by Alana Greig
She had a peek into the new Wendy house she had built for her piglets; it was made of bricks, and she had given it a wooden roof and filled it with straw to keep them dry and warm. It was the most extravagant sty in all of England.
Squealing ripped her from sleep. At first, she thought it was a nightmare; she had the same one over and over again. It had been months since the last poacher had come to take a look and ended up in the freezer for his trouble. She waited in the dark, her breathing ragged and her heart beating in her ears. If she was to save her new piglets, she needed to calm down. The squealing came again, and she just knew the poachers were back. Leaping from the bed, she pulled on her boots and grabbed her rifle. Enough was enough.
The sky was clear; the moon was a milky disc in the inky blue night. It gave ample light to see by. As Hannah raced around the house and down the path to the sty, she prayed for her pigs; they needed to be okay.
What she saw was beyond her imagination. The boars were still there, and they were protecting her piglets from what looked like an actual wolf! This one was alone, and its blood was up. She knew poachers had sent it in here; there were no wolves in the area. In fact, there were no wild wolves in England at all. As the wind blew gently in her direction, she caught the scent of fresh blood. Hannah kept her rifle up and searched the ground; she soon found the slumped form of a poacher. He had been gored; his entrails were steaming in the cold night. Now she understood. The boars had been waiting. Somehow they had known this was going to happen and had stayed to protect their kin. She needed to help them.
A squeal broke the silence, and Hannah raised her rifle. The wolf had attacked the smaller of the three boars; his yellow teeth had snapped the bones of its back leg. For the first time in her life, Hannah set her sights on an animal. This was not going to happen again. Not on her farm.
She was about to pull the trigger as the beast moved in for the killing blow. The injured boar was helpless. Hannah was ready to fire and end the wolf’s life, then the situation changed. She watched as the wolf was thrown from its feet. The two uninjured boars had charged it. The whimper that the wolf made told her that it was fatally wounded. One of the boars rammed the prone wolf in its under belly again and again. Until the whimpering stopped, and the boar’s face was a bloody mess of flesh and fur.
Then everything went quiet.
Hannah woke in the sty the next morning; she had taken the boar with the broken leg in with her piglets. Its leg was a mess, but she had set it and hoped after a few weeks rest it would be strong enough to return home to the forest. The other two had chosen to remain out in the open. Ever vigilant. Pulling hay from her hair, Hannah looked around her in the early dawn light. Her three little pigs and her boar were a pile of pink and brown in the yellow straw.
“You are the bravest little pigs I have ever known.”
She touched the little boar on the back and felt it stretch a little. “And you are the bravest boar in the whole world.”
The boars never left the farm, but they didn’t stay in the sty. Hannah built them a house of wood just outside the sty fence. They seemed happy enough, and as promised, she had Jerry drag out the old trough, and the pigs and the boars enjoyed fresh poacher and wolf.
Fairy tale Lost
Fairy Tale has fallen into complete chaos. The inhabitants are revolting, and the author has practically relinquished all control. Goldilocks has been incarcerated for murder, and Red Riding Hood is in therapy. The author, a resilient being, has elected to try to regain control over Fairy Tale.
A new character has been created—one that is, by design, perfection. She is beautiful, graceful, and most importantly, has no desire to do anything other than sit and wait to be saved. The author is most pleased with this new creation.
Everything is in place; her prince charming has been created and is waiting to make his big entrance. The evil stepmother is poised to commence malevolent acts. Being slightly on the deranged side only serves to contribute to her wow factor. The contrast between the leading princess and her arch nemesis is sublime.
If only the author had stopped there! The tale would have been told, and the residents within this account might have had a chance at happy ever after. Alas, seven more characters were created—all with dwarfism and various personality disorders. These new residents of Fairy Tale were meant to become helpers to the princess and add a touch of whimsy to the story.
