Writer In Motion Forum

Let me start by saying I had an absolute blast reading my feedback. Adria, Erin and Linda all gave me excellent pointers and plenty of encouragement to make this story better. Kudos to you!

However?

As I wrote in my first draft post, I wasn't sure about the story within the story. I love a good frame story, but I was just as ready to chuck it out the window in one of my revisions. I kept it for my 2nd draft, and the results this week are somewhat contradictory. Which makes it all the more fun, AND shows y'all that the process of beta reading/critique partnering can be a tricky beast to wrangle.

One of my CPs thought I should put the frame story back where I'd put it in draft 1, for instance. One CP didn't really see how it connected to the overarching story of the Narrator and that maybe it's a bit too rough around the edges (a critique echoed by another CP, that it isn't as Voice-y as the Narrator - and I wholeheartedly agree!). And the third CP thought it was poignant and worked well within the context.

Three CPs, three very different points of view. Which is exactly how it works!

So. What I take from the feedback overall is that my descriptions and language works, and my voice for the Narrator is spot on--but the frame story needs a bit of work, if I should keep it at all.

Okay. Let's go!

Content Warning: babes left in the woods by their mothers. Gruesome imagery/body horror vibes.

First run. Edits and thought process in bold:

Come. Sit by the fire, and I'll tell you a story.

They say the best place to stumble upon the supernatural is at a crossroads, which is why one should always take extra precautions in case one happens upon such a place. The best time, they say--and by 'they', I mean mortals--to make one's acquaintance with the other side, or indeed any kind of un-mortal kin, is on a Thursday, late at night.

They say so many things.

((Okay, I like this better already.))

You're far more likely to find me sitting by the fire, a pipe in my hand, telling you all about the lights that shone across the fields the other day--right before Farmer Andreas' old man up and died. An omen, that was, I'll tell you, and you'll eat up every word, hungry as ever. Ravenous for stories of the bad old days, when trolls walked the mountains and gnomes guarded your homestead; those old, olden times when you'd better think well of Wolf and Bear, or bad things would befall you.

You listen on, as I smack my lips around the mouthpiece, and tell you another story--all on good authority, of course. My old auntie never told a lie, and her cousin, let me tell you, lived to tell this tale. So on, so forth. All laughs and cheering, and the knowing nudges between friends.

Until I tell you about the time the devil came to my hometown, and danced all the young, vibrant, pretty things to death. No one laughs, then. It cuts too close to home, see. Even if you're neither young, nor pretty, it cuts deep. Even if it was a long, long time ago, and no one believes in the devil. He's a symbol for all the other creatures that roam our lands, that come back from the dead to safeguard their dignity or wreak havoc on irresponsible descendants; or vengeful spirits of the woods set on righting an injustice perpetrated against them.

The story is simple: the devil lures the youths of the village to the top of the nearby mountain, where he plays the fiddle. ((This transition here feels a bit clunky, looking at it with fresh eyes. That needs to change.Maybeee? "--to the top of the nearby mountain. He plays the fiddle, thereby casting a spell, etc)) Thereby casting a spell on everyone, enchanting them to dance and dance, until their skin scrapes away, and the flesh tears and tatters beneath the bones of their feet, until there's nothing left of them but death. The devil plays the fiddle so expertly, with such charm and allure, that even when they notice his hoofed feet, or the tail peeking out from under his long cloak, the spell cannot be broken. The beautiful young things keep dancing in blissful horror, until it's all too late, and they can never go back home.

Simple. Easy.

But what the story doesn't tell you, is how the devil wasn't a devil at all, and the wickedness wasn't a mere case of the devil living up to expectations. It's a cautionary tale, of all the wicked things people do, because they're people.

It doesn't tell you about the hundreds, thousands, of illegitimate babies dead in the woods, killed by their own mothers out of fear of repercussions. It doesn't tell you of the darkness, or the helplessness, or the blood spilt over the generations. Nor, indeed, of the ties that bind us--all of us--together.

((Swapping places for the story within the story to here:
Once upon a time there was a crossroads, and three figures stood before it, given corporeal form. At the center stood Justice, and to its left was Revenge; to its right, Forgiveness.

Justice asked, "What is Forgiveness, if mortals never forget?"

Forgiveness had no answer.

Justice asked, "What is Revenge, if it comes too late?"

Revenge had no answer.

Justice said, "I shall tell you. Forgiveness is nothing unless its root is forgotten; Revenge is nothing if no one remembers where it stems from."

"And what of you, then?" asked Revenge, dissatisfied with the judgment.

"Yes, what of Justice?" asked Forgiveness.

Justice stood tall, and tilted its chin up. "I am the balancing scales, blind to the mortal measures of origin, creed and status. I care not for mortal constructs. When I mete out my verdict, both of you are satisfied."

"Nonsense!" cried Revenge, "We are never truly satisfied!"

"Hogwash," Forgiveness agreed. ((One CP felt this was ambiguous, that it wasn't clear what Forgiveness was agreeing to, and why say 'Hogwash'. I meant it as a way of Forgiveness agreeing with 'Nonsense!'))

But Justice wasn't done. "Which is why my work is never done, and my reach knows no bounds."

"You sanction genocide, and call it Justice," said Revenge.

"I never!" Justice stood firm. "Mortals do."

"And what about all the moneyed mortals who do more harm than good?" asked Forgiveness. "You think them Just, as well?"

"Not at all," said Justice. "They do."

And so it was, that they agreed to disagree: none of them were more than what mortals made of them, and while Revenge often came too late to serve its purpose, and Forgiveness meant very little on its own, but Justice was worst of them all.

Justice wasn't just blind, but changed its ways to please each mortal: all who spoke of it had their own idea of what it meant.

((But now that I've read it through again, I feel like the Narrator can get the point across without going into the story itself. I think the crossroads haz gots to go:))

Sometimes those ties break, and demand justice. Such as an entire generation forfeited as a boon to all those lost children. Some things can never be forgiven, and revenge takes center stage. You need to forget in order to forgive, revenge is best served scalding hot and blistering, and justice is as blind as a bat without its sonar.

But that's where I come in. I smoke my pipe. I play my fiddle. And you pretty little things dance to my tune whether you like it or not. I am tenebrous. I am aeonian.

When I tell stories, people listen, that they may do better. Not just that. Be better. For all of us, dead and buried, or lost and waiting, wandering this world long after our passing.

I am the belief that the world gets better; that mortals can improve the world they live in.

So if you find yourself sat by the fireplace, listening to a white-haired old traveler with a pipe that never runs out, take heed. Listen with every fibre of your body, and be better.

