A Goth Bedtime Story

by: Columbine

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:

"Faggot!"
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.

The End!