The Troll Bridge (1/?)

It's a troll bridge. At least that was what the kids told him. The village left it well alone - they'd not wanted to risk anything since five of their children were eaten just a month ago.

Eaten? he had asked at the pub, incredulously. Yes, eaten, they had replied him. They had not wanted to comment further on how they had come to that conclusion. He had finished his beer, brooding, then stepped outside for a smoke.

It was a chilly night. Winter was fast approaching and the air was thick with impending rain. He turned up the collar of his coat and looked down the end of the long street, down into the darkness where the bridge waited. Where the troll bridge waited. Puddles of lamplight pooled along the path but lit nothing beyond the last shop.

Once there, were one to walk a little ways more, one would come to the troll bridge.

Nothing lit the troll bridge. It was expected. The village was an old one, and though the modern world was swallowing its heritage up like a cancer from the centre out, its boundaries, its edges, its dark corners - all that was still old, and would remain old. Certain things could not be altered nor changed by the shiny chrome of the new.

He looked back, over his shoulder, at the pub. Warm light spilled from its windows and he could smell alcohol. It was dry inside, a stark contrast to the humid and cold night he currently stood in. But the troll bridge beckoned, and he obliged. It was, after all, what he had come to the village for.

-

At the troll bridge the man stopped and stood at its edge. He was a hair's breadth away from treading on its ancient stone. A long time ago, the first villagers had built this bridge of granite. They had hewn the blocks and placed them one atop the other so they could ford the river. Over time the water had worn away the bottoms of the blocks, creating a little arc under which cold, clear water now flowed.

The air was wetter by the little creek the troll bridge curved over. The atmosphere was thicker, denser than it had been in town. And where the main street had been quiet, the chatter of human voices and the clink of porcelain and glass muffled by closed doors, here the night was alive. The chirrup of night birds, the babble of the creek, and the rustle of the leaves - they melded together in a harmonious hum.

And the troll bridge, it stood there waiting in silence, of course.

The man took his hands out of the pockets of his coat. He took a deep breath of the wet night air. Then he lifted on booted foot and placed it firmly on the stone.

The moon shivered in her velvet shroud of the night sky. The birds quietened.

And the troll, she clambered up from her upside down perch beneath the bridge and barred his way.

brain flex

When all that was said and done, when all the rage and the desire had been spent, they lay back in bed together and looked at the ceiling. Well, she looked at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and began to slip off into sleep.

The DemonQueen cast a sidelong glance at her companion, her lover, her brother, her kin. Zayhedril's breathing was even, his eyes closed. Dark lashes lay gently on his high cheekbones. His skin was smooth, his cheeks flushed, and his lips, though not the most lush, were rosy from where she had kissed them hard. He was a gorgeous specimen, even when in the most weakest of life-forms.

It had taken a while for them to find each other in this life. She had been trekking along a muddy highway in the North for a long time. He had been biding his time in the steaming tropical islands in the South of the world. But they had been drawn to each other, and here at last in the cold, almost-god-forsaken centre of the world, in the crater town of Mespos, they had found each other.

And as with any of their meetings, it had been heady, it had been explosive, and it had been violent. The Demonqueen Xandar touched her lower lip gently. It had swelled to half its size from the split in its centre, where Zayhedril had punched her full in the face. There was a smear of dried blood on her chin that felt hard and crusty. Still! Their meeting had been good.

Getting to the privacy of this inn without destroying anything, or anyone in the process, had been an improvement over their previous reunions. Though the forms they were in were weak - possibly the weakest they had ever sampled - the human bodies were still capable of causing damage to their equally weak and poorly build structures. 

The story of the girl telling the story of the Petrbird's feather

There once was a feather, she said, dramatically, standing with her back to the window, that could keep you from growing old.

The sun was setting beyond the metal grilles, sinking behind the HDB blocks that did just that - blocked out the horizon. It cast an orange glow into the room, and turned her face to shadows. Her silhouette, with one arm outstretched, cast a long shadow over him. There was a shawl around her shoulders that she had been pretending was a cape.

She was telling a story.

He had been watching her tell it all afternoon. They had agreed to read books after lunch; nothing serious, just a lazy afternoon in which they read and snuggled and wouldn't say much. But she had gotten up, onto her imaginary soapbox. She had thrown on the shawl - his mother's shawl - like Superman would his spandex costume, and she had started to tell a story.

It was a very long story, and even now it sounded as though it had just begun.

But he didn't mind. In fact he had relished the chance to watch her in her element. Once a thespian, always one, she had always said. She had never made it to the big stage, the Esplanade, choosing to hide her talent in dinky little stages in wine bars and the Substation. Those pedestals had never been big enough for her, but she chose them, chose to fit into them.

Her shows usually sold out, so it was rare that he'd get a chance to see her perform.

This is just for you, she said suddenly, winking at him. He could barely make the wink out, so deep were the shadows over her face. The orange room was warm and full of light. Later, when the last dredges of heat had dissipated from the sun-baked concrete ground, they would go out for dinner, just him and her...

But now - now was her time, she was shining!

And there was a girl, she continued, who wanted that feather. She scrubbed the floors of the inn just off the coast where the feather w-

The coast? he asked. The coast! she replied. The coast where the Petrbird roosted, it of the many feathers. It was the Petrbird's feather that could keep you young forever, and it was the Petrbird's feather that the girl coveted.

Her name was Lillian, she said. And this is her story.  

Feathered

The bird girl had a dream, and it was to fly. She sat in her nest as the nights went by and looked at the moon, and she dreamed of flying.

Her nest mates had long since left the tree they had been born in. She was the only one, with her little wings, her delicate downy fluff, and her fear of flying. She had a dream, and it was to fly, but first - she had to conquer herself.

One night, in the silver light of the moon, the bird girl stood up. She brushed off her downy fluff and smoothed her skirt. She primped, running narrow, sharp fingers through her hair. She straightened her beak. She was scared, and she was ready.

First she stepped out of her nest. It was old, far too small for her. Once, it had housed the chirrups of a whole flock of little bird children. Now, it sheltered only her, and its soft insides, padded with feathers and the webs of spiders, were cold.

Then she took her first step towards the end of the branch the nest nestled on. The bird girl's feet were cold, and her hands shook. She wrapped her wings a little closer about herself. A gentle breeze lifted her delicate skirt. She advanced along the branch.

The bird girl had a dream, and it was to fly. Today, at long last, with her little wings, her delicate downy fluff, and her fear of flying: she was going to live it. No more fear, no more waiting. She chanced a glance back at the nest that had sheltered her for so long. And the bird girl told herself:

That's it. That's it. I will fly today, and that is that.

And so the bird girl walked along the length of the branch, the cold bark grazing her crusty feet, her sharp nails digging into it for grip. She walked. As she walked she unfurled her wings, the downy fluff leaving the embrace of her body. She was ready - oh, she was ready.

At the end of the branch, where the winds sang the loudest and the breeze was cold, the bird girl stopped. She teetered at the edge, her centre of gravity forever shifting as she was buffeted by unending gusts. She closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, then opened them. She straightened her beak once more. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, and a bright bead of blood pooled in her right palm.

The bird girl had a dream, and it was to fly. She stretched her wings out to their fullest, her little wings with their downy fluff. She stretched out her fear of flying. It felt like a membrane pulled far too tight. She was a bubble within it, filling it to bursting. Her heart soared with fear.

The bird girl stepped off the branch and gave herself to the sky. And whether she lived or died, she flew that day, with her little wings, her downy fluff, and her fear of flying; and that was that.