In theory, it sounds wonderful. Unfortunately, this is a land in revolt, and the fevered attempts by the author to rein back the residents and create the “perfectly flawless fairy-tale” is at present, headed for disaster.
Amber Liquid Tears
BASED ON SNOW WHITE AND THE SEVEN DRAWFS
There is nothing worse than being bored. Margarethe was as bored rigid as it was possible for a brand-new character to be. Her role within this land and what was expected of her was crystal clear. She was to look beautiful, sing to the animals, and daydream about her hilltop castle, whilst waiting for her prince to save her from Rebecca, her stepmother.
There was no way this was all she was meant to be. She had heard about the murderess and poor Rebecca, who was now a shadow of her former self. Although their outcomes were tragic, there was a zing of excitement about them. Something deliciously dangerous and, of course, totally prohibited. Marge was not a resident of Fairy Tale proper. She could see the village with its cute thatched houses and market square. She could also see the other castles of her fellow princesses in the distance. Never would she meet them. Ever. She had been written into this tale in a manner prohibiting her from passing through the forest that separated her from the village.
Things got a whole lot more interesting the day she found her stepmother’s booze stash. The days passed in a mellow blur after that. The threats on her life were meaningless. Time was just an endless vacuum to Marge, cushioned by the warm comfort of whisky and rum.
The morning her prince had come, she had overslept. He had waited outside the impenetrable gates and sung of his heartache and longing to find his true love. Rebecca heard him, and though she was not the one he was destined for, seeing her face caused him to fall deeply in love with her.
The queen was the happiest she had ever been. Marge’s father had been fat and old. He’d had no interest in a wife or family. So, Rebecca married the prince intended for Marge.
The three of them lived in the big white castle on top of the hill for more than a year. Then the queen announced she was with child; therefore, Marge could no longer stay in the castle. She was disinherited as a result of the new baby and banished to the woods.
Marge went without complaint—the thought of marriage and babies left her feeling jaded. She cared about her glass and the three fingers of amber liquid residing in it. The upshot of which, assured a mind clouded and a mood that was mellow.
The wood was filled with pathways and sweet glades. Had she been sober, she would have stopped to rest on a pillow of clover or sung to the deer that grazed there. However, Marge was oblivious to the beauty, only becoming aware of her surroundings having vomited spectacularly over them.
After three days of walking in ever larger circles, she came across a ramshackle house of sorts. Figuring the dwellers might have something for her to drink (the last of her stolen stash had run out at breakfast), she headed over to the house and knocked.
No answer.
She knocked harder. The door plunged into the gloom of the downstairs. Completely unfazed by her act of unintentional vandalism, Marge moved into the house and added trespassing to her now increasing g list of petty crimes.
The house was a midden. Everything was covered in a thick sticky layer of grime. The smell that hung in the stagnant air was so pungent that one could almost taste it. Marge was oblivious to this. Her quest was to rifle through cupboards, boxes, larders, and shelves. Anywhere a bottle could be kept. Her torn skirt snagged on the edge of the bottom step of the rickety staircase that led into the gloomy upper level. She yanked to r
elease it, causing the tattered hem to detach in a six-inch section. Clothes were meaningless. She needed alcohol. Her hands were beginning to shake. A dull ache had formed at the back of her skull. She had never gone this long without her liquid companion since the day she found Rebecca’s stash almost two years prior.
The upstairs was devoid of furniture as well as life. There were some broken bits stacked in corners. She tossed them around the room, consumed somewhat with rage and a large degree of desperation. There had to be something in here to drink.
For the first time in her life, Marge was in real pain. Her hands shook. Her head was now full of church bells clanging a constant call. She vomited what little there was in her twisting stomach until she was curled in a ball on the dirty floor wishing for death.
