This paragraph is supposed to explain why I’m starting an email list and why you should sign up for it.
Instead, here’s a tiny story I wrote back in 2022:
The Troll Beneath the Bridge heard the roar of an engine before a loud pop. A squeal, a slapping of rubber on wood, and then the silence of the stop.
Honor-bound by the Law of Lore, he sighed, placed his book down and stood, his head nearly hitting the arch of the bridge. He reached up, and heaved his bulk over the side before turning his face to the headlights.
The woman behind the wheel looked up from her phone, gasped and stifled a scream.
The troll was at least eight feet tall, with gray gravelly skin. Wirey black hair covered him from head to toe.
The Troll growled, "To cross my bridge, pay the toll. Neglect me, and I’ll eat you whole!”
The woman just stared.
The Troll cleared his throat, his voice deep with the echos of time.
“To cross my bridge, you must pay! Five and twenty, then on your way."
"Oh!" The woman put her phone down, and got out of the car. She walked over and handed the troll two bills—a five and a twenty.
The Troll fisted the money, and turned to leave.
”Wait!” the woman said.
He looked at the tiny woman. She met his gaze.
"I can't cross your bridge with my car like this. Do you know how to change a tire?”
And The Troll Beneath the Bridge, ageless, honor-bound by the Law of Lore, and recently disturbed from reading his book said,
"Do you have a jack, or do I need to get mine?"