The troll

Nizgark spun the motor on the computer. It was annoying that ten minutes of turning would only give a half-hour of time, but it would be sufficient for him to check on the new posts on the half-broken monitor. It was getting lonely under this bridge, and there were few walkers, only those metal carriages, that sped past. So he occupied his time trying to lure folks here by persuading them that the fishing nearby was great, and there were scenic menhirs around. No one was ever persuaded though. He typed in the URL and ventured into the Faerie forums, where he kept in touch with all the various trolls, pixies, brownies and sprites from all over the world. Pickings were slow, magic was fading, and forests were being destroyed. It was depressing to read through the news and posts. Nizgark wandered into the thread where he and the pixie Solthan had been arguing for the past two months about the worthiness of moon mushrooms. He studied the screen as he prepared for his next post.

The Monster's Ball

Jeremy 7-leg had been practising all year for the ball, but never with a live partner. He had been too shy, so he made a figure about his height and danced with her to the tango and the rhumba. The last two months, after he had caught enough giant flies to feed on, he had been spending most of the time in an underground barrow, listening to an old tape recorder play Astor Piazzola and watching the dance instruction tapes over and over again. Soon he knew he could be good at it. Previous years he had just watched, but this year he was determined not to be a spectator. He would ask Rosalind 2-heads to dance, and he hoped at least one of them would consent.

The night of the dance came under a full moon. The Bug Orchestra came together and tuned their strings, while the Borg Flea had harnessed fresh spider silk for the strings. When they started to play, Jeremy couldn't stop tapping his feet (all seven of them), but he did not move from his perch. Young bugs in love started flooding the dance hall, and as he listened to the joy in their cries, he wished he was down there as well, showing off his moves. He knew he could do it. But where was Rosalind 2-head? Maybe she was still doing her hair; the blond curled tresses of her left head and the deep red hair of the right. Jeremy tapped his feet.

The moon hid behind clouds and the berry liquor was passed around. Jeremy still had not hit the floor and Rosalind had not emerged. He became to worry.

Then he felt a breeze behind him. He turned and saw it was Sahila broad-wing, the butterfly with glass-like wings. He had known her before she had gone into a chrysalis. The moonlight passing through her wings threw out strange bizarre images, like staring into a kaleidoscope.

"Care to dance Jeremy?" She asked.

Jeremy nodded, and Sahlia grabbed him up. And they danced; and Jeremy showed off his moves and they burnt up the dance floor.

His legs moved vigorously and swiftly. She let herself be led. Soon people were noticing them. They stopped and let them have the floor, clapping along.

And Jeremy smiled as he danced. This was his time; what he had been waiting for. At the end of the night, he was exhausted. He sat in a corner and let Sahlia drape her colours around him, content. She would eat him up by the morning, but he didn't mind. Bugs never lived long anyway, not even the giant dancing ones.

Jigsaw

Her parents didn't believe her, but there was a monster under her bed. Every night she would scatter the jigsaw puzzles on the floor and the creature would spend the entire dark putting it together, picking up the pieces with its gigantic gnarled hands that were the size of tree trunks, with fingers each as long as a new pencil. It never managed to finish it before morning though, so she was safe. But she kept on buying jigsaws with more and more pieces, just in case.

The knitting monster

It hung around Mrs Doughty's flat, and it was glad when she turned on the television, which meant there was something to watch. The monster was now a bit old, and could barely even outrun children. It still liked to eat cabbages and carrots, which Mrs Doughty had lots of, so it just stayed close to her. Mrs Doughty was old, so she never quite noticed it in the house. She would just sit in front of the television and knit, watching an endless stream of gameshows and soap operas, many which made her weep, but never cry. Crying was reserved for those phone calls, but sometimes she would laugh too. Mrs Doughty would always be knitting when she watched the television; slow strokes of the needles, the ball of yarn just moving. She looked like she was making a sweater, one of those things that kept humans warm in winter, just that it was about half her size. She was almost done one day, watching television and having tea, when suddenly she began to shake, like having her own earthquake. The monster wondered what was happening. She suddenly stopped, and saliva dripped out of her mouth. The sweater was in front of her, 3/4 done. The monster approached her, wondering if she was sleeping, but she didn't make her usual sleeping noises. It shook her for a bit, and she did not move.

