Connection of the Worlds: Second Edition (First Chapter Preview)

Chapter One: Tor

September 10th, 2017; San Diego, California 

Thirteen year-old Tor Anderson was jolted from his sleep at the sound of a paper pamphlet slamming onto his desk, and laughter from several other kids in his history class. He looked up, rubbing his eyes. Dang. He’d really fallen asleep again in class? His parents would kill him. And so would his teacher. 

Mr. Jared, a balding man with hardly any wisps of hair left - thin, vulture-like, purple-faced and always scowling - was giving Tor a look of disapproval. Mr. Jared wasn’t at all surprised by the fact that Tor had fallen asleep during his lecture (this tended to happen a lot at North San Diego Middle School). 

“Sorry,” Tor muttered hastily. As the bell rang, he grabbed the pamphlet and stuffed it into his backpack (the same one he’d had since last year, after his old one broke). He left for his next class, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Tor hadn’t meant to be average. When he was younger, he had thought himself something of a superhero. Like Thor, or Batman, or something. But when he realized that a career as a secret agent or a world-saving god wasn’t exactly possible… well… that could really put a damper on life. 

It wasn’t as though he was a failure. He got okay grades, C on a bad day (especially in Mr. Jared’s history class), B+ on a good one. He ran track, though never really competitively. It was enough to have a handful of participation awards, he supposed. But more importantly he was a good guy, or at least, he tried to be. He loved his mother, tolerated his sporty stepdad and bratty half-sister. He even looked kind-of average: not overweight, not too skinny. Light brown hair, bright blue eyes, a smile on his face most of the time. He was almost fourteen, so he figured he was doing alright in life… even if he didn’t have a girlfriend and the closest he had ever been to getting an A was in a fake classroom in a video game he liked. 

The point being, he wasn’t anything special, but at least he wasn’t a sad case. Like his tormentor and the worst bully at school, Wilson. 

Wilson (no one knew his first name) was a jock who had been picking fights with Tor since the sixth grade. This year, Tor had hoped there wouldn’t be any being stuffed into a locker, or tied to a pole without a shirt in the hot sun. But alas. The eighth grade brought nothing but more misery. Wilson, who happened to be six feet tall already, with pale skin and a crew cut, had unfortunately chosen to pick on Tor because Tor was average. Wilson had a ton of problems: poor grades, borderline schizophrenia, selective mutism, and there were rumors that he had abusive parents, too. So it was understandable that the victim would become the bully, right? Tor always tried to see the best in people. 

“Hey, Anderson!” 

“Mother-” before Tor could get his cuss out, Wilson had already come up to him, and had yanked his arm so Tor was flung towards the nearest set of lockers. A couple of girls who had gathered there before their next period yelped and moved out of the way, not wanting to be witnesses of one of Wilson’s scenes. 

“Hey, hey, don’t push away!” Wilson spun Tor around to face him. “Just want to give some advice, man.”

Tor narrowed his eyes. Wilson had to be kidding. The kid never gave advice; he was a asshole and everyone knew it, even if he came from a bad home. 

“What is it this time,” Tor sighed, “another bloody nose? A trip to the dumpster?” He should have just shut up and tried to run away. Now he would be late and his English teacher would yell at him. 

“Hey, don’t be so salty!” Wilson grabbed Tor by the face and forced him to stare at the ground. “You gonna fight, punk?” Wilson chanted, snickering as Tor tried to look back up.

“Get off,” Tor muttered. He couldn’t afford to fight like this. He couldn’t look up to see if the teacher in charge of monitoring the halls today was there. He couldn’t get help from his friends either. (Well, that was because he didn’t have any. Okay, not any. Only a few average Joes like him who he ran with for track, and his best-friend who wasn’t in any of the same classes as him this year.)

“Yeah?” Wilson didn’t say a lot. He just put Tor in a choke hold, and Tor suddenly wished he hadn’t quit karate lessons back when he was in elementary school. 

Tor had tried to stay calm up until this point, but now he was loosing air. Fast. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He could feel Wilson’s arms clenched around his neck. But… wait, what was that? Tor felt a surge of anger, only it was different than other times he had gotten upset. He felt himself getting more and more angry, and then...

Bang!

One moment, Tor had been choking. Next, he and Wilson were both flung apart from each other, as though an earthquake had occurred. 

Tor groaned from his spot on the floor. He was okay, he realized, only he had a few bruises. Wilson, on the other hand, had been flung into a locker, and had left a human-sized dent in it. His face was bleeding.

“Oh…” Tor murmured. Then he was alarmed. “Ahh! No!” Wilson’s skull had cracked, and the bully was loosing blood pretty fast. 

“Help, somebody, help!” Tor shouted. Even though he knew Wilson had suffered concussions before (being a football player and all), the kid was still an eighth grader who needed help. 

The rest of the afternoon was a rush. 

“I didn’t.” Tor was sitting in the principal’s office, in the hard chair across from the head of school herself, Mrs. Ward. She was frowning slightly, clicking a pen in her hand, taking notes every once-and-awhile. She closed her eyes, and a few locks of grey hair fell out of her tight bun. She looked upset.

“Mr. Anderson,” she began, opening her eyes, sadly looking at Tor, “this is the third time since August. Do you remember what I said to your parents at the beginning of the year?” She always had a habit of bringing up conversations with Tor’s parents. (Unfortunately there had been several incidents like this since the start of school.)

“Yeah…” Tor felt his heart sink. He knew what was coming. 

Mrs. Ward cleared her throat, and Tor knew that she didn’t want to say it. She did give many chances. But she was the principal, and even if Tor hadn’t caused the problem with Wilson’s bullying, he had still done something. He knew he had somehow (but he didn’t know how) caused whatever explosion had sent his bully flying into the locker. Because of him, Wilson was at emergency care right now, getting numerous stitches in his head. 

Mrs. Ward set her pen down, and clasped her hands together. She leaned towards Tor from across the desk. 

“I don’t enjoy being the one to say this, Mr. Anderson…” She took a moment, and then plowed on. She had her mean-principal-business-lady face on, now. Tor hated that face. 

“It’s been three times,” she repeated. “I’m getting tired of this.”

Tor was about to apologize, but she shot him a glance, and he held his tongue. 

“I said to your parents, that you’re a good person.” She sighed, “But unfortunately, Mr. Anderson, that doesn’t mean I can let you walk back into school tomorrow, punishment free.” She fixed him with a stern gaze, “Do you understand?”

Tor looked down. He did. And he hated himself. He knew what a disappointment he would be when he walked into his house later, what his parents would think when they learned about this. 

Mrs. Ward picked up her pen, and took a small sheet of paper from a neat stack of them on the mahogany desk. She wrote while she spoke. 

“Most students would have been punished very harshly for what you have done, Mr. Anderson.” She scribbled something down, and Tor got a glance at her tidy handwriting and signature. 

“So… am I being punished?” Tor asked. “Um, harshly, I mean.”

