GUARDING THE BRIDGE
Flash fiction by Graham Bailey
Illustration by Kell KitschJävla Kuk! My feet and my legs they hurt. My cytokerotin will be rotting in this
water. Standing here up to my Kna’s {shna}, I mean knees, for the past twelve
hours is too much. The stones dig into my soles and drive me to helvete. This
bridge is too low, it crashes against my head if I stand up and as I turn the walls
scrape my nose. Why is it always me? I know really; I’m the only one that is not
a posh boy. It’s the price they make me pay for belonging. Just because I went to
a state gymnasium while they were sent to private schools. Attending Epsom or
Uppingham, paid for by rich parents, does not make them superior. My friends
warned about coming south, said I would be seen as inferior, but I can’t accept
that have to try to be equal and thus have to accept their rules.
That thin, young, weedy get, sorry I mean goat, I’m telling this story in English
which is not always easy, that crossed the bridge three hours ago is the only living
thing I’ve seen. He conned me with lots of kinnet, sorry I mean cheek, about his
bigger brother who would be following him. He should have been my dinner. I
still don’t understand why we need to keep them out, the grass is plentiful and
our few measly sheep don’t need that much. Hunger is beginning to quell the
pain of standing but even so I’m going to grab the next goat by the throaty and
eat him while his blood is warm.
If I wasn’t so cold grabbing him would have been easy but all I could do was
block his path. After he’d explained about his skin condition and delicate wasted
muscles it seemed only right to wait for his father.
It’s not nice when parents are so aggressive, we had just started talking when
without warning he charged at me shouting.
“What big eyes you has got... You freak.”
Then my pain peaked as his horns split the cornea causing copious, thick
warm liquid to ooze down my face. His tormenting continued, I felt only the air
rushing past as he butted me over the bridge rail. Something broke as I landed.
Now my legs and arms won’t move and stones push into my back and
shoulders. Water cascades around and over me. Stinging wounds seep blood
into the water, probably turning it red. I do not know, I cannot see.
Why does everyone think us trolls are aggressive and ugly. We deserve more
consideration. At least in the children’s cartoons we are multi-coloured and
smell of strawberries, rather than pig skit. {skeet}.