yes.
so there.
you can stop that swinging now.
]]>yes.
so there.
you can stop that swinging now.
]]>
Sheola and Ikol were arguing.
Picture it.
She-hell: and rather lovely too in an interesting, hellish kind of way, with largish, boorish, frankly utterly hacked-off giant in tow.
Ikol, after a long-ish sulk, was now raging.
Calm down, said Sheola.
Ikol didn’t hear.
We couldn’t stay. There was no way we could stay.
It’s you! he seethed. You and that, that, that ruddy troll! I knew he was trouble, should’ve stamped on him when I had the chance.
As if! she interjected, This one tells the truth… mimicking Ikol now.
You presume too much, he snapped.
And you, she retorted, Pontificate too much.
Ikol glared. But was quiet.
Sheola felt...exhausted. She still had the last of troll's dream in her mind: And could see it still.
(image © Buttersweet, 2006. All rights reserved)
And this from a troll? What had she glimpsed?
She shook her head as it came to her. Incredulous.
The
colour
of
truth?
(© 2006. All rights reserved) if you don't mind.
]]>Ta la, la, la, ta la, la, la, la, la, laaaa, la...
Troll sneezed.
And was awake.
Hanging upside down, above an Honestist pit.
He looked down and saw only darkness below. The fires around him were smouldering, nearly out; nothing moved. No Honestists. No Ikol. And, regrettably, no woman with the red lips.
Hang on. Troll felt fur in his face, and sneezed again. He lifted his head as best he could, and saw the emotuftie that had abandoned him earlier, snuffling under his chin, its bushy tail tickling his nose.
And there, beyond the emotuftie, on the top of the scaffold from which troll had been strung, were two men. Sitting. Eating sandwiches and swinging their legs. One was drinking beer. They were uncannily alike, and yet very different.
How do. One said, seeing troll awake, raising his bottle in greeting. He carried on eating his sandwich.
Fancy a sandwich? He continued, proffering what looked like a lunch box.
Troll shook his head.
What goes around comes around, hey, dude? The chatty one continued, munching.
Troll closed his eyes. Sighed.
This was all he needed.
You see, he went on, Sure as night follows day...
an' day follows night, chipped in the second.
you know that there's stuff which you simply canna change.... speaking together. They looked at each other and smiled.
The first stopped eating his sandwich. He stretched an arm out in front of him, and seemed to be looking at something in the distance, something that wasn't there.
Get my drift? and then dropped his gaze down to troll.
Troll shook his head.
She'la shudda known that. And he shook his head, and tutted.
Sheila? asked troll.
She-o-la. She who strung you up here, mate. Dream weaver. Man, you're lucky. She'd've had your liver onna fork. She'd've...eughk...don't bare thinking about.' he shuddered, and continued, 'We've seen some terrible things. And had to tidy up afterwards too. He shook his head then, and took another bite.
Where is she? asked troll, curious, but not.
She's gorn, mate. But she'll be back, no doubt about it. Sure as night follows day....
You all right there? You're not looking too good. The other one said.
Troll struggled, and shouted at no-one in particular Of course I ain't alright here....
Well, why didn'tcha say so? And the man stuffed the sandwich between his teeeth, and maneuvering to the edge of the scaffold he reached into his pocket bringing out a short knife and with a swift cut, he sliced through the rope tying troll's ankles together.
And not for the first time that day, he and the emotuftie found themselves falling....
(© 2006. All rights reserved) if you don't mind.
]]>A weightless troll with nowhere to fall.
He saw a flurry of colour out of which emerged some rare, precious jewel that seemed to him all jewels in one.
(image © Buttersweet, 2006. All rights reserved)
He held it, and felt it to be weightless.
And troll dreamed of the gentlest stroking that started at his toes and moved up his legs, over his portly tum, and ended in gentler, ever gentler circles that were like the tiniest of kisses on his face.
And he reached out to hold the hands that were touching him and felt them to be no heavier than a sigh.
Troll, incredulous, sighed and knew he was asleep.
(© 2006. All rights reserved) if you don't mind.
]]>
(image © Buttersweet, 2006. All rights reserved)
Of what would you be thinking if you fell from a very high height? Down, down, down, down into a mass of upraised arms and hands?
That were reaching up to catch you to take you away to be roasted?
Er. Panicky thoughts?
Troll, troll, troll.
Dear, sweet troll.
He thought of warm breasts. He thought of pickles. He thought, briefly, of Ikol, the bastard.
As down he tumbled. Turning cartwheels effortlessly.
Troll thought of whisky. He could taste it suddenly, fleetingly. Smoky, peaty, burning.
And then Troll remembered, flailed and screamed. And he found himself falling headfirst through hands, falling down and into a tangle of limbs, into some deep, thunderous, heaving riot. That bore his weight and grabbed and pulled at him, and then thrust him up again.
