1. A picture of a bridge
2. A phrase: "You're joking."
3. A lucky day
100 - 200 word story.
It smelt under the bridge. Pungent. Unlovely. Rotting weeds and rusting trolleys. Dead fish. Stagnation.
Perfume so sweet that Thorstak almost fainted from it.
It could have been perfect. Paradise. The dark swell of the river, the stygian gloom and slick, damp walls. The stench, the beautiful, filthy stench. The troll groaned, pressing his thorny bulk against the cool brickwork. It could have been paradise if it weren’t for the noise.
Rat tat tat. Click clack click clack. Bleating.
“....a troll under the bridge -”
“- a troll? You’re joking!” The wheezing bleat tortured his sensitised ears. “After what we did to the last one? Impossible.”
Goats. He hated goats. Hated their yellow eyes and wiry confidence. The way they skipped over the wet stones like humming birds. Their noise. Their bleating, click clack noise.
Goats had killed his father. These goats.
Hooves skittered on the bank, coming closer. Over confident these goats, coming into the darkness. Three pairs of yellow eyes blinking.
Closer. Just a little closer. His breath stuttered. All winter he had chiselled at the mortar, weakening the bridge.
A bell clanged.
“Dinner!” Clattering, their hooves shook the earth.
Lucky bastards, he thought.
The first brick fell.