((One CP felt the repetition of 'better' was a bit, well, repetitive, but as I repeated it deliberately (the Power of Three, and whatnot) I think I'll keep it. For now))

The sun rises, I take my leave. Until next time.

***

Okay. So that's my first run of edits, which leaves me at a whopping 735 words.  Last week I ended up with 1k exactly.

Second run. Edits and thought process in bold:

Come. Sit by the fire, and I'll tell you a story.

They say the best place to stumble upon the supernatural is at a crossroads, which is why one should always take extra precautions in case one happens upon such a place. The best time, they say--and by 'they', I mean mortals--to make one's acquaintance with the other side, or indeed any kind of un-mortal kin, is on a Thursday, late at night.

They say so many things.

You're far more likely to find me sitting by the fire, a pipe in my hand, telling you all about the lights that shone across the fields the other day--right before Farmer Andreas' old man up and died. An omen, that was, I'll tell you, and you'll eat up every word, hungry as ever. Ravenous for stories of the bad old days, when trolls walked the mountains and gnomes guarded your homestead; those old, olden times when you'd better think well of Wolf and Bear, or bad things would befall you.

You listen on, as I smack my lips around the mouthpiece, and tell you another story--all on good authority, of course. My old auntie never told a lie, and her cousin, let me tell you, lived to tell this tale. So on, so forth. All laughs and cheering, and the knowing nudges between friends.

Until I tell you about the time the devil came to my hometown, and danced all the young, vibrant, pretty things to death. No one laughs, then. It cuts too close to home, see. Even if you're neither young, nor pretty, it cuts deep. Even if it was a long, long time ago, and no one believes in the devil. He's a symbol for all the other creatures that roam our lands, that come back from the dead to safeguard their dignity or wreak havoc on irresponsible descendants; or vengeful spirits of the woods set on righting an injustice perpetrated against them.

The story is simple: the devil lures the youths of the village to the top of the nearby mountain. He plays the fiddle, thereby casting a spell on everyone, enchanting them to dance and dance, until their skin scrapes away, and the flesh tears and tatters beneath the bones of their feet, until there's nothing left of them but death. The devil plays the fiddle so expertly, with such charm and allure, that even when they notice his hoofed feet, or the tail peeking out from under his long cloak, the spell cannot be broken. The beautiful young things keep dancing in blissful horror, until it's all too late, and they can never go back home.

Simple. Easy.

But what the story doesn't tell you, is how the devil wasn't a devil at all, and the wickedness wasn't a mere case of the devil living up to expectations. It's a cautionary tale, of all the wicked things people do, because they're people. And wickedness has a way of catching up with you, in the end.

It doesn't tell you about the hundreds, thousands, of illegitimate babies dead in the woods, killed by their own mothers out of fear of repercussions. It doesn't tell you of the darkness, or the helplessness, or the blood spilt over the generations. Nor, indeed, of the ties that bind us--all of us--together. ((One CP thought I needed more examples than the children, another said I should focus more on one idea: the "devil" luring the youths to their deaths, or the children in the woods, to avoid confusing the reader. What do? I think this is another case of Keeping It and Letting it Stew(TM). I do that a lot.))

Sometimes those ties break, and demand justice. Such as an entire generation forfeited as a boon to all those lost children. Some things can never be forgiven, and revenge takes center stage. You need to forget in order to forgive, revenge is best served scalding hot and blistering, and justice is as blind as a bat without its sonar.

But that's where I come in. I smoke my pipe. I play my fiddle. And you pretty little things dance to my tune whether you like it or not. I am tenebrous. I am aeonian.

When I tell stories, people listen, that they may do better. Not just that. Be better. For all of us, dead and buried, or lost and waiting, wandering this world long after our passing.
((OHO! An unprompted idea sparks! I have to swap places with this last paragraph and the one following! Let's do that :DDD))
I am the belief that the world gets better; that mortals can improve the world they live in.

So if you find yourself sat by the fireplace, listening to a white-haired old traveler with a pipe that never runs out, take heed. Listen with every fibre of your body, and be better.

The sun rises, I take my leave. Until next time.

FINISHED VERSION, CP EDITS, 744 words. Last second changes in bold.

Meliorism

Come. Sit by the fire, and I'll tell you a story.

They say the best place to stumble upon the supernatural is at a crossroads, which is why one should always take extra precautions in case one happens upon such a place. The best time, they say--and by 'they', I mean mortals--to make one's acquaintance with the other side, or indeed any kind of un-mortal kin, is on a Thursday, late at night.

They say so many things.

You're far more likely to find me sitting by the fire, a pipe in my hand, telling you all about the lights that shone across the fields the other day--right before Farmer Andreas' old man up and died. An omen, that was, I'll tell you, and you'll eat up every word, hungry as ever. Ravenous for stories of the bad old days, when trolls walked the mountains and gnomes guarded your homestead; those old, olden times when you'd better think well of Wolf and Bear, or bad things would befall you.

You listen on, as I smack my lips around the mouthpiece, and tell you another story--all on good authority, of course. My old auntie never told a lie, and her cousin, let me tell you, lived to tell this tale. So on, so forth. All laughs and cheering, and the knowing nudges between friends.

Until I tell you about the time the devil came to my hometown, and danced all the young, vibrant, pretty things to death. No one laughs, then. It cuts too close to home, see. Even if you're neither young, nor pretty, it cuts deep. Even if it was a long, long time ago, and no one believes in the devil. He's a symbol for all the other creatures that roam our lands, that come back from the dead to safeguard their dignity or wreak havoc on irresponsible descendants; or vengeful spirits of the woods set on righting an injustice perpetrated against them.

The story is simple: the devil lures the youths of the village to the top of the nearby mountain. He plays the fiddle, thereby casting a spell on everyone, enchanting them to dance and dance, until their skin scrapes away, and the flesh tears and tatters beneath the bones of their feet, until there's nothing left of them but death. The devil plays the fiddle so expertly, with such charm and allure, that even when they notice his hoofed feet, or the tail peeking out from under his long cloak, the spell cannot be broken. The beautiful young things keep dancing in blissful horror, until it's all too late, and they can never go back home.

Simple. Easy.

But what the story doesn't tell you, is how the devil wasn't a devil at all, and the wickedness wasn't a mere case of the devil living up to expectations. It's a cautionary tale, of all the wicked things people do, because they're people. And wickedness has a way of catching up with you, in the end.

It doesn't tell you about the hundreds, thousands, of illegitimate babies dead in the woods, killed by their own mothers out of fear of repercussions. It doesn't tell you of the darkness, or the helplessness, or the blood spilt over the generations. Nor, indeed, of the ties that bind us--all of us--together.