Now he was in trouble. He knew. He could smell it.
He breathed in. Deeply.
Then he punched and kicked and bit and hollered and swore like he had never sworn before.
And found himself running out of words.
Then he saw the emotuftie, skiddadling off in the opposite direction over the sea of heads, nipping as it went.
Oh, dear reader, as if the betrayal of Ikol had not been bad enough, when half-witted furry animals desert you, then you know you’re lost.
Come back yer no-arse ball of squirrel hair! Troll hollered, half demented with fear and rage.
But the emotuftie, clearly not as dumb as it looked, had already gone.
Ruddy hell! Troll was rolled over and carried along on his back. Hands held his kicking legs tightly by the ankles.
Troll felt rope being tied around his ankles, binding his feet together. He could feel the heat of something hot. Somewhere nearby. And then suddenly he was pulled up by the ankles, free of the hands holding him, and he found himself swinging violently towards a fire.
And then away from it as he was pulled up higher. Higher and higher. And higher.
And then it all stopped.
And went quiet.
Troll was swinging in slow, lazy circles. He looked down, and saw to his immense relief that he was looking down into an empty pit.
And then.
A vision.
With the reddest lips troll had ever seen.
Moving through the crowd of Honestists. A crowd that parted for her. And was hushed.
Captivating.
Then she was gliding through the air, floating around Troll in some red mist. Her eyes, languid. Serious. Pools of darkness.
Hello, Troll. She said, her voice soft, singing. She reached out and with her finger traced around the circle of his face. He shivered.
She smiled then, and wove herself like dream around him.
And troll
closed
his
eyes.
(© 2006. All rights reserved) if you don't mind.
]]>Notably Brave Trolls of Notoriety:
Er.
Now, it may well be that not all acts of troll bravery made it to the attention of the editor in chief of the TdoubleMT, whom it is rumoured, spent most of his time smoking chorrie root pipes, and grinning at nothing in particular; else it may well be that trolls are simply not known for their bravery.
It is for you, reader to determine. Based on the evidence that follows.
As he strode into the Honestists’ camp, Ikol, the giant, was happily unperturbed. He had size on his side.
And our cowering troll? What did he have?
A sleeping emotuftie for protection. And the concealing qualities of Ikol’s beard.
Right.
It was tricky seeing through Ikol’s beard, but through the thick bristly hair, troll could make out a number of large pits. And each large pit contained a roaring fire. And over each large pit a tall, teetering scaffold. And on each tall, teetering scaffold there were things. Hanging, dangling, writhing things…
And around the edges of the pits, numerous Honestists had gathered. They held long sticks, and poked the hanging things if they stopped moving. They were laughing.
Troll grimaced. Winced. And closed his eyes tight.
Ikol! One exclaimed, and then another, and another. Ikol waved, as the Honestists started heading towards him, waving, cheering. Elated.
And then Ikol stopped.
And lifting up his chin, he reached in under his beard and pulled troll out by an ankle, holding him upside down above the waving, cheering throng.
Look what I brought you! He thundered.
Troll looked down, the Honestists looked up. The emotuftie, now awake, had wrapped itself around troll’s neck, and was hanging on for grim death.
The Honestists were quiet.
This one, continued Ikol, tells the truth.
There was a gasp, and then whispering and…what? What was that? Troll strained to hear…
Then a cry went up.
Let’s roast him!
And, with the sound of cheering and Roast him! Roast him! in his ears, troll felt himself falling to the ground…and many, many, many hands upon him.
(© 2006. All rights reserved) if you don't mind.
]]>
Never let it be said that our troll was one to bear a grudge. The fact that he had had a near death experience under the heel of Ikol's foot hadn’t soured his opinion of him at all.
And, as they sauntered along, the troll felt remarkably at peace. Him and Ikol, Ikol and him. Not yet exchanging jokes. Or any words at all for that matter. But give it time. Give it time.
One thing our troll hadn’t reckoned on, though, was picking up a deranged squirrel en-route. He looked down at the emotuftie that had nestled into the V at the front of his baggy old shirt. It was still asleep, dribbling slightly and felt warm against the troll’s chest. All snuggled up and warm and cosy. All snuggily-buggily. Snoozily-woozily. Ahhhh.
Sod it, they could roast the critter later.
Troll had no idea where they were going. Only that he was sitting on Ikol’s shoulder and hanging on for grim death as the giant strode purposefully towards what looked like some purple mountains.
Er, Ikol, ventured the troll, Where are we going?
Whassit teryou?
There was no answer to that.
Ikol stopped. Paused. Then lifting up one of his huge arms and stretching it out so that he was pointing towards the purple mountains, he said, with great, dramatic effect,
That. That’s where we’re headed. To where the Honestists are…
Relieved as he was to be rid of the provocations of the Bitterists and the Beautiful, which were now far behind him, the troll was concerned to see that there was an awful lot of smoke rising from numerous fires around the base of the mountains that they were fast approaching.
