When My Posters fall From The Wall, My Eyes Rain.

Hello!

Well, you can really feel winter coming in thick and fast can't you? Its time for the thick coats! If we get snow at all this year, I can die happy. Snow may be cold as a metal toilet seat (inside joke, BOOM BOOM!), but its still awesome. Utterly awesome.

So as promised, today I shall be treating you to a small extract from my story, 'A Gruff Tale'. This passage introduces us to the character of Brian Trollton, a troubled middle-ag troll who is forever cursed by the memories of his traumatic past. I'd LOVE to hear what you think. I know its tough to give opinion on a few paragraphs, but you know... so, without futhur ado:

A Gruff Tale Extract

Through this particularly unclean door lies a particularly unclean office. There is a small, wooden desk upon which are a couple of large stacks of documents and sketches and a very, very old computer whose shell has become yellowed with age. In one corner is a filing cabinet, rusted by the incessant dripping water coming down from the room above. One of its drawers is broken and will not shut, and so all of the documents filed into it are no more than a pile of mashed up rubbish. On the side of the cabinet is a thick layer of snot. Some still runs down, some has long since caked and crusted. The creaky old floor is one of two layers; the first being an unpleasant green carpet, the second being an unpleasant green layer of grime and mould. Maggots and worms and mites crawl around in this vast forest of muck, laughing merrily at their luck for being born in such a gloriously disgusting place. The walls are the same as the outside of the building; dark and bland and lifeless. There is a little plant sitting upon the windowsill, and often it can be heard crying at night.
Sitting at the small, wooden desk, one would usually find a fairly large, pale green coloured, hairy backed, long and hairy eared Troll. And not just any old Troll. This Troll used to have an outside job rather than his office job. He would travel from bridge to bridge, hiding underneath them and scaring away anyone who tried to cross. The Troll enjoyed his job to a great extent, until one fateful day, as he was hiding under a bridge just outside the one and only town of Foile. It was a quaint and friendly bridge, and the Troll knew from its kindly feeling that he would get plenty of scares out of the people who try to cross it. The first to cross, a small billy goat, came strutting along wearing a denim jacket and wearing a large white cap. All too excited, the Troll leapt out from his hiding place and bellowed, ‘You shall not pass this bridge! Go now or I shall eat you!’. The billy goat stopped in its tracks; its little goat knee’s shaking slightly. ‘My big brother will KILL you’, it screamed back at the Troll.
Quite shaken, the Troll fell down from the bridge and into the stream below. He clambered over to the edge, by which time to goat was long gone. He recollected himself and clambered back under the bridge, somewhat taken aback. He always considered himself a brave Troll, so he wasn’t too worried about the goat’s brother. Sure enough, another, slightly larger goat came trotting along very soon. The Troll leapt out, bellowing his threats. The goat, however, was no pushover. ‘You speak to me like that once more, you filthy fucking Troll, and I’ll rip your eyes out and bat you to death with them’. The Troll fell into the stream once more, and clambered out once more, now very annoyed through and through. Fuming and soaking wet, he clambered back into his hiding place once more. The next bridge crosser came along. It was a goat the size of a small cottage. Its forehead was tattooed with a decapitated babies head, it had a nose ring, and it wore a leather jacket. The Troll leapt out and screamed his insults.
After the Troll came out of hospital two months later, he was never the same, and was forced to go into the office. Upon reading books retelling the tale of his encounter with the three goats, he was outraged by how very mild it made the encounters out to be. However, he didn’t bother making a lawsuit about it – he had become a very lazy troll indeed. His name was Brian, he was forty years old, and he wet the bed frequently ever since his accident under the Foile bridge.

And thats that. If people like what they read, I may concider putting the whole of Chapter A up!

Thats all for today kids, I'll be back tommorow witha rant of some sort no doubt! The track of the day features on the '(500) Days of Summer' soundtrack, and is such a happy tune. If you have trouble waking up in the morning, set this as your alarm - you'll never be more happy to see the light of day.

CLICK HERE (ALSO, THE FIRST LINK IN THE SIDEBAR IS THE SCENE THE SONG FEATURES IN)