Mrs. Ward didn’t respond. She finished signing the form. Then she slid it across the desk to Tor. He read it, dreading the punishment. 

Hope flared inside him when he read the title. “Suspension?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. This was better than what he had expected. “So… I’m not expelled?”

Mrs. Ward gave him the faintest smile. 

“Holy-” Tor stopped himself. “Uh, I mean, thanks. Thanks Mrs. Ward.” 

His principal nodded, and spoke again, not unkindly. “You are a good kid, and we both know that. In fact, I can see you have potential. Just…” she looked at him, and he couldn’t exactly read her expression, “Try to stay out of trouble from now on, will you?” 

“Yeah, okay.” Tor agreed. He didn’t think he could handle any more trouble today. 

No one gave him trouble on the way out. No one helped him get his things out of his locker, and no one even said goodbye, or asked what his punishment was. As annoying as it was that no one seemed to care, it was almost peaceful. But in a sad way. Like, when someone you find super annoying moves away, and you realize you needed the negative energy because it makes you feel like a better person. Or when you’re left at home for the day because you weren’t invited to a fun outing, and even though you’ve said that you need some peace and quiet, you realize you want to be part of something, even if it’s just some tasty fish tacos on the boardwalk by the ocean. 

Tor made his way out of the building, backpack slung over one shoulder, suspension paper in hand. He tried to summon his inner surfer-dude. 

Gotta chill out, he told himself. So what if no one cares? Just enjoy the two weeks of free time.

As ‘chill’ as he tried to be, he couldn’t help staying mad at himself. Why couldn’t he have just made some snappy comment or tried to run away from his bully? 

He normally took the bus or biked, but today since he was let out before the end of the day, he decided to walk home. It wasn’t way to far, just far enough that walking was inconvenient for early school mornings. It wasn’t really that scenic either - there were just other suburban houses like his, a few palm trees here and there, and dried up lawns. The fires in California, combined with the drought, made the whole walk a little more dismal than usual. Tor was suspended, sweaty, angry, and it felt like his lungs were dying from the smoke in the air. There was only one thing to do. 

He took out his iPod from his backpack, plugged in his earphones. The right one didn’t even have the plastic thingy to cover it. Whatever. Tor unpaused the music that he had been listening to on the bus this morning. 

He didn’t know the singer, but longed for what the song spoke of: adventure, love, friends. He sighed. Wouldn’t that be nice, to have an adventure. He should have been careful of what he wished for. 

He closed his eyes, and let the music flow through him. The sidewalk wasn’t too crumbled, and the road was empty today - it was a neighborhood and not the highway, afterall. He wouldn’t fall down. And after this morning, how much further could he fall? How much worse could it get?

“Ouch!” He had collided with someone. His iPod flew out of his hands, and broke into a dozen pieces on the sidewalk. “Dang it!” he scowled, and glared up to see who he had run into. 

She looked like a movie star - hollywood 1950’s glam (Tor’s mom had studied fashion history in college) he thought. She had a yellow scarf around her hair which complemented her dark, olive skin tone, and a pair of cat-eyed sunglasses covering her eyes. Her dress was beige, thin, and revealing; it was strapless with a v-neck. She looked about thirty or forty - Tor didn’t know exactly how old she was. 

“You…” Her thin lips curved into a smile. It wasn’t kind. In fact, Tor thought it was kinda creepy. 

“I… sorry. Sorry ma’am.” Tor didn’t know what to do. He was clumsy, but he hardly ever ran into people - he usually tripped over the sidewalk or walked into a pole or something. (His sister made fun of him a lot for that.)

She lost the smile as easily as it had appeared on her face. She was one of those psychos who could turn their frown upside-down and vise-versa as quickly as the blink of an eye. Tor was seriously scared by those people. 

“You mess with me, child?” The woman seemed to be speaking with an accent. But Tor didn’t know what it was. He hadn’t been to many other countries, just Canada a couple of times for hiking and Mexico for his stepdad’s birthday. So yeah, he really had no clue what accent this was. But it wasn’t like anything he had heard before. 

“No, no! Sorry ma’am I didn’t mean to-” he was cut off. 

“Yes, you mess with me.” She was muttering now, sounding angrier by the minute. Her long fingernails seemed to scratch her skin as she clenched her fists. “You mess with me so I mess with you, don’t I?” 

“Um... is that rhetorical?” Tor asked. When the lady didn’t answer, Tor decided he had better get on with his walk. It would still take him a good amount of time to walk home. At the rate he was going, he would have been better off waiting another hour for the schoolbus. 

“Okayyy, I’m just going to go…” He started to back away. 

“Oh, no mortal.” The woman snapped at him, harshly. “I do not think so. I will teach you a lesson… why not to mess with me.” She started to take off her sunglasses. 

“I think not!” Both Tor and the woman whipped around to see who had spoken. Tor ogled in shock. 

It was a girl close to his age. She looked about a year or two older than him, maybe fifteen? She was tall, Tor’s height, with olive skin (it wasn’t as dark as the other woman’s, but close) and she had very broad shoulders. Her hair was reddish-brown, curly, and a little lower than shoulder length. She was wearing a tank-top with a picture of a cartoon labradoodle on it, and some words in an alphabet Tor didn’t recognize. Russian? He had no clue. 

“You.” The woman glared at the newcomer. 

“It is I.” The girl met the gaze. Tor saw that she had very fierce hazel eyes, which seemed almost - but not quite - grey. She had a clipped and formal way of speaking - not like any teenager Tor had met before. It was as if she had come from a completely different era. 

“You mess with me too? You foolish girl,” the woman snarled, “you have no idea of what you mess with. You ambassadors are always like this.” The lady paused to examine a claw-like fingernail, and then smiled in the same creepy way as before. “That is why I always try to kill your kind.”

The girl circled the woman, eyes blazing, jaw set. “Try. Try to kill me, I dare you.”

What? Tor thought immediately. Was the girl going crazy? Was he? The way these people acted, spoke to each other… it almost seemed like they were aliens from another planet. Maybe they were cyborgs. But either way, they were obviously involved in something that Tor, average, boring-old, suspended Tor, definitely did not want to become involved with. 

Tor coughed, and they both looked at him. Tor took a step back, seeing their intense gazes. 

“Uh… I was just going…” he muttered. 

“Like hell you are!” the girl - his age - shouted. “You aren’t safe anymore. Stay behind me and do not move.” She fixed him with a glare, and added, “Whatsoever!” 

Tor stood there, mouth open like some idiot. 

The girl turned back to the woman. “I will destroy you,” she snarled. 

The woman looked her up and down, and laughed heartily, only there was nothing funny about the situation. “You catch me first,” she taunted. The girl looked like she wanted to attack the woman, but something stopped her. The woman touched a finger to her sunglasses and the girl looked terrified, an expression Tor believed she didn’t show much. 

