The slab of meat rotated slowly over the roaring campfire.
“Love a good pixie leg,” grumbled one of the elders as he gnawed on a bone.
“It’s the wing for me,” muttered another elder while he licked both his hands clean.
The pack of ravenous trolls continued to enjoy their outdoor barbecue… all except for little Timbrole, the youngest of the group.
Pixie legs and wings? Suddenly his stomach started doing backflips. Suddenly he wasn’t much in the mood to eat. Then, a burst of uproarious laughter followed by a hearty slap on the back.
“Relax, kid. It’s just chicken.”
The Weekday One Hundred 