Burt the badger
Burt the badger had problems. There they were, the two of them walking past his new home, the home he had scraped and dug and built over and over because somebody kept dumping dirt into the entrance. It broke his tiny badger heart to see the Pam and her hubby together, laughing and pointing, knowing that he might never have his heart’s desire.
“Tell me again why this particular hill?” Grace glared at her grandmother Maeve.
“’Tis our best hope of marshaling all forces of Man and Nature,”retorted the old woman, her lavender cape, the only warm color for miles, whipping about her bony shoulders in the dry wind. “Plus, the light is better. Image is everything—well, nearly everything–for this plan.”
“You’re remarkably hip for an old crone,” she remarked, “But if you don’t slow down, Hjordis may drop her young one right here on the path.” Continue reading
It arrived by nighthawk, the final ingredient to heal or conceal the corruption that blasted Middle Earth.
“If believing makes it so, we have double-hope. We shall see, anon.” She gripped the blue button, and shuffled up the hill.
She stared through the not-quite-ice wall, relieved for the moment from the legions of strangely sexless men and women that had pestered her since she was summoned from deep sleep. Most were draped in what she assumed were the ceremonial robes and masks of their tribe, a stiff fabric of white and green, their eyes hidden behind smaller planes of not-quite-ice. Continue reading
“Psst!” A slender hand with petal pink nails beckoned from behind the Waterford crystal waterfall.
Not my usual stomping grounds, this high-end what-not-ery store had me intimidated…and challenged. This illusion had to be so good, it was real. I skittered behind the waterfall.
Writing and Stuff by Chris Hall - Storyteller and Accidental Blogger
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Valley of the Trolls 