The girl stood there, and the woman took that opportunity to run. How she did it so fast, with heels, was anyone’s guess. That left Tor and the girl to stand awkwardly next to each other. 

“What now?” Tor asked. The girl opened her mouth to respond. But then Tor shook his head, “Actually, I don’t want to know. I’m going home.”

The girl scowled at him, and it was enough to stop Tor in her tracks. “I just saved your life, mortal.” 

“Mortal?” Tor echoed the word. “As in, like, human?”

“Argh!” The girl tossed her hands in the air.

“Um, I really have to leave…” Tor began.

The girl clenched her fists. “Do. Not.” 

“Why?” Tor demanded, suddenly angry. “I’m just trying to go back home! You and that lady can go fight each other to the death someplace else!” 

The girl met his gaze. Tor gulped. He had never seen a stranger who was this intense. Or one this hot.

“Uh huh…” he stammered.  She was looking him up and down, analyzing him, as though she was reading his mind. 

“You need to come with me,” she said slowly. Her thin brows furrowed together, and she looked puzzled. “I can’t explain yet, but… you must come with me. It is very important.” 

Tor knew it was messed up to trust a stranger. He looked at her, confused, scared, worried. But most of all, he was curious. There was something happening, something big. And he wanted to know what it was. 

“Fine,” he said. “But if you try to kidnap me, my stepdad will crush you.”

Connection of the Worlds: Second Edition (Prologue Preview)

Prologue

Chaos

It has many meanings, many forms. And once, it was the only form; it was the beginning.

Chaos was everything and nothing. And though its name took on many meanings over the millenia, it was acknowledged in every great culture, every civilization, empire, religion to ever exist: Mesopotamia. Egypt. China. Greece. Rome. Gaul. Norway. Japan. The Americas. Some called it a gap, a void. Others, some mist that swirled and tossed. Still, others - a river, mud, clay. 

But whatever culture, whatever great mythological pantheon, whatever era, one thing was certain. From Chaos, rose something awe-some, a force of greatness, Power. And from that Power, rose the gods.

It may seem that all was wonderful after this creation, that there was peace, nature, water, light, earth, sky, all god-born. But alas, it could not stay a paradise forever; that is certain too. 

Famine, disease, war, darkness… all created alongside the good. This was evil, in its purist form. And it came from the gods, from the demonic, monstrous beings created as mischievous counterparts for the leaders of the world, overlords of the human race. 

Humans, our kind, were nearly wiped out. We were tested, put on trial, barely able to survive.     

And so it happened that the gods of peace took pity, and formed an alliance. They banished the evil gods, took away their objects of Power. The evil gods, misunderstood, untrusted, were not seen for thousands of years, and the alliance flourished. Ambassadors from every religion traveled from one heaven to another, to keep peace and help the mythological creatures survive, long after their cultures had been gone, wiped out, abandoned by their human worshipers. 

All was well. Until recently. A Power could be felt, like a tremor, an earthquake that shook every pantheon, every creature good and bad. 

Something evil was coming… and the gods realized their worst fears had been confirmed. This was something they could not face alone. They needed the help of humans. 

They needed the help of Children of Myth. And if they failed to find the right heroes… all would be lost for good.

Ezmerelda the Troll

Ezmerelda the Troll 

A Short Story by Helena K. Hollander

From the cold of the rain and wind, a troll made her way through a creaky wooden door, and into the lovely warmth of an old house on the outskirts of a small town. The troll was wearing a―rather horrid, but considered fashionable for troll-kind―bright yellow raincoat, which clashed―horribly―with the creature’s green skin. She also had a matching―and just as ugly― rubber umbrella and boots, which squished with mud, as she sat down in the cozy armchair, which was worn and patched in many places, but a comfortable chair, nonetheless. 

Ezmerelda smiled as the fireplace roared to life when she pushed a small yellow button on the wooden table she now rested her large green feet on. She decided to read the newspaper, which lay in a crumpled mess on the wooden table, along with a dozen everyday objects: trollish coins, metal tankards, utensils, even an entire roasted pheasant, which sat on a plate made of the same wood the table was of, and smelled delicious, recently cooked.

It is fair to say that Ezmerelda the troll lived well. Her home was old yet charming, with rectangular  windows which blocked incoming light and rain with huge, battered shutters. There were quaint, small curtains on the windows as well, which were in excellent condition, save for a few holes from where moths had taken a liking to the flowy white fabric. There was a small kitchen in one corner of the house where pots and pans hung from wooden hooks on the low ceiling, and there was also a rusty oven which, despite its ancient appearance, cooked things wonderfully. It had, in fact, cooked the pheasant which Ezmerelda had begun to tear her large and rather crooked teeth into. As a human, you might assume it rude of Ezmerelda to begin to eat at that moment. She was expecting company, after all. But trolls have a different manners, you see, and it was considered quite impolite to not eat before company―why, you wouldn’t want your stomach to rumble whilst speaking to your guests, now, would you? Ezmerelda thought so. 

After enjoying the entire roasted bird, while lounging in her patched yellow and blue chair by the merrily-crackling fire, newspaper in one large green hand, Ezmerelda heard a series of knocks at her wooden door. Rat tat tat. She lumbered over to it, and before opening the door, adjusted her yellow raincoat’s collar. She still did not know exactly why her boss wished to speak to her at this very time; it was late, after all, and unpleasant outside. The meeting had been called most suddenly, hardly any time to prepare. But Ezmerelda opened the door anyway, and greeted the two other trolls standing in the rain and muck. 

“Thank you very much, Miss Florence, thank you very much.” Her boss was a very old troll with wrinkled skin almost yellow from age, brass spectacles which were falling apart (an entire temple was missing), and an ear-trumpet which he carried everywhere. He was somewhat hard of hearing, but enjoyed a good joke and a laugh, and was a gentleman, without a doubt. His name was Bruno McHopkins, and he was in charge of the weather factory which Ezmerelda worked at.

The second troll bobbed his head up and down, “Oh, yes, thanks, Ezmerelda―er, Miss Florence.” He corrected his mistake quickly. Martin Maximilius was supposed to call all trolls from the factory by their surnames, but he often misremembered little details like that. For being the secretary to the boss of the factory, he wasn’t so put together as you might expect. He was also quite short and spoke in a high-pitched voice. He never liked to dawdle; therefore his actions were often rushed. 

The secretary  hurried into the house, tripping over Ezmerelda’s large hatstand, and scrambling to right it. The boss followed Martin inside, and hung his own bowler on the stand. He smiled pleasantly at the crackling fireplace, and took a seat in the armchair opposite Ezmerelda’s. His secretary was left to sit on an old stool, which threatened to break under his potbelly. 

Ezmerelda bustled into the kitchen and prepared a kettle of hot water for tea. She reached into her cupboard, and brought out a metal container which held loose, black tea leaves. She prepared a few giant mugs for herself and the other two trolls, and set them on her nicest wooden tray. The water would take a while to boil, so Ezmerelda went back to her old armchair, and sat down. 