Like, an awful lot of smoke. It hung in a heavy purple-grey haze. It looked in places heavy enough to wear. Troll could smell it already. It didn’t smell too good. And troll wasn’t usually fussy about such things.
Ahhh, said Ikol, catching the smell too and rubbing his hands together eagerly, That’ll be the roasting – we’re in time!
Ah, dear reader. What was our poor troll to make of the sight that met his eyes: part Brueghal, part Bosch, part Bacon?
He gulped, and, drawing the sleeping emotuftie closer to his chest, he did his best to hide himself in Ikol’s rank beard. Leaving two fat, rather smelly troll feet sticking out.
For
one
and
all
plainly
to
see...
(© 2006. All rights reserved) if you don't mind.
]]>The Bitterists and the Beautiful are bereft at their loss, having come to rely on the troll for their supply of truth. The troll, quite frankly, could not give a monkeys. The Honestists and Banterers have no idea what is about to hit them. And the troll had no idea what was about to hit him.
Ikol, disguised as a tiny, blue butterfly, has revealed himself to the troll and, having no time for fools, is about to squash him underfoot…unless the troll can give Ikol just one good reason why he should live…
Errrrr, [shit, shit, shit, shit, shit] thought the troll in a state of blind, hot, prickling panic.
With little more than a fine line in abuse to save him, the troll fumbled desperately for some tiny thing that might spare his miserable skin.
But there was nothing.
I ain’t got an eff’in clue, and that’s the honest truth he said. Flinching.
Ikol brought his foot closer. Then paused.
Peered down at the trembling troll and thundered.
Eh?
The troll cowered feeling Ikol’s breath, like a storm, upon him.
What do you know about honest truth? Ikol roared.
And to the troll’s surprise, and no little relief, Ikol sat down beside him, and lifted the troll up onto his knee. And stared at him. He was all ears. Literally.
The troll blinked. Ikol blinked back. Waiting. Listening.
And then the troll recounted his life under the bridge: The incessant demands of the Bitterists and the Beautiful; the cheap whisky. Oh, the cheap whisky. He found himself crying.
They didn’t love me! He wailed.
At that moment he caught out of the corner of his eye a flurry of small, fluffy, squirrel-like creatures scampering up Ikol’s leg. Hundreds of them. Heading his way. All whiskers and tails, with tiny black eyes and pink tufted ears…
They were all over him. Sniffing, and scratching and wriggling into his pockets, under his arms, down his pants.
Gerofff, he shouted, hurling one down to the ground, where it bounced. Twice.
What kind of mad place was this? They were chattering, incessantly; one nipped his nose.
Ikol was laughing as the animals roamed over the troll’s shoulders; one making it to the top of his head. Where it sat. Like some kind of dandy troll hat.
Gerofff! The troll hopped from one foot to the other, trying desperately to shake the animals off.
They’re emotufties, Ikol explained, still laughing. I’d stop all that hollering, if I were you. They feed on bad karma.
The troll stopped shouting. The emotufties stopped too. They were waiting, listening. There was a lot of blinking going on.
You could have heard a pin drop. Or a troll…
And then, in the silence, the emotufties found their way down, one by one, scurrying down Ikol’s leg before disappearing into the undergrowth.
All that is, except, the one on the troll’s head, which had curled up and gone to sleep.
Looks like you’ve found a friend, said Ikol, and he lay back and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
(© 2006. All rights reserved) if you don't mind.
]]>Now, dear reader, both you and I know that the grass can often seem greener on the other side of the whatever it is that is keeping you apart from it. But when you get to where you thought that green grass was, all you find is scorched earth. Some dessicated plants. And the distinct whiff of something extremely unpleasant.
Our troll, couldn't have cared less.
Grass or armageddon: whatever, he was on the move. East. Ish.
He'd never met Ikol. Didn't really know what he looked like. Though he reckoned that Ikol being a giant, would be fairly easy to spot. On the horizon.
The troll had heard Ikol described as a mischief-maker; who did not tolerate fools. And enjoyed, by all accounts, stamping on any fool he met. Which made for a whole lot of stamping.
The troll knew they were going to get along marvelously.
Feeling tired, he stopped, stretched, and yawned, and then, just as he was about to set off again, he noticed a small, blue butterfly on a branch. Shimmering like a peacock feather in the sunshine.
Awww.
The troll blinked.
The butterfly blinked back.
The troll winked.
Slowly.
The butterfly winked right on back.
Slowly.
Tarn it! Wasn't that just the cutest thing?
The troll stuck out his tongue. Wiggled it. A little.
And the butterfly uncurled its proboscis.
And then, snarled. Suddenly. Baring...