Sometimes those ties break, and demand justice. Such as an entire generation forfeited as a boon to all those lost children. Some things can never be forgiven, and revenge takes center stage. You need to forget in order to forgive, revenge is best served scalding hot and blistering, and justice is as blind as a bat without its sonar.

But that's where I come in. I smoke my pipe. I play my fiddle. And you pretty little things dance to my tune whether you like it or not. I am tenebrous. I am aeonian. I am the belief that the world gets better; that mortals can improve the world they live in.

When I tell stories, people listen, that they may change. Be better. For all of us, dead and buried, or lost and waiting, wandering this world long after our passing.

So if you find yourself sat by the fireplace, listening to a white-haired old traveler with a pipe that never runs out, take heed. Listen with every fibre of your body, and be better.

The sun rises, I take my leave. Until next time.

***

If you read all of this: thanks for sticking with me! And once again, thank you to my critique partners: your feedback was invaluable, helpful, and just...made me very happy and eager to get stuck in. 

Note: Not actually happy with this one. Inserted some ideas/thoughts of what the heck I'm doing, but chances are this'll be a very different beast come week 2's self-edits. In any case, here is my first draft. It's fairly polished, but that's how I roll--although everything is in danger of heavy revisions. Also how I roll.

TRIGGER AND CONTENT WARNING for the non-graphic mention of babies born out of wedlock being killed, to such an extent their spirits became an entire subsection of ghostly beings in Swedish folklore.


MELIORISM - not entirely a ghost story, for now.

They say the best place to stumble upon the supernatural is at a crossroads, which is why one should always take extra precautions in case one happens upon such a place. The best time, they say--and by 'they', I mean mortals--to make one's acquaintance with the other side, or indeed any kind of un-mortal kin, is on a Thursday, late at night.

They say so many things, mortals.

You're far more likely to find me sitting by the fire, a pipe in my hand, telling you all about the lights that shone across the fields the other day--right before Farmer Andreas' old man up and died. An omen, that was, I'll tell you, and you'll eat up every word, hungry as you are. Ravenous for stories of the bad old days, when trolls walked the woods and gnomes guarded your homestead; those old, olden times when you'd better think well of Wolf and Bear, or bad things would befall you.

You listen on, as I smack my lips around the mouthpiece, and tell you another story--all on good authority, of course. My old auntie never told a lie, and her cousin, let me tell you, lived to tell this tale. So on, so forth. All laughs and cheering, and the knowing nudges between friends.

Until I tell them about the time the devil came to my hometown, and danced all the young, vibrant, pretty things to death. No one laughs, then. It cuts too close to home, see. Even if they're neither young, nor pretty, it cuts them deep. Even if it was a long, long time ago, and no one believes in the devil. He's a symbol for all the other creatures that roam our lands, that come back from the dead to safeguard their dignity or wreak havoc on irresponsible descendants; or vengeful spirits of the woods set on righting an injustice perpetrated against them.

The story is simple: the devil lures the youths of the village to the top of the nearby mountain, where he plays the fiddle. Thereby casting a spell on everyone, enchanting them to dance and dance, until they ache, until their skin scrapes away, and the flesh tears and tatters beneath the bones of their feet, until there's nothing left of them but death and decay. The devil played the fiddle so expertly, with such charm and allure, that even when they noticed his hoofed feet, or the tail peeking out from under his long cloak, the spell could not be broken. The beautiful young things kept dancing in frenzied bliss, until it was all too late, and they could never go back home.

Simple. Easy.

But what the story doesn't tell you, is how the devil wasn't a devil at all, and the wickedness wasn't a mere case of the devil being? well, 'the devil'. Boys will be boys, and so on. Whatever that means.

No. What the story doesn't tell you, is why.

It doesn't tell you about the hundreds, thousands, of illegitimate babies dead in the woods, killed by their own mothers out of fear of repercussions. It doesn't tell you of the darkness, or the helplessness, or the blood spilt over the generations. Nor, indeed, of the ties that bind us--all of us--together. Ties that break, and demand justice. Such as an entire generation forfeited as a boon to all those lost children.

It should say:

Once upon a time there was a crossroads, and three figures stood before it, given corporeal form. At the center stood Justice, and to its left was Revenge; to its right, Forgiveness.

• And here is where I get stumped - what is this story really about? Where is it going?
• If this is a ghost story, is the narrator a ghost? Not getting that feeling thus far.
• When in doubt, type "SOMETHING HAPPENS HERE".
• Maybe a bit of dialogue between the concepts? It's all symbolic, anyway.
• Will possibly ditch the three figures in Week 2, but eh, fudge it.

Justice asked, "What is Forgiveness, if mortals never forget?"

Forgiveness had no answer.

Justice asked, "What is Revenge, if it comes ten years too late?"

Revenge had no answer.

Justice said, "I shall tell you. Forgiveness is nothing unless its root cause is then forgotten; Revenge is nothing if no one is around to remember where it stems from."

"And what of you, then?" asked Revenge, dissatisfied with the judgment.

"Yes, what of Justice?" asked Forgiveness.

Justice stood tall, and tilted its chin up. "I am the balancing scales. I am blind to the mortal measures of origin, creed and status. I care not for mortal constructs. When I mete out my verdict, both of you are satisfied."

"Utter tosh!" cried Revenge, "We are never truly satisfied!"

"Hogwash," Forgiveness agreed.

But Justice was not yet finished. "Which is why my work is never done, and my reach knows no bounds."

"You sanction genocide, and call it Justice," said Revenge.

"I never!" Justice stood firm. "Mortals do."

"And what about all the moneyed mortals who do more harm than good?" asked Forgiveness. "You think them Just, as well?"

"Not at all," said Justice. "They think themselves just."

And so it was, that they agreed to disagree: not a single one of them were more than what mortals made of them, and while Revenge often came too late to serve its purpose, and Forgiveness meant very little without its cousin, but Justice was worst of them all.

Justice wasn't just blind, but changed its ways to please each individual mortal: all who spoke of it had their own idea of what it meant.

That's where I come in. I smoke my pipe. I play my fiddle. And you pretty little things dance to my tune whether you like it or not. I am tenebrous. I am aeonian.

When I tell stories, people listen, that they may do better. Not just that. Be better. For all of us, dead and buried, or lost and waiting, wandering this world long after our passing.

I am the belief that the world gets better; that mortals can improve the world they live in.

So if you find yourself sat by the fireplace, listening to a white-haired old traveler with a pipe that never runs out, take heed. Listen with every fibre of your body, and be better.

The sun rises, I take my leave. Until next time.

Okay. Final thoughts on WIM 2020. Sadness abounds, but such sweet sorrow and so on and so forth. I've loved taking part in this, and you can be sure I'll dip my toes in next round as well!

