Writing: How I came to have a Troll chained up in my back yard (oddly, doesn’t involve goats)

(For my Muttley Bear)

Really, it’s all Phyllis’s fault.

Or rather, perhaps, her quite naive view of men. Which has always struck me as rather peculiar, what with her originally being a man and all but who am I to question the tricksome and winding ways of the heart?

Anyway, long story short, she fell head over heels for this weedy little accountant who used to frequent her club.

It wasn’t till they were walking halfway over the flyover, on the way to his house, that he confessed that the only reason he had come on to her was that the flyover was the only was to reach his house.

And a troll lived under the flyover.

The weedy accountant had been to cheap to buy a car, so every time he walked across the bridge the troll had leapt out and threatened to eat him unless the accountant did his tax returns. The accountant had been spending the last month trapped until dawn going through a millennia of old receipts and things scribbled on the backs of envelopes.

In desperation he had asked around to find out who was the strongest man was and had been directed to the Foo Foo Kitty Club where Phyllis worked.

You can probably guess that, after having been told that the man you were passionately in love with only saw you as hired muscle, Phyllis was not in the best of moods.

So when the troll came clambering up over the sides of the bridge, yelling ‘Who’s that trip trapping over my bridge?’ Phyllis, heartbrokenly, knocked him about quite a bit with the crowbar she kept in her handbag. Then, while sobbing loudly, she dragged his unconscious form back to the club with her.

When the troll regained consciousness, he found himself within the hallowed pink walls of the Foo Foo Kitty Club, his fur neatly washed and trimmed, his claws painted a pastel pink and at the end of a long pink leash.

Phyllis was holding the other end.

For a while, trolls became the new Chihuahuas – there was such a craze for them that there was a temporary mass exodus of trolls from the area until it was deemed safe to walk in the woods again without coming across a huntress, dressed in tweed, holding a butterfly net and a crowbar.

After six months Phyllis called me into the club to ask me to have a look at her troll.

“I’m a writer.” I told her over the phone. “What do I know about creatures?”

“You’re a fantasy writer honey.” She said airily, “he’s a fantastical creature – I’m sure it’ll work out.”

When I got to the club, the troll was hiding in the closet. He looked about six times smaller than I had last seen him and his voice had become so quiet that I couldn’t even hear him. All in all, he looked completely miserable.

Everyone has their weak spots. I, for one, am only allowed to drive past the animal rescue place once a month.

“He’s coming home with me Phyllis.” I said firmly.

He’s now chained up in my back yard, doing quite happily amongst the fresh air and rather over grown weeds (I’m not a gardener). The chain wasn’t my idea but his. I think he sees it as some sort of security blanket – proof that Phyllis can’t suddenly turn up and snatch him back.

So yes, that’s how I came to have a troll chained up in my back yard.

And no, it didn’t involve goats in the slightest.

Writing: Winter Stores

The small village hidden away in the mountains had always had it tough. Food was hard to grow in the summer months, the stores were small and the lottery a necessary evil during the winter years.

It had grown harder still, a few decades prior, when the fallen gentry of the nearest town had fallen foul of their neighbours and fled to the mountains. Weakened but desperate, they were still enough to overpower the simple folk of the mountain and had soon established themselves as rulers over the small community.

And they had done the unthinkable, committed the heaviest sin – they had interfered with the lottery. To the mountain folk, the lottery was the fairest and most even way to survive the winter – and more than that, it was a vital founding stone of their community.

At first when they had found out about it, the nobles had tried to abolish the practice, saying it was evil. But when they had reached the half-way point of winter, when the wind was howling down the mountain side and the stores were low enough that licking the moss from the walls sounded like an appealing idea – then they came around to it.

And then they corrupted it for their own use.

Previously the lottery existed to give everyone a fair chance. Everyone’s name was entered, except those exempt due to age or necessity, and the names were picked under everyone’s watchful eyes. Those who were chosen accepted their fate and were honoured by everyone leading up to the feast. They were revered as life givers and treated as such. Lotteries were only held at times of great desperation and everything was used – from the hair down to the marrow in their bones. Their names were written on the Wall of Remembrance and every year they had a holiday to commemorate their sacrifice.