“Ah-ha, I see you are boiling water? How kind, how very kind,” said her boss, smiling. He raised his ear-trumpet to hear Ezmerelda’s reply: “It’s no trouble at all, Sir,” she said in a louder voice than usual.

“Er, it’s alright if I smoke a little?” asked Martin Maximilius, nervously pulling out a thin, silver pipe. 

“Yes,” Ezmerelda sighed. She did not like the smell of smoke, but,  after all, the other trolls had arrived on a very short notice―Mr. McHopkins had only asked to come over at Ezmerelda’s lunch break at her job―so Ezmerelda didn’t wish to offend them. 

“Thanks. Uh, I’ll try to keep the smoke over here...” And with that, Martin Maximilus began to puff on the silver pipe, and the smoke that was produced from it began to cloud Ezmerelda’s small, quaint home. 

“First of all, Miss Florence,” began her boss, “Thank you for agreeing to meet at short notice, thank you very much.” He was still smiling, but something was off about his expression. Ezmerelda was concerned. What was wrong? Had it something to do with her?

“What can I do to help, Sir?” she asked formerly. She kept her voice monotone as usual, but she couldn’t help her expression: she had scrunched her bushy eyebrows up, so that they almost leapt off her forehead, and her face was turning a paler, sick green.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear, dear,” sighed Mr. McHopkins, clearly upset, his smile fading completely. Even his large and furry ears seemed to fall a little. He turned to Martin, who had been distracted by his pipe, but looked up at once: “Uh, yes. Very important matters, you see. Uh, can’t it wait, though, boss?” He glanced hopefully at Mr. McHopkin, who had closed his eyes, and had begun to snore softly. The merry crackle of the fire and the warmth of the house had put him right to sleep. 

“Uh, boss?” asked the secretary, a bit louder. “Mr. McHopkins?” 

“Sir?” put in Ezmerelda, in a very loud―quite startling, in fact―voice. She wanted to know what was going on. 

“What now, what now?” Mr. McHopkins looked around wildly, before seeming to realize he had fallen asleep.  “Oh, yes, yes. Sorry to trouble you both like that.” 

“Not at all, Sir,” said Ezmerelda, quickly, “but what was it you were going to say to me?”

Mr. McHopkins looked absolutely distressed. He glanced  to Martin for support, but the secretary was looking at the silver pipe, his face turning a darker green. Martin Maximilus was embarrassed not to be helping out his boss, but he knew that only Mr. McHopkins could deliver the tragic news to Miss Florence. 

Ezmerelda, meanwhile, was staring from one troll to the other, hoping to be filled in. Finally,  reluctantly, Mr. McHopkins spoke.

“Ezmerelda Carmelita Florence,” began the boss in a grave voice, “You are henceforth placed on probation.”

It took Ezmerelda a moment to comprehend what had just been said. She stared at her boss, uncertain.

“P-probation, Sir?” she squeaked, in a small voice very unlike her own, which was monotone and loud. What could she possibly have done? She had always been dedicated to her work at the weather factory; she worked in the snow department, and was often complimented on her artistic skills and patience for the art of creating individual snowflakes. She had, at the very least, expected the boss to give her a promotion. 

“Probation, Miss Florence, probation,” repeated the boss, sadly staring a loose wooden floorboard. Anything to take his eyes off the troll he had no doubt disappointed. It was the least he could do to say “I’m very sorry, terribly sorry.” 

“But… but how could this be?” Ezmerelda slumped further into her chair, and placed her head in her large green hands. It would be considered rude for her to cry in front of her boss, so she hid her tears behind her hands and raincoat collar.    

Before the boss could answer, the tea kettle went off, shrieking and spewing steam into the kitchen. Ezmerelda jumped at the opportunity to get away from her boss and his secretary. She bustled through the kitchen, pouring the tea into the mugs with shaking hands and spilling a decent amount. She grasped a clean towel and wiped up her mess, still in shock. Ezmerelda went to her cupboard and brought out the chocolate cookies she had baked earlier. She brought over the tray of tea and sweets, not daring to make eye contact with either of the other two trolls. She resumed covering her face with her hands, and watched, through her stuby, green fingers, as the boss sipped his tea, and the secretary munched a cooky. 

“Cheer up, Ezmerelda!” said Martin Maximilus, grinning through his crumb-covered lips. “If you aren’t the most resourceful troll I know…” He promptly forgot the rest of his sentence, and decided to fill his mouth again, as to avoid confrontation. 

“S-Sir?” inquired Ezmerelda, lowering her hands, and looking hesitantly at old Mr. McHopkins. 

“What is it, Ezmerelda, what is it?” Mr. McHopkins looked puzzled. 

Perhaps, at this point, you are wondering why both the boss and his secretary were acting so casual about placing poor Ezmerelda on probation. You see, troll-kind is notorious for being exiled for even the smallest of things. Ezmerelda’s own parents were sent to the murky swamps of the mainland―the very home of you and I―for simply forgetting to send a notice to their boss, Mr. Hopkins’ father, when they stayed home from work, sick with a trollish flu. 

Ezmerelda was terrified of being exiled from her home and her job, and the entire paradise of trolls, for that matter. She would do anything to stay. Probation would not get the best of her, she promised herself, though not quite believing it. 

The next day, after a long night of restless sleep, Ezmerelda got out of bed, and quickly got dressed, into the same yellow coat. She gobbled her breakfast as fast as she could. She then made her way to the front door, where she hurried outside. 

There was still mud from the rain the previous night, but today it was sunny and warm, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. Ezmerelda wondered if she ought to leave her raincoat behind, but thought the better of it; she worked at a weather factory, after all. Any troll who is educated knows that there is a good chance of it raining at the factory, just as much there is a good chance it would be sunny. 

The troll left the house, eager to get to work on time. Oh, imagine if she was late! She would be exiled to the marshes of the dreadful, human world. 

She reached the weather factory in no time, for she lived right next to it. Even after working here for nearly fifteen years, Ezmerelda could not help but marvel at the workplace. 

The factory was shaped like a castle, and made from puffy, cumulonimbus clouds. The task of taking clouds from the sky and turning them into building material was something only trolls could master, and even then, only a few trolls were skilled at it. The process was lengthy and time-consuming, but yielded excellent results. The weather factory had been constructed from the best clouds in the entire globe. In addition the the fairy-tale appearance on the outside, the building’s interior was quite majestic. Ezmerelda walked through two giant gold gates, which were excellent conductors of lightning. When she was inside, she took a minute―she did so everyday, for she felt it was only right―to admire the huge skylights shining sunlight through the circular roofs, and the twenty-story tall walls. The building was the nicest factory in the troll lands. Every machine was made from gold, like the doors, and spotless due to a shimmery varnish. There were signs which clearly marked exits (there were twelve) and departments (over two dozen of these). 

