by Phillip E. Dixon
From Goblins & Galaxies #2 Winter 2026
Girdoo couldn’t help but scowl at the lumpen trolls sitting before him in his garden—a scowl so hard his bristly eyebrows felt like they might permanently conjoin. His round, delicate nose just hadn’t been prepared for the fetid smell. Rank troll stink thrust into his sinuses like rotting slugs rolled in rabid griffon manure. Gnomes like himself grew lush blooms as sanctuary, in part, from such offensive odors, yet here it was, heavy and dank and tragically invited in by Girdoo himself, no less.
He despised trolls. They were dullards. Living bricks. Mugwumps—all of them—but for guarding a bridge there was no finer choice. Their minds had space for just one thought at a time. Food or murder, and the difference often eluded them.
“I am the Great Girdoo!” he lied, loudly. There was nothing great about him. Despite his carefully tended reputation as a sorcerer, he was nothing more than an average, slightly pudgy garden gnome. He’d learned long ago that power implied was just as effective as the real thing, and trolls were an easy audience. A tall audience. Even from atop the apex of the bridge, Girdoo was forced to look upward at their hideous, blunt faces despite them being seated. The short brim of his tall hat was in the way, but he refused to take it off. He was balding.
Girdoo stamped his foot down on the stone beneath him. “See this bridge?” The trolls squinted fiercely at his foot or turned their heads to better aim their lazy eyes. They muttered “nice bridge” and “me likey.” Waves of rancid breath sent Girdoo into a coughing fit.
It was a nice bridge. Strong stones, a perfect arch, the healthiest of mosses growing just so. It was a centerpiece of the family garden, and Girdoo had finally inherited it from Mother (with a little expeditious assistance on his part—he’d broken his favorite spade).
“I am in need of a troll,” he continued, “and you simpletons are in need of a bridge.”
Some of the trolls shrugged their hairy shoulders in what Girdoo assumed to be affirmation, while those with necks nodded, their slack mouths clacking.
One troll in front kept raising his four-fingered hand. His head was studded with scabby knobs.
“What is it?” Girdoo snapped.
“Mister Girdoo—”
“That’s Great Girdoo!” Girdoo pointed his plump finger at Knob-skull.
“Yes, Mister Great Girdoo,” Knob-skull replied. He stuck his finger in his ear nervously and licked it. “I need a new bridge real, real bad.”
“What happened to your old one?”
“It fell.”
“And how did this happen?” Girdoo asked, narrowing his eyes. This troll felt suspicious. Then again, all trolls did.
“I hit my head on it too many times.” A big, greasy tear welled in Knob-skull’s eye. “It was an accident.”
Girdoo was stunned. He didn’t know trolls were physically able to cry.
“Oy!” a particularly vicious-looking she-troll shouted. “Whazza job pay, wiz?” Her hairy ears and jagged crossbite looked promising.
Girdoo smiled. He’d already thought the pay through carefully. Trolls were such basic creatures. “Meat,” he said. “Fresh meat.”
Several trolls had already been drooling, but now the drool doubled and grew extra frothy. They began eagerly shouting.
“Got any griffon wings?”
“Or dragon tail?”
“I ate a unicorn once named Nettie!”
Girdoo held up his hands until they quieted. “Squirrels! As many as you’d like. The surrounding forest is overrun with them.”
The trolls shook their heads, flinging drool. Girdoo hoped the spray wouldn’t ruin his mushrooms. “There ain’t no more squirrels,” said a troll from the back, looking oddly sheepish. He had exceptionally large, disgusting feet. “We already ate ‘em walkin’ here.”
Well, fluff my nuts. This wouldn’t do at all. Girdoo felt a flare of panic. He didn’t know what else to offer them, and a gang of angry, hungry trolls in his garden would be a disaster.
Knob-skull’s stomach grumbled.
The vicious-looking she-troll slammed her fist into his leg. “Shut yer belly up! I can’t think.”
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”
“I’m thinkin’ thoughts!” She slugged him again. “Big thoughts!”
“Me too!” shouted Big-feet from the back.
The trolls began yelling their inner monologues out loud—inanities and idiocies all. Through the tumult, an idea wriggled into Girdoo’s own thoughts—a perfect idea. Girdoo’s belt pressed in on his navel as he laughed. He only needed one troll—the best troll—and, like his inheritance, he didn’t mind encouraging the process. Plus, a world with less trolls was a better world.
He put his pixie-sized hands up to quell the shouting, then pointed at Knob-skull. “If you are still hungry,” Girdoo said, “you may eat him.”
The trolls didn’t move, but their eyes all turned on Knob-skull, some with a gooey squelch. Eating their own had never occurred to them before, but Girdoo watched the idea slowly sink in and grab hold. They stared at Knob-skull and began wringing their stubby hands in anticipation. They spared a glance back at Girdoo and he gestured approval. Trolls did, after all, need to be led.
Girdoo grinned. Perhaps he was great after all.
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Phillip E. Dixon is an English Professor from Las Vegas whose fiction has appeared in Electric Spec, Cosmic Horror Monthly, The Fabulist, After Dinner Conversation, and elsewhere. He holds an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University, puts pineapple on his pizza, and watches far too much anime.
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