The Lovely Dark

Trolls (Part Two of Two) To roten erthe, ryght thus sayde I, "Thow art my fader of whom I cam," And unto wormes sekurly, "Thow art my moder, thy son I am; My sustren all ye bene, forwhy None other then ye, forsoth, I am." I shall call hem sustres, lo, forthy For I shall roote amonge ham. Of the lowest erthe God made Adam, Of whyche my kynde I had, as he. Now, Lorde, that art lykened to a lambe, So Parce michi, Domine! -Pety Job  The Butcher's Heresy If you know something about the art of the trolls, you know that it is strangely derivative. If there is a poet in your town, and the trolls know of her, they have their own, who shares her name (or the nearest equivalent: Leon to Lavi most famously) and keeps up avidly with her career, mirroring her poetry with subtle alternations in theme and language- eliminating references to the intangible, reinterpreting all her relationships into a desire for unification or predation or submission in suitable melange. This is ...

my heart is clean as the cratered moon / and the sea of darkling mood You are a Sphinx. A knot of grotesque gentility with manicured claws and carrion breath.  Sphinx , by cidaq Your mother is the Mother of all Monsters, and when you were born she made your caul into a shroud to keep you in the dark. The places under the world are hers, starless and sacred, and if you keep your shroud over your eyes the night under the earth will follow you wherever you go. If you lose your shroud (and some night surely you will), the light of the moon will dazzle and devour you. But not tonight. Not yet. Under your shroud, you have the head of a human and the body of a beast. Your hide is as tough as old leather, and your teeth and claws are sharp as daggers. You save like other monsters, or like other chthonic things, whichever is easiest. You cannot wear anything that was not made for you. But a tailor does present certain inconveniences- the sanctity of your shroud, the indignity of m...