Ezmerelda wasn’t the only troll inside, though she was early as usual. She saw hundreds of other workers in similar attire―rubber boots, raincoats, and such, as well as hairnets and floppy bucket hats, made from real recycled buckets. Each troll went to their area of specialties, which in Ezmerelda’s case was the snow department. 

She followed the signs to her section of the factory, which was chillier than the rest. All around her, Ezmerelda saw trolls doing their various snow jobs. There were trolls who specialized in creating formulas for the softest snow, the crunchiest, the hardest, the best for snowballs, and so on. These trolls had a laboratory that had huge glass window panes, and a sign on the vault-like door which read: Authorized Trolls Only. Ezmerelda peeked through one of the windows as she passed, and saw that a group of six or so trolls in white labcoats were huddled over a shiny metal table, on which was a collection of papers with notes and formulas scrawled about them in messy handwriting. 

Ezmerelda continued on, passing by the ice-making section, where a troll with mad hair like a crazy scientist’s was scrambling to round up a few escaped penguins, whilst another troll splashed a bucket of hot water on the floor to melt the ice that had appeared there. 

Ezmerelda stopped by her favorite place in the factory, the coffee shop. It was located in the snow department, because what better place to have hot chocolate and scones, than in the middle of a troll-made winter wonderland?

She purchased a mocha from the shop, along with a paper bag filled to the top with chocolate drizzled biscotti. As she took a sip and a bite, she smiled as the warmth filled her body, and the delicious smells of chocolate and coffee filled her large, green nose. 

After taking a moment to buy and taste the coffee and biscotti, Ezmerelda walked on at her brisk pace. She hurried over to her section of the department, the snowflake manufacturing section. The place was filled with trolls tinkering away at small wooden desks that were separated by bookshelves, which were filled with books on different designs and design techniques. 

Ezmerelda went over to her desk, which was in the back of the space, right next to the buckets and crates filled with ice and shovels. Ezmerelda set down her coffee and treats on her desk. The desk itself was plain, grainy wood. But on the wall behind it, Ezmerelda had pinned up her favorite blueprints of snowflakes she had created in the past. In addition to the many designs, the troll had also put up a few personal things: pictures of when she was a young troll, and her parents were with her; an award for best trollish designer of the year; a recipe for her chocolate chip cookies (it was always in high demand by the other trolls in the ice department). At the edge of the desk, Ezmerelda had a cylindrical container for her many pens, pencils, and erasers. She also had a small crate for her magnifying glass, goggles, and other tools for snowflake manufacturing. 

The job of the trolls in Ezmerelda’s wing of the ice department wasn’t to single-handedly design all the snowflakes in the world. No, it was to produce the best designs of snowflakes, which would then be replicated by the machines in the factory. The machines made snowflakes by the thousand, so naturally some of the flakes got messed up, hence why all snowflakes in our world, the human world, are unique. 

“Florence, Ezmerelda!” A voice shouted. Ezmerelda looked up to see the leader of her section, a female troll named Francine Milan, who had a nose that turned up in a piggish sort of way. 

“Yes, Ma’am?” Ezmerelda asked. She had been about to get to work. 

“I’m taking role, Florence!” snapped Milan. She had a brutal voice, as if her vocal cords were made from military whistles. Perhaps they were, Ezmerelda mused. Milan had been in a horrible world-war a long time ago, when Ezmerelda was in her late teens. The war had been between the humans, down on the mainlands, but many trolls had been sent down to help with the war effort, either as mechanics, fighters, or even first-aid. 

“Florence!” Milan shouted, “Is there a troll or not, in there?” She wrapped her hard knuckles on the side of Ezmerelda’s head. 

“Yes, Ma’am!” Ezmerelda said at once, “I was about to start working, Ma’am.”

“Good.” Milan scratch a few neat notes on her large clipboard. She left, but not before snatching a few of Ezmerelda’s biscottis. 

Ezmerelda sighed, and tied her hair in a bun, with a spare rubber band she found in her toolbox. Then, she went over to the crates of ice, and scooped some into a bowl. She brought the ice back to her table, and set to work. 

Creating beautiful snowflakes was no easy feat. First, Ezmerelda had to get her goggles (they looked like the kind a pilot might wear) and rubber gloves (also a hideous yellow color) on. Then, she had to get the right tools. Today she decided to use a small scalpel and the tiniest pliers. She had to do all of this before the ice melted. Luckily the ice department had freezers to store the snowflakes, but while they were being made, they were exposed to the warmth of the chugging machines, and the trolls’ breath. 

Ezmerelda took out a pen and paper and sketched a design she had thought of a few days ago, but hadn’t the chance to try it out. She took a minute to record the details in her head―she had a photographic memory―and then started to tinker. 

She used a magnifying glass to see the details of the snowflake up close, and adjusted the flake, as necessary, with her pliers and scalpel. 

When Milan called for the lunch break, Ezmerelda set her work in the freezer. She had made one of the best designs of her life; better, even, then the one that had gotten her the annual award for best designer. 

Ezmerelda went into town, where there were a dozen restaurants to choose from. She met a few of her co-workers at the dinner/deli, where there were large red booths and wide white tables. Ezmerelda loved this place. The floor was checkered black and white, the floors were painted a baby blue, and there was a large bar where other trolls prepared chocolate and vanilla milkshakes. Ezmerelda noticed there was a new jukebox in the corner of the dinner. Excellent, the troll thought. Now, with just a few cents, she could play her all time favorites: Jimmy Boyd, Patti Page, and Elvis Presley, of course. 

“Hey, Ezmerelda!” Her friend Linda Daniels waved her over to a table, where the troll sat with a few others from the ice department. Linda supervised the machines that replicated the snowflakes. 

“What can I getcha?” A waitress came over on rollerskates (rollerskates were just another reason why Ezmerelda liked this dinner). The troll had bright red hair and pale green skin, and was wearing a frilly blue dress―which was almost as ugly as Ezmerelda’s raincoat―with two white front pockets. 

“I’ll have the lobster roll,” Ezmerelda said, “and a chocolate milkshake.”

As the waitress skated away, Ezmerelda realized her friends must have ordered before her. This made sense; they had been there a few minutes. And as I mentioned before, trolls have a different perception of what are good and bad manners. 

“We’re having a bash at my house, six ‘o clock, tomorrow night.” Linda looked hopefully at Ezmerelda, “You coming?”

“It’s gonna be a blast!” another troll, chimed in. His name was Keith Brewer, and he loved swing dancing. Ezmerelda knew this because she had once gone on a date with him, back when they were in their twenties. He looked at Ezmerelda hopefully, which nagged at the troll’s heart a bit. Keith was still as charming as ever, and Ezmerelda regretted having broken up with him. If she went to the party, perhaps they might be able to start a new relationship…

“I don’t know, Linda,” Ezmerelda murmured. She was on probation, after all. There was no telling who else from work might go to the party. What if the boss was there? What would he say?

“Come on, doll!” Keith said, half-laughing. “You can’t be so paranoid about this whole probation thing.” Ezmerelda frowned. Did every troll know about that?