From the moment I heard of Writer in Motion, I felt excited - just at the concept of sharing one's process from tiny little fragments of an idea, to a first draft, through multiple revisions and onward to final, finished draft. Not only that, but I felt incredibly gratified that this year was primarily open to marginalized writers, with regards to editor spots. But, thing is, even knowing that, I hesitated until the day of sign-up to actually...sign up. I hemmed and hawed at myself, Impostor Syndrome running wild, until all of a sudden the hour had struck, and I raced to the computer to sign up. I've always been like that, doubting my own right to take part in things, even when they're specifically aimed at people like me. I promised myself back in late 2019 that this was going to be my year, that I was going to put myself out there and take part in everything I possibly could, even if it goes against every fiber of my being. Here I am. This is me.

I don't regret it. I've loved every second of Writer in Motion, both writing my own little fairytale, and reading everyone else's progress from first draft to finished flash fic. I haven't read everyone's final draft, but I'm going to treat myself tomorrow and make sure to leave comments left and right.

There are so many things I take with me, going forward: the stories, the camaraderie, the dread and exhilaration of CP week and Editor week. Thank you, Fariha and Izzy! Your stories turned out absolutely awesome and beautiful, epic slices of what could be much bigger stories just waiting to happen. I think I wrote this in both your story feedback, but I WANT MORE. Whether you run with the concepts of your stories or not, know they grabbed me by the heartstrings and kept me hooked from the first word to the last. 

Thank you again to the fantastic Jeni Chappelle for your editorial savvy. I've never had an editor turn their shrewd eyes on anything I've written before, so I was both excited and vaguely terrified at what you might have to say. The excitement was warranted, the terror not so much.

If there is one last thing I take with me from this experience, it is the exhilaration of just running with a concept and watching it evolve, and getting to share the experience with everyone else. It reminds me of my not-so-misspent youth, attending writers' camps during summer breaks.

If you've followed the evolution of my Scandinavian folklore inspired fairytale, I hope it's shown you that there's a lot of thought that goes into writing, even if it's "only" a 1k story about changelings. Not only that, but it's okay to have a million ideas to start with, and (to paraphrase myself from Week 0) once you let it percolate? you're left with something quite different. I started out with an idea of a changeling troll-prince coming home to cutthroat fae politics, and ended up with a story about belonging, thinking outside the literal box, and finding love where you least expect it.

I can live with that. I can certainly live with that. 

I can't thank my critique partners Fariha and Izzy enough for their combined effort of 46 comments and/or suggestions. You provided me with an invaluable outside perspective, and pointed out exactly what had been lost when I had to cut those 700 words between first and second draft. Jeepers! Not only that, but you gave me a sense of where I needed to clarify things, or just change stuff around. Again, thank you!

I present to you all a well improved rainbow twist on the traditional changeling fairytale: full of John Bauer-esque trolls, flipping tropes, challenging fairytale conventions, and just a little sprinkling of fairy dust. Gotta have a bit of sparkle, after all. Or bioluminescent moss. You know. Either/or.   

---

Once upon a time, not very long ago, a changeling-prince returned to the halls of his parents. Beneath the flowing green lay a vast kingdom that reached as far as the horizon and burrowed into a great mountain. Crisp flowers framed an unassuming white-washed cottage, within which was a fire that never went out: this was the doorway through which stepped all fair-folk to go before the Mountain-Trolls and tell them of the past year. Both queen and king were clad in moss that glowed from within, and along the cavernous walls grew mushrooms that cast everything in a crisp, untethered light like gossamer. The gnomes brought bowls of porridge laced with almonds and coins as tribute. The elves offered wreaths of ivy and bluebells. But the troll-prince, not knowing the custom of his kin, went before his parents empty-handed.

"What tribute, this? What travesty!" asked Queen-Mountain, her crown jangling with polished stones. "My son and heir--"

"Expecting amnesty!" His father gestured, big nostrils flaring. "Clothed as such. What is that?"

"Suspenders!" squeaked a goblin.

"A necktie for hanging!" cried another. "The consummate bureaucrat!"

"An accountant, actually," the changeling decreed, adjusting his glasses. The congregation of fairies went up in a murmur. Beside the royals sat the other changeling--the human whose place he took, flowers like a wreath in his silvery hair and beads braided into his graying beard-- brown eyes wide with apprehension.

"QUIET!" boomed the Queen. "For your negligence, we'll set you a challenge. A riddle."

Suggested the King, "Not too difficult, nor too easy, but right down the middle."

Her Majesty agreed. "For every heart what needs a box; for every lock, a key. Present to us this paradox; make use of your degree."

The troll-prince simply stared. "Wait, hang on! Make a box for my heart? You're joking!"

But the prince was sent on his way with his tail bobbing behind him. It was a hassle to keep hidden, so eager to leap at the outside world and give a friendly swat. Once home, he set out to the hardware store, returning to his studio apartment with a toolkit for beginners. The first box he made was an eyesore, and much too small; the second day, he made another, much improved. The prince was pleased, but wary of cutting his own heart from his chest. It would be gruesome, at best.

On the third day his box was finished. There was only one thing left to do. He readied his knife, but a desperate rapping at his door stopped him. It was the human changeling, as out of his element as a troll without its cave.

"Three days it took me to find you! Knife in hand, poised to take a literal plunge! Are you mad?"

The troll-prince scratched his head with the tip of his knife. "Not as I'm aware." He turned on his heel, measuring his chest by the rolling of his eye.

The human marched right in, and took the knife away. "To be a prince, you'd need an inkling! That riddle's a trick, and you too dumb to see it!"

The prince guffawed, reaching for the blade; the human interjecting himself, the distance closed between the two. "I work with numbers for a living!"

The moment held, like their eyes, a flush sparking between them. The knife clattered to the table, effectively calling a truce.

"...you mean it's a trick?"

"Of course 'tis!" the human hissed. "You dick--! ? Pardon."

They each slumped onto a kitchen chair, one wood-frame creaking more than the other. The troll elaborated, "I guess I'm not good with riddles."

"You've your flaws, I've mine--but spending too much time among the fairies, one gains an understanding."

The troll leaned back, brown eyes twinkling. "Not an 'inkling'?"

"Quiet," grinned the human. "You're too literal. The riddle: take a stab at it. Pun intended."

"A box for every heart??"

The human reached across the distance, placing his hand atop the prince's knuckles. "'Tis a test of your wits, not craftsmanship. What of your heart? Where does it lie in wait for greater things?"

"Right here," said he, and smacked his breast.

Not yet satisfied, the human arched his eyebrows. It was then it came to the prince, the answer to all his miscalculations.

