and frightened water sprites. The benches were a full chorus of hope and happiness and determination to succeed. And the picnic bench strode forth, strong as a mountain and as bright with happiness as the sun.

And one day, they reached the source of the dried up river that fed the dried up little stream. It was a wide hollow area, with a large, round boulder where it was deepest. “The spring has dried up,” the grumpy fairy said sadly. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“What about the boulder? Maybe it’s blocking the water,” the troll said.

“I can take care of that,” the fairy said. He pointed at the rock and said something low and fierce. Nothing happened. “Why won’t my magic work?”

“Maybe the rock is too big,” the dryad said sadly.

One of the wood elves stood on the table. “Let’s move the boulder together! Together we can save the river.”

And they all jumped from the table and pushed with arms and legs and roots and magic. The picnic table shouldered its way in and pushed too. With a shudder, the boulder started to roll. And then a sound rang out like a clap of thunder, a crack appeared from top to bottom, and the boulder crumbled.

In the middle of the rubble, a baby dragon looked up at them with wide eyes. “Mom?” it asked, looking around. Just then, water gushed from the ground beneath the dragon. Everyone piled onto the table, dragging the dragon along with them. The picnic table waded to shore through the turbulent water of the rapidly filling spring.

The air almost seemed alive with happiness. Only the little dragon wasn’t happy. It was confused and sad and hungry. It cried louder and louder and louder. The dryads and sprites and elves all tried singing to the little dragon. The troll brought it some bugs and roots to eat, but that only helped for a moment or two. The little table, now stronger than a hundred mountains, scooped up the little dragon and flapped its benches.

The dragon egg could only have come from the highest peak, far overhead where the dragons nested during the hot, hot summers. Somewhere, high above them, a mother dragon must have lost an egg. The picnic table flew higher and higher, up through the clouds and higher still, until he reached the peaks where the dragons soared in the blistering sunlight.

The picnic table found a nest where there was only one baby dragon, instead of the usual two or three, and dropped off the little baby. A mother dragon swooped in to snuggle and feed the little dragon. A wave of happiness hit the little table, and it glided back down to the spring, strong enough to carry the earth on its back, bright enough to glow with happiness as long as there were people left to eat picnics.

Everyone climbed back on the table and rode downstream singing with happiness. They quickly returned home, the table last of all. A little sapling was waiting for it. The table had saved its home. And to its great joy, the people came back to picnic the very next day.