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In the last post: Alf acts a ferocious troll, and Alf flees back to his tent by the lake...8/2/2020
Dear friends, on Tuesdays and Saturdays I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them free, or wait to buy the whole story when published. Rather than miss an instalment, please subscribe and I’ll give you a nudge as they come out.
Eerie Eve ® James Field. Part 14
That goes to show what a coward Morris is, thought Alf, laughing quietly into his hand. He strolled up onto Trollop Knoll and picked up the gardener's basket, still full of toadstools. Wispy clouds had gathered again, shading the moon and making the night dark. This was no problem for Alf; with his third eye, he could see as if it were the middle of the day.
He wondered if the toadstools were valuable. Sibyl would pay him well and appreciate how much braver he was than Morris. Not that there was any doubt. Yes, it had been worth his time to come out here tonight. Alf crept back to his hiding place by the glen, opened his third eye, and gazed inside Morris's tent by the lake. The little man had drawn the zips tight and stood in the glow of a lamp. He’d buried his fingers in his hair and rocked on his feet like a boxer waiting for the bell. Despite the cold, sweat glistened on his brow. The gutless man worries that the troll will follow and attack him in his tent, thought Alf, and chuckled. Yes, unfortunately, trolls could be nasty at midnight this time of year. 
Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay
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In the last post: Morris finds the magic toadstools. Alf thinks it best if he loses them again...4/2/2020
Dear friends, on Tuesdays and Saturdays I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them free, or wait to buy the whole story when published. Rather than miss an instalment, please subscribe and I’ll give you a nudge as they come out.
Eerie Eve ® James Field. Part 13
Alf didn't know what sound a troll might make: perhaps the deep-throated grunt of a bear, or the rumbling hiss of a crocodile, or the angry trump of an elephant? Could a troll speak, or at least utter basic words? He drew a sharp breath and let out a husky growl, the noise so hostile and ghastly that the hair on the back of his neck rose.
Morris, who stood atop Trollop Knoll, whipped his head around, tendons on his neck taut as rope. His mouth hung open and his eyes looked as though they would pop out: staring but not seeing. For a moment, Alf wondered if Morris had turned to stone, like an ugly gargoyle perched on the gutter of some building. Alf followed his success with the blubber and bawl of all the dangerous animals he could think of. He thought it best to reach a climax straight away; and what a climax it was. If any normal person had seen him, they would have carted him off to the loony bin. "Leave - my - toadstools," he blabbered, and then lifted his chin and screamed like a wolf with a thorn in his paw. Morris dropped both his basket and torch and dashed back to his tent, so fast, that dry leaves leapt into his slipstream and danced in the air behind him. 
Image by Nadine Doerlé from Pixabay
Dear friends, on Tuesdays and Saturdays I'm blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them free, or wait to buy the whole story when published. Rather than miss an instalment, please subscribe and I’ll give you a nudge as they come out.
Eerie Eve ® James Field. Part 12
Alf followed Morris at a safe distance and glanced at his watch: five minutes to midnight. The moon had risen high and shone with an uncanny brightness. He watched as Morris shook the tension from his shoulders, shamble deeper into the trees, and clamber to the top of Trollop Knoll.
Then, at precisely midnight, around Morris’s feet, the moss-covered ground began to shift and rustle. Alf stared wide-eyed. Toadstools pushed up through the mulch, growing with unnatural speed and glowing with a brilliant fluorescence. When they had reached the size of saucers, Morris picked a few and placed them carefully in his basket. Within two minutes the basket was full. Alf crept closer. He crossed a piece of spongy bog and hid behind the trunk of a large oak tree. Legend said that Merlin had stopped here once on Trollop Knoll and trimmed his beard, the little tufts of hair swallowed by the earth. Could that have something to do with the strange toadstools? wondered Alf. Twaddle! Morris’s wife, Sibyl, the Cloud Mansion’s governess and self-proclaimed white witch, wanted the toadstools for her potions. Although Alf considered Sibyl a canny woman, with almost as much gumption as him, he worried she might poison someone. What worried Alf, even more, was that Morris had actually found the toadstools: making the pompous little git a champion! The best for all, reasoned Alf, is that Morris goes home empty-handed. Time to act a troll and put the fright of hell into him. 
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James Field
Talvik, Norway You can also Find me on 
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