The nobles treated them like food.

They created a special section of women called ‘Breeders’, from the children born from them, each noble chose a child for himself. The child would shadow the noble from birth, waiting on them as manservants, obeying their every whim. When the winter hunger struck, they would be sacrificed for the lords’ dinner table.

These children were known as ‘Stocks’.

Typically the lords chose for themselves young girl babies, as they believed their meat would be tenderer. You would think that having a young lady follow them night and day would tempt them to give into other desires, but the very idea of this turned the noble’s stomach. The stocks were food, nothing more, nothing less.

But then again, exceptional beauty does have a way of altering the rules…..

The young heir was, as these things were judged, handsome, impetuous and a brilliant hunter. He was much sought after by the young ladies of the nobility and his dancing was considered top rate.

The mountain labourers thought him cruel and arrogant but when did their opinion count for much?

As all nobles, the young heir r had his own personal Stock, picked for him when he himself was a mere babe. You may think that growing up together would have caused him to feel a fondness for her, even if just out of habit, a fellowship for her as another human his own age.

This was not the case.

He saw her as nothing more than his property, to do with as he wished. He routinely ordered her around, kicked her when she didn’t do something fast enough and more often than not took out his foul temper on her when things didn’t go his way.

And then they both hit puberty.

Stocks had their tongues cut out and birth, so their crying did not disrupt their masters. They were given the most sufficient care, but only so that they grew strength and healthy, the better to feast on. They were kept clean only so that their masters didn’t catch infection from them. They were only given the most rudimentary of education – enough so that they could understand their master’s orders. Their clothes were hand me downs and were for the purpose of shielding their bodies from the elements. They didn’t have names – they were identified by who owned them.

But the Heir’s Stock was beautiful.

Her hair was the colour of sun ripened corn (or what people assumed was the colour of sun ripened corn, theirs not being ta farming community. Actually it was more the shade of rich honey stored in a warm larder), her eyes were the deep grey of the mountain deeps, almost purple in shade. Even the nobles were heard to remark in whispers that the Overlord had made a mistake in choosing the babe for stock.

And of course, the heir in his 17^th year could not help but notice this.

Any noble caught whispering that she was too good for stock was whipped to within an inch of his life. Any who dared look too long at her or even glanced her way was punished.  He started keeping her within arm’s reach at all times, even taking to locking her away within his suite for hours or days at a time.

And no one was more punished than she. Her body was constantly covered with the dark marks of his hands, her frame grew frailer by the day as he denied her food and once, she appeared with a large chunk of her hair seared off, the heat still staining her cheeks.

And yet it was not this that worried the Overlord.

The Heir’s Stock clothes were clearly if high quality than what was normally issued. Her chores seem to have dwindled to nothing but sitting quietly within sight of the heir. After her hair had been burnt the servants had whispered of how they had been ordered to attend to her to repair the damage, cleaning and cutting her hair – and of the expensive comb that graced it.

The Overlord was severely frightened that for the first time on decades a noble had committed the ultimate taboo.

He had fallen for his Stock.

The Overlord knew he had to take drastic measures before it got out of hand.

He summoned his son and informed him that his stock was to be slaughtered the next day and he would be granted another. Surprisingly, his son seemed to accept it with good grace.

As he and his court lay dying from the poison laced stew later that evening, he realised he may have jumped to conclusions somewhat. Alas, it was too late to change fate.

The Heir stood in the middle of the courtroom, surrounded by the bodies of the dead. To ensure that he father died and there were no repercussions, he had poisoned and sentenced to death the entire court. He felt no regret.

He turned to his stock, mute in the corner. Her face had not changed once from its usual serene expression.

“Now then darling, nothing can separate us ever again.” He embraced her, and she returned it.

She lifted her face to his and for the first time in her life smiled.

And then she plunged a dagger into him.

He fell from her grasp, blood dripping from her lips. “why.” He gasped. “I love you.”

“Because that is her purpose for existing sweetie.” An old woman’s voice sounded behind him, one of the mountain labourers.

