In the last post: on his way home in the dark and misty forest, Alf tries to shrug off his unease...
Dear friends, on Tuesdays and Saturdays I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them free, or wait to buy the whole story when published.Eerie Eve ® James Field. Part 17Carrying a sissy wicker basket was a new experience for Alf, and he switched it from one hand to the other in rapid succession, as if afraid he might catch some nasty disease. It felt almost as bad as carrying a woman's handbag, and he’d rather cut his hands off before he did that! Thank goodness there was nobody to see him.
The basket belonged to Morris, the Cloud Estate’s gardener. He’d been picking toadstools up on Trollop Knoll and dropped it when he thought a troll was after him.
That troll had been Alf, having fun. He stole the toadstools from Morris because they were valuable and also proved he was a better man than Morris: not there was any doubt.
With a few extra coppers in his pocket, on his next night off doing security duty, Alf decided to treat his best mate, Bert, to a pub crawl in town. If lucky, there might even be a punch up afterwards.
As Alf strolled along in his cheerful thoughts, he stopped and almost dropped the basket. Suddenly, his mouth felt dry, and a lump formed in his throat. There, right in front of him, stood a figure, blocking the path. Is that a troll, he thought, the one and only walkin’, talkin’, livin’ troll? He blinked and shook his head. It couldn't be true. All the talk about trolls must have fuddled his mind.
Image by PublicDomainPictures from PixabayThe real world:Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on
bloglovin
’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
The basket belonged to Morris, the Cloud Estate’s gardener. He’d been picking toadstools up on Trollop Knoll and dropped it when he thought a troll was after him.
That troll had been Alf, having fun. He stole the toadstools from Morris because they were valuable and also proved he was a better man than Morris: not there was any doubt.
With a few extra coppers in his pocket, on his next night off doing security duty, Alf decided to treat his best mate, Bert, to a pub crawl in town. If lucky, there might even be a punch up afterwards.
As Alf strolled along in his cheerful thoughts, he stopped and almost dropped the basket. Suddenly, his mouth felt dry, and a lump formed in his throat. There, right in front of him, stood a figure, blocking the path. Is that a troll, he thought, the one and only walkin’, talkin’, livin’ troll? He blinked and shook his head. It couldn't be true. All the talk about trolls must have fuddled his mind.
Image by PublicDomainPictures from PixabayThe real world:Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on
bloglovin
’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
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