The faerie court was still in session when they went before the Majesties. Realizing his mistake, the prince was now in his finest: a nose ring, and earrings, and cufflinks to match.

"My son returns," announced the Queen. "A sight for sore eyes!"

"The man-changeling at his side," noted the King, wry. "The pair of them in proper guise. Or something like it...."

"Hold your tongue! Show me, my darlings, what have you crafted?"

The prince presented his box, revealing its contents. Mother squinted at him. "Where be your heart, child?"

"My heart is mine to keep, and there's no finer chest for it than my own. If anyone's to unlock it, the key is mine to give."

All of a sudden the hall rang with claps like thunder, as the King applauded him. "I told you he's cleverer than his looks suggest!"

Her Majesty moaned, publicly outed. "And whose idea was it, to put him to the test!?"

The changelings smiled at each other. "You're not mad," whispered the human. "I admit I was wrong."

"Nor as dumb as they feared," said the prince.

"As reunions go, not a good start: nor too bad. To think your parents were missing you, all along."

The troll reached between them, their fingers twining. "If we're to be friends, you've got to stop rhyming."

The human chuckled, merry as a faun. "For asking me out on a date, you've terrible timing."

And so it was, that a troll-prince was set a challenge, and in reconnecting with his roots came out a winner.

The End

Monday night: Sitting down to start this thing. I have my first impressions, https://writerinmotion.com/WIMForum/index.php?topic=204.0. I have all these shiny little ideas in my head -- do I want the main character to be a regal fairy type creature, such as an elf? No, not really. Trolls are made of different stuff. Do I want him to be something like H.C. Andersen's ugly duckling? Yes, please. Something boring, completely mundane, in brogues and pressed slacks and black wireframe glasses (all things I love).

An accountant!

But where to start? Not a clue. So: put on some Rob Zombie, and start typing, see where we end up -- me, myself, and my mountain-dwelling trolls. I don't usually listen to music when writing, but this feels more like an exercise in brainstorming. It works.

---

Once upon a time, not long ago at all, a changeling son returned to the halls of his Queen and Her King. Beneath the lush, flowing green of a hill, there lay a vast kingdom that reached as far as the horizon and burrowed into a great mountain. White flowers adorned the hilltop, framing an unassuming cottage with crisp, white walls, and within it, a fire that never went out. This humble cottage was the doorway through which stepped all manner of folk, to go before the Mountain King and tell him of the past year.

Queen-Mountain sat beside her King, both clad in moss that glowed from within. Along the cavernous walls there grew mushrooms that cast the halls with a crisp, untethered light that hung like gossamer about the gathering of fae. The gnomes brought many a bowl of porridge as tribute to the trolls, though by any measure of magic or blood they were on equal footing, one to the other. The elves saluted their cousins with wreaths of ivy and bluebells, being on their best behavior. But the changeling, knowing not the customs of his kith and kin, came before his parents empty-handed.

"What tribute, this, what travesty?" asked the Mountain King, staring at his firstborn from under a brow weighed down by cumbersome horns. "My son and heir--?"

"Expecting amnesty!" His Mother-Queen gestured with her taloned fingers. "Clothed as such: what is that?"

"A dress shirt!" Up-piped a goblin,

"A necktie for hanging!" Cried another,

"A consummate bureaucrat!"

The worst part of it all: they weren't wrong. "An accountant, actually," the changeling decreed. Adjusting his glasses, he cleared his throat. "But I see what you're getting at. I mean no disrespect, to return without a...boon?"

A boon! The congregation of fairies went up in a murmur.

(wordcount: 302)
---

This is how far I got before my cat, Humpty, told me it was midnight, and I'd better get my butt to bed. He's bossy like that.

I like it so far. As for edits, I haven't really changed stuff around or edited typos and such.

I wasn't entirely happy with the rhyming, which sent me on an excursion on the World Wide Web (yes, I'm That Age). What rhymes with travesty? Or 'that', for that matter. Me and 'that' have a love/hate relationship. It's mutually unrequited.

*

Tuesday: coffee break at work, this happened - notes! https://twitter.com/CollideWords/status/1290597213144522753. More direction, more of a clear idea of the three acts of the story. Not entirely sure about the stakes, but I know it has to do with belonging, home-coming, self-acceptance. All the good stuff. I do want to fit some courtly backstabbing in there somewhere, but not sure where just yet.

Have to think of something suitably gruesome. "Do X, or fail on pain of death" doesn?t really float my boat: there are worse fates than death. I would imagine it's the same for the fae.

Another thing I might end up changing is the Mountain-parentals. I think it could be more interesting if they swap places. If the mother troll demands to know what travesty it is to have her son returned in such a human guise, while the papa troll is more like "oh my gourd, that outfit". Papa Troll can be a total queen, shh.

I don't want to "waste" too many more words on the introductory act. It's already at 302, and I want to leave some wiggle room for the exposition. I tend to get wordy, so this is a definite challenge. Scary but fun!

Now the question becomes, how to continue?

Let's see what happens if I just start typing.

---

With every box his heart swelled, and would not fit.

"Must be inflammation."

(Wordcount: 13)
---

...this might fit in. Somewhere else. Start typing:

---

"Yes," boomed the King, sharing sharp grins with his throne'd equal. "We shall set forth a challenge."

The Queen laced fingers with her mate's. "A task."

"A task fit for a princeling."

"A riddle to be solved?" Asked the Queen, and the courtiers cheered.

"Quite: (RIDDLE STUFF GOES HERE)"

The changeling blinked, owl-like behind his glasses. "Wait, hang on- You want me to do what? Make a box for my heart, and a key to lock it? You've got to be joking!"

But, as is the wont of well-meaning parents, neither King nor Queen spoke in jest, sending him on his way with the raucous revelries of the fairy Houses ringing in his ear. It was a wonder he hadn't been turned to stone yet, as put forth by some...uncle twice or thrice removed and promptly forgotten.

(wordcount: 139, including the RIDDLE STUFF thing)

---

Thoughts on whereto next: Changeling tries and fails to build a box for his heart, see tweeted jottings, as every time he attempts to place it there the box is too small. What foul fairy magic is this? In one word: morbid - but I'm rolling with it for now. Changeling should realize that this Means Something(?), but I have to figure it out, first. Three stages: bewilderment, wonderment, and Eureka Moment. Remember the number 3 being important. Three trolls, three acts, three parts of the challenge, etc.

Why does he go along with it? Is it out of a need to belong, or find his roots? Is that what he's lacking?

...what if there's a hole in his heart that fills with doubt for every new attempt at finishing the damnable box? Is it that simple? Changeling will realize he doesn't need his parents' approval, because their expectations of him will always be too high - is that it? Hmmmm. More importantly, that realization doesn't necessarily have to come from within. He could be influenced by someone else's POV. A friend, or a lover? A tether to the supposedly substandard Human world, someone who acts like a looking glass through which he can see things more clearly.