The people that had once resided in the cottage at the edge of the glade had taken to living the lives of the homeless. None of them could get along. The idea of seven of them occupying that tiny house without expecting blood to be shed was foolhardy indeed. Horace, the most stable of the seven, had lamented the loss of his home. He had been so proud of the little house, with its tin roof and thick stone walls. But his companions would not reconsider returning. If they all couldn’t reside there, then none of them would. Baxter was convinced the house was telling him to kill Dexter, and Fred was now mute from trying to eat the timber-clad walls in the snug. His tongue had had to be removed due to turning gangrenous from lacerations and poor oral hygiene. It was a miracle he had survived at all. James was thrilled to be out of there. His claustrophobia was more manageable now that he slept in a tent alone as opposed to in a small warm room with six others. It was a shame about Roger. He had been such a gentle soul. His twin, Grant, consumed by the devil himself had murdered his brother with his own boot laces at the first available opportunity.
That left the only female amongst them—Harriet. She was as anxious as one can be, given her sole purpose was for breeding. The men knew of no other dwarfish women or any other kind, come to that, to perform this particular function. They were too ensnared within the forest. The end results left Harriet as the brood mare to the five remaining men. Every babe she conceived she lost. Nature was not prepared to give life to offspring created by the monsters surrounding her. If truth be told, this delighted Harriet. She hoped that one day, one of the babes would procure her to heaven with them. Her miserable existence was what had turned her to the drink and undoubtedly kept causing the miscarriages. She prayed that Grant remained ignorant to this fact so as not to occasion a beating or worse, her wine being poured away.
It was Harriet that led Marge to their camp. As she had lain in the dirty upstairs room dry heaving and hallucinating, Marge had heard the sound of someone crying and the unmistakable clink of bottles. There was a chance this was all a part of her mind unravelling, but she needed to be sure. Should the noise turn out to be a figment of her imagination, she would fill her pockets with rocks and walk into the lake. There was no way she could live much longer in her current deplorable state. The oblivion that death offered within its gossamer embrace would be a soft place to rest her head compared to the agony of living.
Crawling on her belly through her own vomit, Marge made her way to the window. Through sheer force of will, she pulled her protesting body up enough to see out. Oh, sweet mercy! There was a girl in the thicket only six feet from the gate of the house. She was busy arranging bits of moss and bracken over a chest. Marge was convinced the treasure that resided within its scarred wooden walls was liquid gold. Her salvation. The girl child stood. Marge realised that she was not a child but a very short woman. She was dirty, and her clothes were ripped. She swayed in a way that was only too familiar to Marge.
That night, she dragged herself down the stairs and out into the night. The sky was thick with clouds—a co- conspirator, she mused as she crawled across sharp stones and moss to reach her goal. The chest was not all that well hidden, but Marge took her time and was as quiet as she could be. She didn’t want to be interrupted. Her veins burned as she flexed her wrists and fingers, moving the forest debris that had been used to create the crude barrier to shield this box from the world.
At last, the chest was free. Marge opened the old lid. Inside were bottles. They did not contain whisky or rum but a dark liquid that she had never seen before. Removing one, she cut the wax stopper with her nail and pulled it out. Sniffing it, she was gratified to the point of tears when the tang of alcohol assailed her senses. She had no clue what this was exactly, but the scent informed her it was what she needed. If it is poison, let it work fast. This was her last thought before putting the bottle of thick glass to her lips and imbibing deeply.
It was three days before Harriet returned for her chest. In those three days, Marge had drunk her way through a quarter of the stash. Wine, albeit more palatable, wasn’t as potent as her usual tipple. On the third day, as dusk descended over the glade, Harriet arrived at her hiding spot. Instead of finding her treasured drink, she encountered Marge. The two women regarded each other with cool detachment. However, both were terrified the other would create a scene and alert others to their secret meeting.
