A Goth Bedtime Story
Once upon a time, a little goth named Felicity needed to cross a bridge for some
reason or another. But no sooner had her little booted feet begun to trip lightly
over the span of the bridge, than a gust of hideous halitosis carried these
loathsome words to her ears:
"Goths are a bunch of losers!"
But little Felicity had heard this a thousand times before, and she simply lit up
a clove and replied, "Why should I care what you think? I'm just a lovely little
goth enjoying the moonlight, and you're nothing but a troll. If you want a
challenge, bait my brother Darien; he's much bigger and much more hot-headed than
I am!" And Felicity skipped away, showering the bemused troll with dead rose petals
on her way.
And sure enough, not even an hour later, Darien strolled languidly onto the
bridge, eyes on the stars, tears on his porcelain-smooth cheeks
(but his eyeliner still perfect). The troll grinned an evil grin and hollered:
Darien sighed in abject boredom and peeped delicately over the railing. "And what
should it matter to you, neighbor, when your ugliness renders your gender
irrelevant?" He blotted his lipstick and yawned, rolling his eyes. "Look, if
you really want to get someone's dander up, my sister Melisande should be along
any moment. Surely she'll have more interest in your rantings, and indeed in this
sorrowful plane in general, than I do. Nearly everyone does." And with an
existential shudder of utter hopelessness, he meandered on his way.
As Darien had suggested, not long after, the troll heard the precise clack of
stiletto heels on the boards overhead. Reflected in the sluggish stream's surface
he saw a vision to bring a troll to his warty knees - resplendent in fishnets,
Melisande nearly waltzed over the bridge in a transport of ecstasy brought on by
the sight of a battered kite tangled in a nearby hawthorn, shredded by the
merciless wind. Her hair towered like a Chinese fireworks display, and the rings
on her nipples strained at the stretch lace of her bodice. The troll, knowing
full well that he'd never have her permission to even *look* at her, much less
touch her, was aroused to the only emotion left to him - petty spite.
"Go ahead, pretty yourself up,
that's all you women are built for,
might as well take advantage while you can."
But Melisande was too entranced by the spectacle of the tattered kite, and too
enrapt in the song lyric that it was inspiring her to compose on the futility of
childlike innocence and the inevitability of senseless loss of faith, that she
didn't even notice the creature's bumbling attempt to get her attention.
The troll decided that he was sick and tired of Transylvania, packed up his cart,
and relocated to Southern California.
Romeo's Castle | Credits | A Gothic Bedtime Story | Sad Tale of a Troll
The Trolls are Back | Chase's Troll Cave | Trollish Links
Three Billy Goats Gruff (A Play) | What is a Troll | About This Troll
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