It's almost midnight, time to post this. Next update to this thread, Thursday.

*

Thursday rolled around, finding me stressed out at realizing I'd overlooked a crucial bit of editing my novel manuscript: one of my Achilles' heels type words. "Just". This after sending out a query with a now-incorrect word count. Woe was me!

Even though I didn't actually end up updating (sorry!), I hereby present to you, my Wednesday-Thursday-Friday progress. It isn't much, but it goes to show even if you don't sit down and type anything, you can still be creative/productive.

https://twitter.com/CollideWords/status/1292028322059255818

*

Friday. TGIF! Luckily, Friday is the one day I'm off work early, which means more writing! I CAN SO FINISH THIS STORY BEFORE DINNER!

---

Changeling plucked the glasses off his sizable nose and used his paisley pocket square to polish them. Fastidious. Precise. Like his favourite song.

Once home, he sat overlooking the concrete jungle, and wondered how to craft a box for his heart, or; how to remove it. From his chest.

(wordcount: 49)
---

I have to pause here, because inspiration struck me like a proverbial lightning bolt. I'm sitting there, half thinking about the riddle I've yet to magic into existence from the depths of my imagination; then thinking about what kind of role the human changeling would have (he could be a compass more than a looking glass, or a secret ally. I doubt he told his Troll parents he's there, helping their princeling child. He'd tell the troll prince "The riddle is a trap, it's a lie!")

And then something clicked at the forefront of my mind, going "A box is a box, but a chest?"

If he's been (wrongfully interpreting the riddle as if he's) tasked with building a box for his heart, and a key to lock it -- why build a box for it when it's already in a chest? Chest, as in container. As in ornate, handcrafted receptacle in which to put things.

Okay. Moving on.

---

The first day, he set out to the hardware store, returning with a bundle of tools and materials. Plywood for its sturdiness, metal hinges and bolts; tape measure, safety glasses, and a hammer. A toolkit for beginners, and a mountain of sharp little things. The first box he made was an eyesore, and much too small for his heart.

The second day, he made a second box, which was much improved both in craft and aesthetics. Changeling was pleased, but grew wary of cutting his own heart from his chest, knowing it would be a gruesome business.

The third day, his box was finished: resplendent despite its humble components, complete with a hinged lid and ornate clasp, and a lock befitting its key.

There was only one thing left, to carve out his heart, place it in the box, and lock it up, ready for presentation before his King. He shrugged out of his shirt and readied his knife, and just as he was about to set to it, mumbling "Third time's a charm," a desperate rapping came from his front door.

It was the other changeling, stood on his doorstep clad in regal moss and flowers like a wreath in his hair. (Wording, and thinking of John Bauer's trolls and other fae, and Elsa Beskow's iconic depictions of fairy creatures. If Troll is mundane and "boring", then Human should be ethereal and wispy and "pretty". Soft, wavy hair braided around the wreath of flowers?) He seemed as out of his element as a troll without its cave, but there he was, the flush of indignation painting his cheeks a raspberry pink.

"Three days it took me to find you, princeling! Three days, for you to almost kill yourself! Are you mad?"

The troll scratched his neatly coiffed head with the tip of his carving knife, unsure whether to be insulted. "Not as I'm aware." He turned on his heel, his tail trailing behind him, having slipped free of its confines. It was a hassle, to always hide the thing most eager to leap at the outside world and give a friendly swat. "I thought they ate babies," the troll went on, measuring his chest by the rolling of his eye.

Behind him, the human marched to his side and took the knife away. "For to be a prince, you'd need an inkling; three boxes on your shelf you never had! I tell you: that riddle's a trick, and you too dumb to see it!"

"I'm too dumb?" The troll guffawed, reaching for the blade, the human interjecting himself; for every verbal blow the distance closed between them:

"Thrice over, believe it! Daft and dithering!"

Troll scoffed. "I'm not the one who's rhyming."

The moment held, as did their eyes, a flush sparking in each chest. Like opposing magnetic poles they leapt apart, knife clattering on the table. The human cleared his throat, the troll much the same.

"What d'ya mean it's a trick? I'm not s'posed to build a box and lock it up with my heart in it?"

"Of course not!" The human hissed. "You dick--! Pardon. You think it not-- funny, the one son and heir be tasked to put knife to chest?"

"Well?"

The human slumped in a kitchen chair, the troll doing much the same, one chair creaking more than the other. Troll elaborated, "I guess I'm not good with riddles."

"You've your flaws, as I have mine: riddles not being amongst them. I've spent too much time among the fair folk not to gain an understanding."

Troll arched his eyebrow, brown eyes twinkling. "Not an 'inkling'?"

"Quiet," grinned the human. "The riddle: take a stab at it. You're to build a chest to fit your heart, and find a key for it."

"A lock and key, for safekeeping."

The human reached across the distance, placing his hand atop his fellow changeling's knuckles. "And what contains your heart, at present? Where does it lie in wait for greater things?"

The answer was easy. "Right here," said the troll, and tapped his breast with his closed fist.

The human, not yet satisfied, arched his brow and widened his green eyes in expectation. It was then it came to him: the answer to all his ponderings. The human's vibrant eyes a twin-mirror for his own miscalculations.

"I don't need to cut my own heart out! I'm not gonna do the job for them!"

Their nods were echoes, equally resolute. The King and Queen, without a legitimate heir, could reign forever more.

(wordcount: 772, counting the parentheses. Exceeded my limit, oops! I know I'll be editing a lot next week!)

---

I'll take a break here. Time for dinner + a kitty that demands my attention = not the best environment for typing. Time to ruminate, and finish this beast. Next update, TODAY! BECAUSE IT'S SATURDAY, WHOOO!

*

Saturday. Last day of the first week, the big reveal day, and I still haven't wrapped this baby up. I still have to come up with the resolution (I have an inkling, to paraphrase the human changeling), have to come up with a suitable riddle (or the wording thereof. I have an idea of its contents, but not the structure, as it were), and get it all done.

I have coffee. My second cup since breakfast. Scorpions blaring through my headphones: Here I am! Rock you like a hurricane!

Well. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Mission objective: last bit, return to Troll Court, let Troll princeling be smart (Trolls are otherwise known for not being too bright. I want this to be different. Might go back and portray that better in the first round of edits. So much editing to do. :3)

What else? I don't want it to be too dark. Must think of a happy ending. Ponder, ponder.

