text: There was a troll that lived under a bridge. He scared the local children and parents warned everyone away, but truthfully this troll was quite nice. His face was always in an upside down grin, for that was how he smiled. His eyes were big and one was just a bit lower than the other. He was quite odd to look at, by human standards. The troll was a very regular troll. However, he was also irregular. He didn’t like to do troll things, like bellow and bang and stomp through towns. He just liked the quiet under the bridge. He sat out under his bridge during the day, catching the things that flowed by. Tires and cups and newspapers and wood. He sat on the sunny side of the bridge and relaxed on the warm river rocks. And when the children crossed the bridge, daring each other to look at the troll or throw a stick, he would POP up! Sometimes he would ask them a riddle, or tell a little joke. Most times, they just screamed and ran. He did this for three reasons: 1. There were bigger, meaner trolls under other bridges, and he didn’t want the children thinking they could talk to them. 2. It was very funny. 3. He was a troll. At night he would go into the bridge under the left bank, through a little duct that led to a cozy brick room where he cooked and ate and slept. He had a cozy bed made of tires and a feather mattress. He had a table made of bottles and cans and a tea kettle Over a steam grate, which kept his home toasty warm. His duct became a window over the bed where he read the books that the children dropped by moonlight. Though to be quite honest, he had learned recently that he could use a fishing rod to grab a whole backpack if he was crafty enough. He slept well to the sound of the river running by. He was happy under the bridge. He loved the children and he loved his home. He had lived with trolls as a troll child. His parents were loud and angry, always bellowing and fighting. They didn’t understand their quiet troll child and yelled louder, hoping to inspire him. He hated the noise and the stink and the smashing. He just wanted a calm place to be alone. And so he treasured his life under the bridge. He befriended the ducks that came through, and one would often stay and chat through the night. He called him Huck. “Why do you suppose I always find one sock in the river but never two?” The troll asked. “QUACK.” Said Huck. And so it went long into the night. The troll was alone, but he didn’t feel alone. He had many friends, from the birds to the ducks to the owl that lived on the underside of the bridge next door, who he had much more sparkling conversations with. They had all donated feathers for his bed, and he caught them fish occasionally as a neighborly gesture. He saw the children grow every day, and he had good tea and good readings. He could always dry out the newspapers and magazines that floated his way, but he sometimes used them for papier-mâché instead. He was a happy, ugly troll under a bridge and he wouldn’t have it any other way.