Inkwell 2018-2019

melange of woody protrusions and swathes of dull, mucous slathered reptilian scale. Teeth like sharp edged shifting plates burgeoned out of its mouth while orb-like, fungus-tinged eyes glared down piercingly. Bessie had never seen a troll before, but somehow she knew that this creature was most certainly one, a troll of the northern mires who had arisen with webbed hands heaving against the mud banks, who had plodded across low swamps and through heathery highlands, who had concealed itself in hill grottos and the wood sheds of back gardens, often stopping to sleep under bridges grand and small. T’was a creature who sustained itself by pulling air into its primitive amphibian lungs and by sucking upon the bones of the river creatures and unlucky children of the countryside, and who had carried on because of an ancient, exterminatory purpose that felt like blood smeared in glyphs upon reptilian skin and sounded like a faerie whisper half remembered from a dream. All of this flashed through Bessie’s mind like some macabre montage as she backed away as far as she could, pressing herself up against the picture window once she could go no farther. The troll advanced, dripping bog water onto the mauve carpet and brandishing its weapon, a crude wooden scythe with a leering blade of gleaming bone. She decided not to offer it a cup of tea. Feebly, she raised her cheese knife. I shall stab it in the heart! If it seeks to take my life, I… But her thought was left unfinished, for the knife began to wobble autonomously in her hand, and suddenly, it was flying across the room, along a true course into the heart of the advancing troll. The creature stopped, dropping its scythe and clutching the fell blade stuck in its wooden chest. Bessie was in disbelief. What had happened? Why did she immediately sense the troll’s mission, and why did the dagger fly across the room like that?

With a groan, the troll pulled the knife from the bark of its chest. Its eyes were crazed and frog eggs frothed out of its snarling maw. “Blast it!” Bessie shrieked. She glanced about her for something, anything to use. Perhaps… the teapot? And just as she had the thought, the large silver pot hurtled from its place on the table and crashed into the troll. Bessie looked at the other items on the table. Upon her glance, a storm of cutlery and cuisine sprang to life and rained death upon the unsuspecting troll. Teacups embedded porcelain shards into it’s exposed bits of scale, dainty sugar spoons went to work scooping out the troll’s eyes, forks stabbed, brie wheels battered, and finally, the tablecloth, a precious family heirloom, began to strangle the beast with all the artistry of a boa constrictor. The carnage ended in minutes, and the troll was left dead in a heap of table setting. Bessie collapsed onto the ground, overcome with abrupt fatigue and shortness of breath, her eyes closing of their own volition. As the grandfather clock ticked a lullaby, she lay her head down on dreadfully mauve, newly bloodstained carpet and drifted off to sleep.

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