“You nobles are such the romantic sort.” She sniffed. “We knew that sooner or later, if we bred for beauty, one of you wouldn’t be able to resist. And then we would have our chance.”

She turned to him, sprawled out on the floor, but he was already beyond hearing.

“Ah well, never mind.” She turned to the Stock. “Well done girl, we’ll have food enough for generations with this lot.”

For the Man with the Holy Tenant in his mind ;)

It was, the wiry man in the tweed suit thought, only a minor inconvenience really, that he was literally trapped in a mental state – and not even his own one at that.

When he had first crash landed here, way back when, it had taken him quite a while to realise that he was, in fact, trapped in someone else’s mind. The constantly shifting scenery had been a bit of clue. It had given him quite the bad case of vertigo until he had managed to meld himself in the dominant consciousness – now what he saw could be filtered through his own senses and thus appear in a form that he was comfortable with.

He had even found a function for himself within his hosts mind (always a good thing to have – it could be dangerous to be an alien piece of flotsam floating around in someone else’s subconscious – you never knew what defences the host could have dreamt up)

Having been revered as an excellent grammar teacher throughout the galaxies (as well as for a few other things) he delighted in being able to share his verbal accuracy with his host.

Almost unfortunately his host already had an excellently clear sighted mind but he was still determined to aid him in any way he could.

In fact…..

The halo of light visible around his head began to shine, a sound not unlike the chiming silver bells began to be heard.

“Ah ha!” The man sprung up and began racing through the various corridors, the light and sound getting louder and brighter respectively. Soon the man saw his prey in sight, slithering round the corner ahead.

But this part of the mind was his domain – and under his control. All the corridors sloped downwards and the floors were supremely smooth for a reason.

And the man hadn’t won the galactic roller-skating championship three years in a row for nothing.

He took the corner on one foot and two wheels and pounced on his prey.

His ‘prey’ appeared to be a long serpent weaved out of glowing lines of thread. It was a quite beautiful matrix of light and colours but some parts of it appeared dark – or as if the thread was fuzzy and frayed. Holding the serpent down by its head, the man got out his marker pen and starting working on it, pulling gently on the frayed threads, re-weaving their shape, re-writing over the darkened bits with his marker until they too glowed.

“Using such an obscure terminology with such a clichéd, inaccurate simile?’ the man could be heard muttering to himself, “that’s unlike you – I told you drinking that much was a bad idea. She’s not going to have a clue what you’re talking about.”

He leant back and admired his handiwork. “Now, that’s more like it. Go on, off you go.” He said to the serpent.

It slithered off, much more subdued, but its glow now lit the walls with a myriad of colours.

“Beautiful” the man sighed.

With a bit of mental pressure he turned his roller-skates back to converses. Whistling merrily he sauntered back to his attic hideout for a well deserved cup of cocoa.

Writing: Really Random Vignette

It wasn’t the dingy wallpaper, the tired tasselled lamps or even the way just touching the desk made her hands feel defiled. No, the major problem with working reception at ‘Golden Days Quality Hotel’ was the utter oppressive nature of the OAP ghosts that frequented it.

 
Michelle couldn’t understand why on earth they would want to spend their afterlife hanging round the same dreary place they did while they were alive, but every room in the place was packed with a different variation of a grey, slightly damp seeming, elderly ghost – usually wearing polyester and sandals with socks.

If Michelle had been dead, she wouldn’t have stood it for a second. She’d be off round the world, seeing everything she’d dreamed of while she was alive but couldn’t afford to visit. She definitely wouldn’t be stuck in this dump.

“Seriously love; I don’t know why you come.” She said as she helped yet another OAP check out. “Haven’t you got better things to do?” She leaned back on her chair and continued filing her nails, her long legs swinging in her high heels.

The OAP ghost blinked and decided to not mention the way Michelle’s foot kept kicking through the reception desk, or the way the dark ligament marks around her neck contrasted vividly with her corpse pale skin. It seemed kinder not to.

“Well dear,” she said at last, “you’d be amazed at the way habit can take a hold of you.”