“I suppose I’ll come,” Ezmerelda said hesitantly. Tomorrow was a work day, and so was the day after that. But the troll would regret it if she didn’t go. 

“Great!” Linda clasped her hands over Ezmeralda's. “I can’t wait!”

When the night of the party came, Ezmerelda was on edge. She had managed to design some lovely snowflakes. The boss and Martin had come to inspect the ice department, and had noted Ezmerelda’s work. They had even said her probation might be lifted, if she managed to stay on schedule and design one more amazing snowflake by the next afternoon. 

Part of Ezmerelda wanted to stay home and work on the design. A party was the last thing she needed. But she had promised Keith and Linda she would be there. 

Linda and her husband Jack lived in a two-story home, just a few blocks away from Ezmerelda’s house and the weather factory. Tonight, the white bannisters on the front porch were decorated with large gold banners. There was a tidy pine wreath on the front door, and below that, a doorknocker shaped like a human head, which Ezmerelda found amusing. (I remind you that in our world, the human world, doorknockers are often shaped like lions, gargoyles, and most importantly, trolls.)

It hardly seemed Ezmerelda had touched the door, when Linda opened it. She was wearing a chic, fashionable―Ezmerelda’s words, not mine―polka dotted, black and white dress. The bottom of the dress opened like a reverse rose, and had a black, tule hem at the bottom. Linda was wearing silver earrings with little diamonds on them, and a matching necklace. 

“Ezmerelda, you came!” she said cheerily. Before the other troll could respond, Linda pulled her into the house and went on, “I didn’t think you’d make it!” She winked, “Because of your probation.”

“Linda,” Ezmerelda said quickly, “Can we discuss that another time?” Ezmerelda noticed Keith was nearby, with his crewcut and smart trousers and button-up sweater-vest. She didn’t want him―or any of the other trolls at the party―to know she was slacking.

Linda didn’t seem to hear, but it was just as well. She had already moved on to another topic. This was her way of speaking: if she tired of one subject, she would switch rapidly to the next. 

“Oh, Ezmerelda, you should see the jello mould!” She dragged the other troll over to the kitchen, where Jack, her husband, was grabbing a bottle of scotch from the clean, white countertop. 

“See you later, gater!” Jack smiled, and kissed his wife on the cheek, then left.

Linda kept talking while she opened the wide, orange fridge, and rummaged around for the jello mould. A few other guests came in and out of the kitchen, but it seemed most of them were socializing in the living room. 

“You can join them, if you’d like, Ezmerelda,” Linda called over her shoulder, “but Jack’s still deciding what to play.” She meant music. The Daniels’ had a gramophone, an old music-playing device that had been popular with humans about thirty years ago. Record players were more widely used, now, but the Daniels’ apparently liked the old music device’s unique trumpet and brass platform.

“It’s alright, Linda.” Ezmerelda was anxious to get out of the kitchen. She didn’t want to stay there; Linda could get distracted from her cooking quite easily, and Ezmerelda did not want the appetizers to be ruined. She was quite hungry. 

“Oh, but-” Linda glanced up and grabbed Ezmerelda’s pudgy hands, “-just one look at the jello!” She showed Ezmerelda the circular green mould, which contained many types of fruit: oranges, pineapple, blueberries, strawberries. It looked tasty, thought Ezmerelda. 

“That looks nice, Linda,” the troll said, smiling. “I can’t wait to taste it.”

Linda smiled back, “Oh, you’re a doll. Now, go help my poor husband decide on a song! He’ll be there all day if you don’t assist him.”

An hour later, Ezmerelda found herself dancing with Keith. She didn’t know how it had happened. She had put on a brand-new Kay Starr record, which had started out peppier, but now there was a slower song playing: Rock and Roll Waltz.

“I haven’t danced with you in forever,” Keith said, as Ezmerelda twirled around him, like the world’s only trollish ballerina. 

“Well, thank you for dancing with me tonight,” Ezmerelda responded, batting her long eyelashes at him. They danced some more to faster songs, doing the jitterbug and the twist, and having a wonderful time.

Eventually, they tired of dancing, and went over to the appetizer table, where Linda was setting out crab louis and an assortment of crackers and dips. 

“Hey, doll!” Keith motioned to the crab, “Try this, it’s real neat!” He handed Ezmerelda a martini glass with the crab salad in it, dressed with vinegar and―Ezmerelda’s favorite―lemon juice. (Trolls might have a horrid fashion sense, but their taste in food is divine.)

“Mmm.” Ezmerelda licked her gnarly, yellowed chops. 

After the trolls ate the appetizers, they moved to another part of the lounge, where there were several large, maeve couches, above which portraits of ancient trolls hung on the wall, which was covered in a stripped yellow and white wallpaper. 

“Ezmerelda,” Keith began seriously, “I know it’s sudden and all, but-” Before he could finish, there was a shout from the kitchen. All the trolls in the vicinity stopped their dancing, laughing, eating, and talking. 

“Florence!” Ezmerelda winced at the cruel voice, recognizable from a mile away. It was Francine Milan. She had somehow figured out that Ezmerelda was here, at the Daniels’ party, rather than working hard on her project. 

The angry troll burst through the kitchen door, with poor Linda scampering after her like a terrified mouse.  

“Florence!” Milan snapped again. She marched straight towards where Ezmerelda was sitting, and pressed her face right up against the other troll’s.

“Ma’am?” Ezmerelda scooted back. Keith looked worried, and opened his mouth as though to ask what Milan was here for, but he seemed to lose his voice when Milan gave him a terrible stare. 

“Florence, might I remind you,” Milan stepped back, and crossed her burly arms, “that you are in danger of exile?” The other trolls in the room gasped, and Ezmerelda squeezed her eyes shut, hoping this might be a dream. Every troll had heard about being exiled, and many trolls were aware that Ezmerelda’s parents had been banished to the marshes of the human world. Keith stared at Ezmerelda, uncomprehending. Of course, he had known about Ezmerelda’s probation, (unbeknownst to Ezmerelda, Keith had never really gotten over their breakup, and had made it his business to find out as many things as possible about Ezmerelda, who he still adored) but he hadn’t imagined it had been this serious. Had he done something wrong by persuading the troll to come to the party?

While Keith was feeling upset for Ezmerelda and himself, Ezmerelda stood up and tried to leave the room. Milan grabbed Ezmerelda’s wrist. No way was she, Milan, letting this troll get away. For it had been she, Milan, who had told Martin and the boss to place Ezmerelda on probation. Despite the fact that Milan was higher in rank than Ezmerelda, Milan had always envied the troll’s skillful snowflake designing. 

“Ma’am,” Ezmerelda began, worried. She didn’t know what to say. What excuse did she have? She hadn’t finished―started, even―the design that would keep her from being driven out of her home. 

“Well? I don’t have all day, Florence!” Milan bellowed. Sometimes Ezmerelda wondered if Milan’s hearing had been destroyed from warfare. That would explain why she always shouted. 

