The Weekday One Hundred

I sit on the grassy riverbank watching the shallow brook trickle by. The gurgling noises comfort me in ways I have trouble putting into words. Yet today, I find it difficult to relax.

There hasn’t been a traveler in ages. Nary a man nor woman nor billy goat. Can one still be considered an effective bridge troll if one has nobody to terrorize?

I see a lone bubble emerge from the frothy waters below and pop it with my black jagged claw.

I will die alone under this bridge with nothing but regrets and my treasure trove of unspoken riddles.