Snorg the Troll - Part One

Snorg was a troll who lived under a bridge and ate goats. Like most trolls, his nose was bulbous, his eyebrows were bushy and his teeth were sharpened and yellow. His potbelly and hunchback made him look like a misshapen egg. His arms were long and bony like branches, and his stumpy legs meant his saggy buttocks were never far from the floor. In fact, Snorg was a typical troll in every regard except one - he didn’t have a grey heart.

     It is common knowledge that all trolls have grey skin and even greyer hearts, but Snorg’s heart was big and red. Troll doctors were unable to conclude why this was, but some guessed it was because Snorg’s bridge was located next to a high school - a high school for humans.

     Most trolls try to stay out of the way of humans, for they are dangerous, obnoxious and often repulsed by even the most handsome of troll folk. If a troll were to spend enough time in close proximity of these pink-skinned apes, they would become soft, confused and less inclined to eat goats. The troll would eventually think it was human and forget the only thing its stomach can digest is goat flesh. They would venture out from the safety of their dwelling and try to mingle with their human counterparts, only to be killed by hunters, starve, or - as was the case with the infamous Bolg - locked up in the Cincinnati Zoo as a rare species of anteater. Yet despite these obvious warnings, Snorg remained fascinated by humans affairs.

     Every day, Snorg would watch the students cross his bridge. He would hide away if one glanced in his direction, but he was always quick to pop back up when the coast was clear. Oh, how he longed to join the gaggle of boys and girls. He already knew everything there was to know about school, which was quite a feat considering he spent most of his time under the bridge. Snorg could tell you which stories the English classes were studying; name every Science teacher and list them based on popularity; and was always up to date with human gossip. You could say that Snorg was a troll with only one dream, and that was to be a student.

*

Snorg’s adventure began when a rucksack fell from the sky. Well maybe it fell from the bridge, but it landed on Snorg’s head all the same. With a grunt, he jumped up from his bed of weeds. He reached out and fiddled with the bag’s zip and discovered they opened. Snorg tipped the bag upside down, spilling textbooks and notepads all over the floor. He picked one up and tried to make sense of the front cover. A troll cannot read human languages no matter how hard they try, but if a human were to look they would read: Property of Emily Cargill.

     Snorg sniffed the pages and cast the book aside. He craned his head and looked up to see where the bag had fallen from. The bridge was deserted.

     ‘What is this?’ said Snorg to nobody in particular.

     He stretched the bag open and stuck his head inside. He remembered how students wore theirs and tried something similar. He slid one arm through a strap and hoisted it onto his shoulder, but his hunchback made it stick out like a canvas shell. Snorg admired his reflection in a puddle and flashed himself a grin. He noticed a piece of goat flesh stuck between his crooked fangs and plonked himself down to remove it. He grabbed a bone from the carcass he’d been snacking on the night before, and jabbed it into his mouth.

     As he set about loosening the meat from his teeth, Snorg gazed up at the sky. The sun shone on his skin, drawing attention to his wrinkles and flab. As a rule, trolls stay out of the sun because it dries them out, but it doesn’t kill them as most fairy tales would have you believe. They tend to hunt goats under moonlight as it’s difficult to spot them amidst the shadows. Snorg’s tendency to spy on the schoolchildren meant he saw sunlight more than most, which had led to a build up of cracked skin and troll dandruff. Snorg didn’t mind. He had nobody to look fancy for because nobody ever came to visit him.

     Such was Snorg’s curiosity with his new bag, he failed to recognise the sound of a girl’s voice on the bridge.

     ‘Melissa Tate! You bring back my bag right now!’

     Another voice called out in the distance.

     ‘It’s under the bridge, Scargill!’

     Snorg started to panic as footsteps made their way down the grassy slope towards his underpass. Like all good trolls do, he rolled into a ball and disguised himself as a boulder. As he became still, a girl rounded the corner.

     The girl huffed, picking up her books. She tried to pull her bag off Snorg’s camouflaged shoulder but it was hooked around his arm. She pulled harder.

     Snorg trembled as the girl struggled. With one sharp tug, she yanked the bag from Snorg’s grasp and sent him sprawling into a puddle. Snorg tried his best to remain motionless, but his face was now in plain sight. He opened his eye just enough to see the girl bundling her books into the rucksack. She wore thick-rimmed glasses - which did their best to conceal the scar running down her face - and her hair was bobbed to look like a mushroom. She trudged back to the main path and, as quick as she arrived, she was gone.

     Emily Cargill hadn’t noticed Snorg, but Snorg had noticed her. He stretched back into his original shape and lay in the gloom of his home. The sun touched his shoulder, and for a second, he remembered what it felt like when Emily’s finger brushed his skin. He raised a stubby digit and traced the spot as if it were a delicate flower blooming from his arm.

     Snorg was in love.