“Hey, now,” Keith stepped in, placing a hand on Ezmerelda’s shoulder, which would have made the troll blush, if not for the fear of being exiled at this very moment. Keith glared at Milan, “Ezmerelda’s the hardest working troll I know. This doll’s the best at design in the whole ice department, and you know it.” Linda bobbed her head, and rushed to Ezmerelda’s other side. 

“Oh, yes!” she chimed in, “Ezmerelda’s kind and sweet, and would have been home working, but I convinced her to come here!” Milan scowled. She glared between Linda and Ezmerelda.

“So, even you admit she hasn’t worked, Daniels?” Milan raised a furry brown eyebrow. Her eyes were so cold, she could have frozen the entire sunshine department. 

“Oh, well,” Linda looked around for help, and looked sideways at Ezmerelda, “Uh, no! She’s done a lot of work. Right, Ezmerelda?” Her eyes were huge with anxiety. She hadn’t meant to put Ezmerelda on the spot, and the other troll could tell Linda was very apologetic. 

“I-” Ezmerelda began to speak, but Milan stopped her. 

“Florence, you’ve got guts for being here. Luckily I found you out, thanks to him!” She gestured to Jack, who was hovering in the kitchen doorway. Linda widened her eyes, and took a step back. 

“Oh dear, Jack!” She put a hand over her head as though she was about to faint. Jack looked uncomfortable.

“Lindsey,” he began, but Linda brushed past him and slammed the kitchen door. Jack gave Ezmerelda an apologetic look, and then rushed out of the room. 

“What did you say to convince him to betray Ezmerelda?” Keith demanded. Normally, he was levelheaded and calm, but tonight he was furious that Milan had put Ezmerelda in this awful situation.

“Keith, please, don’t.” Ezmerelda looked at him sadly. She did appreciate his words, and his confidence in her, but she didn’t want him to get in trouble, too. 

“I’m calling the boss, Florence, unless you got something else to say,” Milan said brutally. She scowled at Ezmerelda, then slunk to the corner of the room where a beige, rotary telephone was placed on a circular coffee table, next to a large potted plant. Ezmerelda could only watch as Milan moved the dial, then spoke with the operator. 

“Put me on with Bruno McHopkins, at once!” Milan snapped. She waited impatiently. After a minute, her shoulders relaxed, “Martin. Good evening.” She paused, listening to the response, then said “Yes, I need to speak with Mr. McHopkins, right now.” Another pause, “Yes, we’re at the Daniels’ house.” Ezmerelda watched with interest as Milan’s expression grew darker, then outraged.

“What?” the troll demanded, then regained herself, “I mean, yes, Martin. Yes, I’m sure Linda won’t mind-” She stopped abruptly, and slammed the phone down. Martin must have hung up on her.

“Ma’am?” Ezmerelda asked uncertainly. Keith still had his hand on Ezmerelda’s shoulder, but he also looked at Milan. 

“What is going on?” he demanded. Milan smiled, but her skin had turned an ickier shade of green. Disgust, Ezmerelda realized. 

“Florence,” Milan growled, her voice like a rabid dog’s snarl, “The boss is coming here.” Then she smiled, which was far more horrible than any of her scowls. “If you don’t show him your design,” her mouth threatened to stretch to its breaking point, “you’ll be banished.”

About five minutes passed. Ezmerelda and Keith sat on the luxurious couch, talking in hushed tones. 

“They can’t do this!” Keith was saying, “We should cut out now, just me and you, Ezmerelda.” 

“We can’t leave, Keith,” Ezmerelda told him, although she half-liked the idea. “They’ll find out, and we’ll be exiled.”

“Ezmerelda,” Keith protested. But the troll shook her head sadly.

“I have to face this punishment.” She sighed, “I must have done something wrong. I wasn’t a good enough designer, or…” She trailed off. Even she couldn’t think of a reason for her dismissal. 

“You’re the ginchiest troll I know!” Keith protested, “The best! You’ve got to come up with something. You can’t leave, doll!” He often peppered his phrases with slang when he was around Ezmerelda. It was a habit from all their years of banter. 

Ezmerelda stared around the room. The other trolls were muttering to each other. They had formed little groups, and were speaking in low tones, occasionally pointing to Ezmerelda and scowling.

Jack and Linda were having a shouting match from the other room, which Ezmerelda did not want to hear, though she did catch some unkind words and phrases that would make any mother troll want to wash out the couple’s mouths with soap. 

Milan paced around the room, muttering to herself. She caught sight of Ezmerelda, and snapped, “What are you looking at, Florence?” 

“Nothing, Ma’am,” Ezmerelda replied quickly. The last thing she wanted was to make her situation worse. Milan sighed.

“If this were up to me,” she glared at Ezmerelda, “I would have booted you out of the factory as soon as I found out you were here.” The way she said ‘here’ made Ezmerelda suspect Milan thought the Daniels’ house was the last place in the troll lands anyone would want to go. 

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, which caused everyone in the room to jump. The shouting in the kitchen stopped―much to everyone’s pleasure, for it had caused many an ear to threaten to bleed from the noise―and Linda rushed to the door, and opened it. 

“Oh!” The trolls in the living room could hear her gasp of surprise, as she saw who was standing before her. “Mr. McHopkins, I… I didn’t know you would be here.” She sounded flustered, “Do come in, I have tea… I think…” She bustled away to get the tea. 

“Miss Florence!” Martin Maximilius rushed to shake Ezmerelda’s hand, firmly, and in doing so, he tripped over his own feet, sending his pipe flying into the cushions of a nearby chair. Martin scurried away to retrieve the pipe, leaving old Mr. McHopkins to smile sadly at Ezmerelda.

“Sir,” Ezmerelda began, but the old troll held up his wrinkly green hand to silence her. 

“Martin?” he called, his voice wheezy, like he was breathing through a bag full of sand, “The papers, if you will. Thank you, thank you very much.” He was carrying a tote, from which he took his ear-trumpet and an elegant black pen.

“Sign here, sign here, dear troll.” He held up the pen, and Martin brought a huge stack of fliers with tiny print, that Ezmerelda had to squint to see. There was room for her signature at the very bottom of the top paper. 

“What is this, Sir?” Ezmerelda asked, her voice trembling. 

“Any troll who is about to be exiled must―and I mean must―sign here.” Mr. McHopkins wheezed again, but rambled on slowly, “It is important, most important.” He stared off into space.

“Wake up, boss!” Milan barked, causing the poor old troll to jump. 

“What is it, what is it?” he asked, flabbergasted. 

“Why is it important, Sir?” Ezmerelda asked him, her hands shaking. 

“Oh, right, right.” The boss continued grimly, “I’m afraid it is a contract that states: any troll who is exiled must never return, regardless of the conditions. Regardless of any conditions, I am afraid.” Ezmerelda stared at the stack of papers.