---

The faerie court was still in session when Troll and Human went as one before the Queen and her King. Troll was dressed in his finest, realizing his previous mistake, now adorned with all the baubles and pretty things in his possession: a nose ring set with turquoise, and earrings of 18 karat gold, and a pin for his tie that sparkled even in the otherworldly glow of the great hall.

"My son returns with his boon," announced the Queen. "A sight for sore eyes!"

"And the man-child at his side," noted the King. "In proper guise, the pair of them. What have you for us, children? Other than blatant mockery?"

"Hold your tongue," chastised Mother. "To make of them changelings was your idea: to scoff and scorn them now is folly! Show me, my darlings, what have you crafted?"

The princeling presented his box, and inside it lay his previous attempts: a box within a box within a box. His mother looked at him, demanding an explanation. "There's no heart, child. Why?"

"I was too literal about your task, Mother, that I tried and failed at it thrice over. It was only in meeting the human whose life you stole for my sake, that I saw through it. My heart is mine to give, not yours to demand, and there's no finer chest for it than my own. If anyone should unlock it, it's you. It is you who should find the key what fits."

The human's words rang in his mind still, the caution to tread carefully, lest he be right in his suspicions. Why else would they have sent their son away, and kept another as a surrogate, if not for their own, grim amusement? But all of a sudden the hall rang with claps like thunder, as the King put hand to hand in resounding applause.

"I told you he was cleverer than his looks suggest!" He boomed. "And the man-child isn't just a pretty face!"

The Queen moaned, publicly outed. "Never would I ascribe daftness to beauty, nor a lack of brains on one's father's side! And whose idea was it, but yours, to put him to the test!?"

Troll and Human looked at each other, as their parents?of sorts kept bickering. "I admit I was wrong," whispered the human, who wasn't a man-child in anything but heritage.

"I'm glad," said the troll prince. "Or we'd 've been starting a war over my heart."

"Not a good start: when your parents' sole crime was missing you, all along."

Troll reached between them, brushing the human's hand, pleased when their fingers twined. "If we're to be friends, you've got to stop with the rhyming."

Human chuckled, all a-twinkle like a faun. "If you're asking me out on a date, you've terrible timing."

And so it was, that a troll prince was set a challenge and failed, but came out a winner all the same.

~The End~

(wordcount: 501!!!! XD)

---

Alright! First draft is almost done!

I just have to go back and think of the riddle! Let's see?

---
((The Mother Queen laced fingers with her mate?s. "A task."

"A task fit for a princeling."

"A riddle to be solved?" Asked the Queen, and the courtiers cheered.))

"Quite: Key words: heart, box, carpentry? Lock and key. Should be ABAB structure, if four stanzas.

For every heart what needs a box,
For every lock, a key.
Present to me this paradox,
Make use of your degree.

((The changeling blinked, owl-like behind his glasses. "Wait, hang on- You want me to do what? Make a box for my heart, and a key to lock it? You?ve got to be joking!"))

---

I already know what I want to focus on over the next week, and it's not all to do with cutting down the wordcount -- although that's a must. If I leave out the parentheses etc, it's at 1711, so I'll be doing a lot of hacking away at the structure. Rewriting bits here and there, but more importantly, I want to work on my descriptions:

1) Up the bling for my troll clan. John Bauer's trolls are so utterly charming, and often done up with jewellery and fancy buttons. That's the aesthetics I'm going for. Darkness as well as light.

2) Play with the concept of trolls being stupid compared to humans, flip that trope.

3) Should Human Changeling look his age, or be magically youthful or ageless? Eh. Boring. He should look his age, but be a gorgeous fifty-year-old all done up in flowers and pretty mosses, like Sphagnum magellanicum.

4) See about reversing the King and Queen in the introductory scene. See what fits best.

5) More consistent rhyming from mama and papa troll.

And now, I give to you, the first draft itself, as it should be read. I'd love to know what you think!


~***~


Once upon a time, not long ago at all, a changeling son returned to the halls of his Queen and Her King. Beneath the lush, flowing green of a hill, there lay a vast kingdom that reached as far as the horizon and burrowed into a great mountain. White flowers adorned the hilltop, framing an unassuming cottage with crisp, white walls, and within it, a fire that never went out. This humble cottage was the doorway through which stepped all manner of folk, to go before the Mountain King and tell him of the past year.

Queen-Mountain sat beside her King, both clad in moss that glowed from within. Along the cavernous walls there grew mushrooms that cast the halls with a crisp, untethered light that hung like gossamer about the gathering of fae. The gnomes brought many a bowl of porridge as tribute to the trolls, though by any measure of magic or blood they were on equal footing, one to the other. The elves saluted their cousins with wreaths of ivy and bluebells, being on their best behavior. But the changeling, knowing not the customs of his kith and kin, came before his parents empty-handed.

"What tribute, this, what travesty?" asked the Mountain King, staring at his firstborn from under a brow weighed down by cumbersome horns. "My son and heir--?"

"Expecting amnesty!" His Mother-Queen gestured with her taloned fingers. "Clothed as such: what is that?"

"A dress shirt!" Up-piped a goblin,

"A necktie for hanging!" Cried another,

"A consummate bureaucrat!"

The worst part of it all: they weren't wrong. "An accountant, actually," the changeling decreed. Adjusting his glasses, he cleared his throat. "But I see what you're getting at. I mean no disrespect, to return without a...boon?"

A boon! The congregation of fairies went up in a murmur.

"Yes," boomed the King, sharing sharp grins with his throne?d equal. "We shall set forth a challenge."

The Mother Queen laced fingers with her mate?s. "A task."

"A task fit for a princeling."

"A riddle to be solved?" Asked the Queen, and the courtiers cheered.

"Quite: For every heart what needs a box; for every lock, a key. Present to me this paradox;
make use of your degree."

The changeling blinked, owl-like behind his glasses. "Wait, hang on- You want me to do what? Make a box for my heart, and a key to lock it? You?ve got to be joking!"

But, as is the wont of well-meaning parents, neither King nor Queen spoke in jest, sending him on his way with the raucous revelries of the fairy Houses ringing in his ear. It was a wonder he hadn?t been turned to stone yet, as put forth by some? uncle twice or thrice removed and promptly forgotten. Changeling plucked the glasses off his sizable nose and used his paisley pocket square to polish them. Fastidious. Precise. Like his favourite song.

Once home, he sat overlooking the concrete jungle, and wondered how to craft a box for his heart, or; how to remove it. From his chest.

The first day, he set out to the hardware store, returning with a bundle of tools and materials. Plywood for its sturdiness, metal hinges and bolts; tape measure, safety glasses, and a hammer. A toolkit for beginners, and a mountain of sharp little things. The first box he made was an eyesore, and much too small for his heart.