The monster knew what it had to do. It took up the needles, and from the vast amount of times it had watched her, understood what it had to do. The needles clacked and clacked slowly, as it watched television, even when it looked like there was a blizzard on the screen, finishing the sweater.

Smoke

He saw the patterns within the incense, and let it flow up. He would make wishes before the smoke, and even though they were mostly small tasks, they would be done. Like finding a lost pen; the smoke would weave its way to it and he would follow.

One day, after a hard day's work where he was scolded by his clients, he just wanted to rest at home. But his neighbours upstairs were arguing again. He was so angry he lit a joss stick and wished that they were dead. The smoke traveled up the ceiling, and soon after, everything went quiet. Hours later, an ambulance came, and he found out that his neighbours were dead. They had been asphyxiated. Their faces were bright red when they died, and the others in the apartment said they had died arguing, as they had lived.

The man was aghast, and surprised. That was the power of the smoke. Soon he wished it upon his stingy boss, or a difficult client. One day, he wanted to turn it upon his wife, but before he could reach the altar, he found the smoke weaving towards him. He saw his wife bent before it, praying, and with a sad smile. The man rushed over but it was too late, as the smoke made its way into him.

The dog by the garden

In every culture, there's a story of a girl who wants to cross into a beautiful garden. But between her and the garden is a vicious dog tied to a rusting chain that's just about to break. The girl takes a step closer on the broken, overgrown weed path towards the garden, but the dog sees her and jumps hard towards her. The chain is straining like a wire pulled taut, though you can't hear it over the barking of the dog. The girl takes a step back. In some cultures, the girl returns with meat for the dog; in others the girl forgets the path altogether. In one, the girl returns with a gun and shoots the dog three times. In those stories where the girl makes it to the garden, she smells the flowers and lies upon the warm, fertile soil. The blood of the dog nourishes the garden, and the flowers will once again attract little girls into braving the horrors of the barking, angry, red-eyed dogs.

Harpy

It knew they were coming. She flitted above the trees and saw the smoke from their torches. There were few places left to hide. Talinn, the woodsman she had enraptured, was sleeping. He was utterly devoted to her, and each evening she would sing a song to once again charm him. She would let him tell him stories, and he spoke lovingly of his son and family. He despised his wife and promised her he would return to the village and get rid of her, kicking her back to her relatives. She smiled inwardly. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to shed the feathers and wings and take up the clothes these humans wore. What would she do then? Till the land, make bread, and wile away the days held by love?

But she looked upon her wrinkled and withering body and dispelled such thoughts away. Her breasts were sagging and her feathers dull. She was gasping after an hour's flight. A hunt would drain her utterly, and even her voice was getting croaky. It was Talinn's forestry skills that were keeping them fed.

She flew down from the trees. She saw Talinn's worshipful eyes and felt remorse. She could ask him to close his eyes and she would tear into his chest and devour his liver, but she felt an affection for the human. She could hear the others getting closer. They would soon approach the hideout.

"Go back to them," she told Talinn.
"No. I will protect you."
"That is not what I want."

An arrow shot out from the trees. She had failed to notice one amongst their number who had gone ahead of the others.

"Talinn! What are you doing with her?" The intruder shouted.
"Gahan. Go back!" Talinn raised his bow.
"You are enraptured. Do you not see what she is?"
The harpy spread her wings. Gahan threw his spear. It pierced into her side.

The enchantment was broken. Talinn now saw her for what she was. She had only wanted to fly away. Her blood smelled like decayed meat. The pain she felt in her body made her curl up.

"Go... kill me now..." she whispered. The effort of speaking was like having a dagger turned in the body. Her eyes watched Talinn's face. Gahan took out his dagger and handed it to the woodsman.
"Your family has missed you Talinn. Slay her. Be released from her charms."
The woodsman raised the dagger and the harpy could only watch the blade glitter in the evening sky. Her blood continued to drain into the soil.

Later, as Talinn walked back, he could not turn to look at the corpse, only smell its burning. From his eyes flowed tears that seemed to come from deep places within him. When his rescuers were not watching him, he disappeared into the forest again, never to be found.