“Is that all it says?” she asked.

“Printed in the longest way, the very longest way. Papers tend to be long, you see, when they are official,” Mr. McHopkins explained. 

“You heard, Florence?” snapped Milan, “Sign it!” Ezmerelda looked from Milan to the boss to Martin. 

“But I have to show you my design first, don’t I?” Her words had the desired affect. Milan trembled with anger, but Martin looked amazed.

“Told you, Boss!” He puffed on his pipe excitedly, “Ezmerelda―I mean Miss Florence―always has a design!” Mr. McHopkins looked surprised, but pleased. 

“Oh, well, alright, alright.” He lowered the pen and papers, and waited. 

Ezmerelda had never felt so uncomfortable. All the eyes of the trolls were upon her. Jack had opened the door to the kitchen, and was staring out of it with interest, though he stood awkwardly, as though worried he wouldn’t be allowed to watch as Ezmerelda drew her design. The other trolls and Keith took up the couches. Francine Milan paced up and down the lounge, scowling and occasionally giving Ezmerelda a heated look. Martin Maximilius and Mr. McHopkins waited right next to Ezmerelda, watching her. 

As for the troll herself, Ezmerelda had taken the stack of papers (it was the only available paper in the living room), and was using the pen to sketch out her hastily made-up idea. 

She started with the basic shape, like a flower-petal, but wider, bigger. She had to restart once, for the pen had splattered ink all over the paper and couch. But she went on. Though she was terrified of exile, her hands knew what to do. She had always been an artist, and there was never a better time to put her designing skills to use. 

When she had finally finished (a good half-an-hour later), she held up the design. Milan gaped, stunned. Keith gleefully pumped a hairy fist into the air. Jack called to Linda, who came into the room, holding a tray full of hot tea and her jello mould. Her eyes lit up at once, and the same expression seemed to radiate from all the other trollish guests in the room, including Martin Maximilius and Mr. McHopkins. 

“It’s neato!” cried Martin, so awestruck he dropped his pipe again. 

“It’s spectacular, Miss Florence, quite spectacular!” clapped Mr. McHopkins, whose eyes brimmed with tears of joy. “What do you call this design? What do you call it?” The room went silent with anticipation. Ezmerelda smiled. 

“I call it a gramophone,” she said without hesitation. “Do you see how the snowflake’s sides are similar to the trumpet? And the design in the middle is very much like the design on the instrument.” 

“It’s brilliant!” yelled Keith, tackling Ezmerelda with a bear-hug, or troll-hug, for that matter. It was all Ezmerelda could do to keep from blushing. 

“No!” Milan stamped her huge feet in frustration. “No, no, no!” She stormed up to the boss, and got in his face, “You can’t think this is a good design! You have to exile Ezmerelda, now!” If she thought she could intimidate the boss, she was wrong. Mr. McHopkins fixed her with a glare, that made Milan take a huge step back.

“Miss Francine Milan,” the old troll began, his voice clear, for once, “You have no authority―no authority at all―to tell me what to do! Did you read subsection C, paragraph twelve, in the weather factory manual? Did you read it?” Milan’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth and closed it, as though she had forgotten how to speak. Martin Maximilius beamed, and dropped his pipe again. 

“Boss, I know what that section says!” He raised his hand. Mr. McHopkins smiled, “Go ahead, go ahead, Martin.”

Martin cleared his throat, “Subsection C, paragraph twelve, states that any troll who questions the authority of the boss of the factory-” he winked at Milan, who had gone a pale green, “-will be exiled immediately, to the swamps of the human lands.”

There was silence in the room for a moment. Ezmerelda almost pitied Milan. The troll was staring at Martin, not comprehending his words. 

“But…” Her eyes seemed to bug out of her head. She stared around the room, and found Ezmerelda’s, “She… I… I’ve worked in the factory for so long!”

“Almost time to retire, eh?” Martin grinned at Milan, and dropped his pipe again, he was so giddy. 

“Retire!” Milan was outraged. “You can’t do this!”

“Oh, they can, doll!” Keith said, and Linda chimed in, “You deserve it, too! You were so cruel to us all, and I’ll bet,” she stared at Milan with the ferocity of a tiger, “I’ll bet you got Ezmerelda on probation!” 

“Begone, Milan!” said the boss, “Empty your home. Pack your things, pack them now! Tomorrow I’ll have papers for you!” 

Without another word, Milan spun on her heel, and stormed out of the room, with a loud slam of the door. 

“Ezmerelda,” began the boss. He smiled kindly, “I believe we are in need of a new manager of the snowflake section.” Ezmerelda stumbled backwards, hardly believing it. 

“You mean it, Sir?” she asked, breathless. This was all she could ever have hoped for!

“You’re promoted, Miss Florence, promoted!” the old troll said happily.

What happened next was chaos. All the trolls let out whoops of glee. Linda dropped her tray on the living room floor, and tea spilled and jello went flying. But no troll cared. Jack and Linda both rushed to congratulate Ezmerelda.

“And I can’t believe I let Milan convince me to sell you out!” Jack kept saying. 

“Oh, shush,” Linda scolded him, “We don’t want to hear that now, do we Ezmerelda?” Ezmerelda didn’t respond. She was distracted by the other events. Martin had dropped his pipe in excitement so many times, it now lay on the ground, abandoned. 

“Always knew you’d be a manager one day, Ezmerelda!” he yelled over the din. 

“Yes, yes, you will be a good one!” agreed Bruno McHopkins, his ear-trumpet in hand. 

“Ezmerelda!” Keith called, grinning. 

“Yes, Keith?” Ezmerelda asked him. Keith looked a bit nervous, but only to Ezmerelda, who had known him for years. Keith took both her hands, and got down on one knee. Ezmerelda almost fainted, for she had dreamt of this moment once before, and now wanted it, more than ever. 

“Will you marry me, doll?” Keith asked her, pulling a yellow ring out of his coat. Ezmerelda was flattered. The color―the ugliest, most hideous color yellow ―matched her raincoat and the dress she was wearing tonight. 

“Yes,” Ezmerelda said, at once. 

And so began a new life for Ezmerelda the troll. The wedding was to take place in six months, outside the weather factory’s golden gates. Ezmerelda had many preparations, which involved meeting Linda at the diner to discuss decorations and bridesmaids dresses and the banquet, and so many other things. But Ezmerelda also had her new position as manager of the snowflake department. 

It would be written down in trollish history, said the snowflake designing trolls, that Ezmerelda was the kindest, humblest manager to ever take up the position. She was helpful, and insightful, and provided others with the best feedback for how to best improve their designs. She even let trolls use her gramophone snowflake as inspiration. (This wasn’t that big a deal, since the snowflake design had been put on banners and tapestries all across the ice department.) 

Ezmerelda was quite happy, happier than she had ever been before. She was quite ready to settle down in her new job with her soon-to-be husband. But she would never forget where she started out: just a humble troll who worked at the local weather factory.