The second day, he made a second box, which was much improved both in craft and aesthetics. Changeling was pleased, but grew wary of cutting his own heart from his chest, knowing it would be a gruesome business.

The third day, his box was finished: resplendent despite its humble components, complete with a hinged lid and ornate clasp, and a lock befitting its key.

There was only one thing left, to carve out his heart, place it in the box, and lock it up, ready for presentation before his King. He shrugged out of his shirt and readied his knife, and just as he was about to set to it, mumbling "Third time's a charm," a desperate rapping came from his front door.

It was the other changeling, stood on his doorstep clad in regal moss and flowers like a wreath in his hair. He seemed as out of his element as a troll without its cave, but there he was, the flush of indignation painting his cheeks a raspberry pink.

"Three days it took me to find you, princeling! Three days, for you to almost kill yourself! Are you mad?"

The troll scratched his neatly coiffed head with the tip of his carving knife, unsure whether to be insulted. "Not as I'm aware." He turned on his heel, his tail trailing behind him, having slipped free of its confines. It was a hassle, to always hide the thing most eager to leap at the outside world and give a friendly swat. "I thought they ate babies," the troll went on, measuring his chest by the rolling of his eye.

Behind him, the human marched to his side and took the knife away. "For to be a prince, you'd need an inkling; three boxes on your shelf you never had! I tell you: that riddle's a trick, and you too dumb to see it!"

"I'm too dumb?" The troll guffawed, reaching for the blade, the human interjecting himself; for every verbal blow the distance closed between them:

"Thrice over, believe it! Daft and dithering!"

Troll scoffed. "I'm not the one who's rhyming."

The moment held, as did their eyes, a flush sparking in each chest. Like opposing magnetic poles they leapt apart, knife clattering on the table. The human cleared his throat, the troll much the same.

"What d'ya mean it's a trick? I'm not s'posed to build a box and lock it up with my heart in it?"

"Of course not!" The human hissed. "You dick--! Pardon. You think it not-- funny, the one son and heir be tasked to put knife to chest?"

"Well?" The human slumped in a kitchen chair, the troll doing much the same, one chair creaking more than the other. Troll elaborated, "I guess I'm not good with riddles."

"You've your flaws, as I have mine: riddles not being amongst them. I've spent too much time among the fair folk not to gain an understanding."

Troll arched his eyebrow, brown eye twinkling. "Not an 'inkling'?"

"Quiet," grinned the human. "The riddle: take a stab at it. You're to build a chest to fit your heart, and find a key for it."

"A lock and key, for safekeeping."

The human reached across the distance, placing his hand atop his fellow changeling's knuckles. "And what contains your heart, at present? Where does it lie in wait for greater things?"

The answer was easy. "Right here," said the troll, and tapped his breast with his closed fist.

The human, not yet satisfied, arched his brow and widened his green eyes in expectation. It was then it came to him: the answer to all his ponderings.

"I don't need to cut my own heart out! I'm not gonna do the job for them!"

Their nods were echoes, equally resolute. The King and Queen, without a legitimate heir, could reign forever more.

The faerie court was still in session when Troll and Human went as one before the Queen and her King. Troll was dressed in his finest, realizing his previous mistake, now adorned with all the baubles and pretty things in his possession: a nose ring set with turquoise, and earrings of 18 karat gold, and a pin for his tie that sparkled even in the otherworldly glow of the great hall.

"My son returns with his boon," announced the Queen. "A sight for sore eyes!"

"And the man-child at his side," noted the King. "In proper guise, the pair of them. What have you for us, children? Other than blatant mockery?"

"Hold your tongue," chastised Mother. "To make of them changelings was your idea: to scoff and scorn them now is folly! Show me, my darlings, what have you crafted?"

The princeling presented his box, and inside it lay his previous attempts: a box within a box within a box. His mother looked at him, demanding an explanation. "There's no heart, child. Why?"

"I was too literal about your task, Mother, that I tried and failed at it thrice over. It was only in meeting the human whose life you stole for my sake, that I saw through it. My heart is mine to give, not yours to demand, and there's no finer chest for it than my own. If anyone should unlock it, it's you. It is you who should find the key what fits."

The human's words rang in his mind still, the caution to tread carefully, lest he be right in his suspicions. Why else would they have sent their son away, and kept another as a surrogate, if not for their own, grim amusement? But all of a sudden the hall rang with claps like thunder, as the King put hand to hand in resounding applause.

"I told you he was cleverer than his looks suggest!" He boomed. "And the man-child isn't just a pretty face!"

The Queen moaned, publicly outed. "Never would I ascribe daftness to beauty, nor a lack of brains on one's father's side! And whose idea was it, but yours, to put him to the test!?"

Troll and Human looked at each other, as their parents?of sorts kept bickering. "I admit I was wrong," whispered the human, who wasn't a man-child in anything but heritage.

"I'm glad," said the troll prince. "Or we'd 've been starting a war over my heart."

"Not a good start: when your parents' sole crime was missing you, all along."

Troll reached between them, brushing the human's hand, pleased when their fingers twined. "If we're to be friends, you've got to stop with the rhyming."

Human chuckled, all a-twinkle like a faun. "If you're asking me out on a date, you've terrible timing."

And so it was, that a troll prince was set a challenge and failed, but came out a winner all the same.

~The End~

Name: Anthony Eden
Preferred Pronouns: They/them, but I'm not too bovvered if you forget.

Bio: Not much to tell. I'm a self-proclaimed "happily queer writer" (although I'm often evil to my poor characters), a proud catparent. I've finished my first novel (CODE-NAME: PROMETHEUS) and I'm trying to unlock the querying mystery. Me, present a sales pitch about my literary SF baby? It's a process. XD FRANKENSTEIN x FRINGE x X-FILES? Update: I'm currently editing my second novel, the steampunk mystery one with vampires. No blood magic, but other types of magic - such as clockwork-run automatons.

What type of stories do you write?
I tend to lean towards stories that may seem otherworldly, but are really a thinly veiled narrative of our contemporary world. I'm also a huge geek for all kinds of folklore. I write love stories that aren't technically romance novels, and I love flipping an old, tired trope on its gay little head. That actually sums me up kinda good: tropes galore, but make it gay.

What are you working on right now?
I'm fiddling with my second (or third? technically?) novel, also sci-fi, but with steampunk elements and blood magic. In one sentence, it's about vampires and humans on their first, joint venture into space -- and things go horribly wrong, as they are wont to do.  Update: the second-technically-third novel turned into something entirely different, but I'm very proud of it. My new projects are a potential sequel to the steampunk mystery, as well as a Nordic Fantasy with robots.

Connect With Me:

@CollideWords