...teeth?
The troll jumped, stumbling backwards before landing on the ground in a cloud of dust.
Little bugger, he shouted, struggling to get up again, determined to squish the wretched thing out of existence.
But as he turned around he was astounded to see the butterfly starting to grow quickly, to change, to ...what? No...it couldn't be....
Its blue wings folded in and round its body, which in turn started to swell up quickly growing and stretching and expanding into the biggest giant the troll had ever seen.
Er, Ikol? said the troll, meekly, trembling as he looked up at the giant towering above him, now completely obliterating the sunshine.
The giant laughed a laugh that started the ground shaking, and rocks tumbling, and the troll a-quaking, and then he raised a foot above the troll's head, and started to bring it down.
I'm Ikol, he thundered, Give me one good reason why you should live....
Now!
Er, said the troll, Er....Errrrrrrrrr.........
(© 2006. All rights reserved if you don't mind.
]]>
The Bitterists and the Beautiful were not mistaken.
The troll was indeed crying.
He felt despair.
Right to his core.
He hated himself. He hated the Bitterists and the Beautiful, and their constant taunts. The noise. The clamour. The cheap fucking whisky they brought him.
He threw the bottle down in contempt.
B**S, all of them.
As the troll nursed his misery, he found himself thinking about Ikol, a giant from the land of Honestists and Banterers.
Ikol was, by all accounts, a little bit – way-hey. Liked the craic. Stepping on stuff. Egos mainly.
The troll wouldn’t call Ikol a friend as such – they’d never met for a start – he knew him only by reputation and hearsay. Which was everything.
He’d often heard Ikol’s name mentioned by the Beautiful and the Bitterists when they congregated on the bridge above him each day.
Ikol this, Ikol that. Ikol the effin other.
But, truth be told, the troll felt lonely. Under the bridge on his own. He was sick of the Beautiful and the Bitterists and the easy, casual fun they made of him. Worse than that, they bored him.
To hell with them. Let them find their truth elsewhere, he muttered, hauling himself on to his unsteady feet.
He swore, farted. And staggered out from under the bridge, shading his eyes from the bright sunshine.
And off he ambled, down the stream. In search of Ikol and the far distant lands of the Honestists and Banterers.
That night, the Bitterists and the Beautiful made their way to the bridge with their whisky, fags and biscuits, eager for the troll’s invective. They whispered eagerly, Trollie? Oh Trollie? - but there was no reply.
The Bitterists and Beautiful were bereft. Their wailing and remorseful cries could be heard throughout their land.
Trollie come back! They wailed, We love you. Trollieeeee…
The troll didn’t even turn round. Not once.
But stuck up two fingers behind his back as he made his way down stream.
(© 2006. All rights reserved) if you don't mind.
]]>
Once upon time in the land of the Bitterists and the Beautiful, there lived a troll. He lived on his own. Under a bridge. As trolls do. He didn't give a damn what anyone thought of him.
And he didn't much give a damn about anyone else either.
Whom he scorned.
And they, for the most part, scorned him back.
Scorn. Scorn.
Scorn.
He was quite the most grumpy troll you could ever wish meet. And to his core, contemptuous.
But curiously, people did wish to meet him. They flocked to him.
Because his contempt was in part truth. And truth was a rare and precious thing in the land of the Bitterists and the Beautiful. A beautiful truth. Which the Beautiful wanted so badly. Oh, to own a little bit of that truth: To be able to be even more beautiful.
And contempt, though rather less rare, was still highly prized and coveted greedily by the Bitterists.
So every evening, and most weekends, the Bitterists and the Beautiful would tip-toe to the bridge, and trembling with fear, because this troll was not only quite fearsome, but notoriously unpredictable, they would peer over the side.
Hardly daring to breathe out.
Er, trollie? one would call out quietly, eventually. Because they'd be standing there all night if they didn't.
Go away!
Would come the reply.
Trollie?
F***offyerbastards!
The Bitterists and the Beautiful would at this point resort to bribes: whisky, cigarettes and, er, chocolate biscuits. They would tell him jokes.
This would usually be sufficient to provoke the troll to the point of apoplexy.
And he would unleash a stream of invective and abuse.
And the Bitterists and the Beautiful would fight desperately over the words as they floated up from under the bridge. Leaping and jumping and trying to catch them; wrenching the words apart; stuffing them into their own mouths. What an unseemly scene. Swallowing it all as fast as they could. Before smoothing down their clothes, straightening their ties and rubbing the dust off their shoes.
And then they would go home. Feeling either more beautiful or more bitter. All of them happy.
But recently, they thought they could hear the troll crying as they walked away.
And that worried them.
But not too much.
In fact not much at all.
They were too busy chewing up the last of his words...
And actually didn't much give a damn.
After all.
(© 2006. All rights reserved) if you don't mind.
]]>