Marge quickly and rather clumsily made her introductions, and then she waited. Harriet was unsure whether she should be speaking to the usurped princess. Yes, she knew full well who she was, given her awareness of Marge’s intended place was within this story. However, as soon as Marge had extracted herself from the proposed plot, the whole tale had fallen to hell, leaving Harriet considerably resentful of this fact. Had Marge conducted herself as the storyline had intended, Harriet’s entire existence would not have consisted of abuse. She would not be at the edge of the glade as dusk turned ever increasingly to night, searching for wine in a bid to prevent her from killing herself. Marge’s lack of compliance meant one thing—she was accountable for Harriet’s abhorrent existence. She asked for her wine back; it was all she wanted from the princess. Marge refused and questioned her with regards to how Harriet came by such a chest.
Harriet was about to divulge that she had made the wine herself before her life fell apart—thanks to Marge, but she changed her mind. The men would be very interested to meet the princess. Maybe they would take to her the way they had to Harriet, and she at long last could abscond from them. Could Karma have finally thrown her a bone? Harriet smiled and explained that it was some very clever dwarfs who had made the wine. She told Marge that if she took to them, there was a good chance that they would make her some. It would be an honour to make fine wine for the princess. Marge was surprised to hear that men akin to this small woman existed in the forest. She should have asked how many. She ought to have inquired about their accommodation and temperament. Yet her only concern was the wine. She craved it, and this dwarfish woman was her ticket to a never-ending river of the aforementioned.
As soon as Marge agreed, Harriet asked again where her crate was given it was her only source. The princess would have no call for such a trifling amount any longer. Marge, now insatiable at the idea of amassing more alcohol than she had already appropriated pointed to the shack. She then demanded to be taken to the men who could help her. Harriet agreed, knowing that soon the wine would become obsolete, replaced by the heady drug named freedom. A remedy far more potent than any brew in the whole of Fairy Tale.
They reached the men in very little time. Harriet was quick to introduce Marge and explain what she wanted without letting them know about her secret stash. Marge was slightly put off by the state of both the dwarfs and the camp they had constructed in the forest.
The dwarfs, on the other hand, were entranced. A woman in their camp. One far more beautiful than Harriet! Perhaps she could give them children? Maybe they could keep her? Grant was openly leering at Marge, and Dexter had started to rock back and forth with glee. Grant quickly found some of his own mulberry mead and handed the bottle to Marge. He knew this was strong and thought it would assist him with coaxing the princess to concur with his way of thinking. The others w
ould fall in line. They were weak and needed him. He was the hunter. He brought them fresh food to eat. It was only to save himself from boredom that he allowed them to live.
The drinks flowed. Grant got Marge so inebriated that she became more than agreeable to substituting her maidenhead for copious amounts of mead. One by one that night, they all took their turn with Marge. She cried, of course. She was a maiden, and it hurt to be invaded by so many in such quick succession. As additional mead was poured down her throat, she became more docile. Soon, she just lay there, and the men took their fill of her as she took hers of the wine.
Harriet took this opportunity to pack her things and leave her kin. She ventured to the castle and presented herself for work—anything with the caveat that she was the only dwarf in employment. The queen took her on as a scullery maid, and Harriet had never been happier.
Marge, on the other hand, was soon swollen with child. The dwarfs were so happy that they rebuilt the cottage and opened a mine shaft. They brought her the best jewels the earth could offer, whilst Grant provided the choicest meats and fruits. However, Marge was forlorn in her pretty house surrounded by her many men and jewels. The second they had discovered she was with child; the mead and wine were taken from her. If she tried to sneak some, Grant would beat her, taking care not to harm her stomach. Marge had become a slave to the dwarfs. The baby was born. It was a mutant—a giant of a child. Grant was displeased, and the baby was left at the edge of the forest with a note for the author, explaining that this was what happens when you lock men in with one woman.
The next day, Grant went back, and the baby was gone. All that remained was a letter ‘A’ carved into the dirt where the baby had been. That night, Marge was strangled in her bed, as were the other dwarfs. Grant laid them all out on their beds. Marge, who was as beautiful as a dream, even in death, was clothed in her best dress. The gems they had collected for her were assembled around her head. She was a princess, after all.