by Robert Thier
The apprentice winced. “Bad luck.”
“You can say that again! I never could stand those idiots.”
“No, I meant the part about being turned into a bucket and having to do slave work.”
“Oh. Well, that part is a nuisance, too.”
“But I still don’t understand,” murmured the apprentice, “why he doesn’t want me to talk to you. I mean, there’s nothing I can do about how the master treats you.”
“Not much,” the bucket agreed. “Except ordering us to kill the bastard son of a bitch.”
There was a moment of silence in the house. A long moment.
“Um…I could do that?”
“Yep,” the broom confirmed cheerfully. “As magical objects, we are bound to follow the orders of the house’s occupants. But nowhere in our magical contract spell does it say which occupant.”
The apprentice’s eyes began to gleam. “And you would do that? Get rid of the old bastard?”
“Most certainly, worshipful master,” said the shoe cleaning rag.
“If we get Sundays off,” the bucket added.
“And fresh bristles every two years,” the broom suggested.
The apprentice hesitated. “I don’t know…after all, he is my master….”
“Every slave has the right to rebel,” the bucket pointed out.
“You’ll be striking a blow for freedom all around the globe,” the broom proclaimed.
The apprentice was still hesitant. “I don’t know….”
“Plus, you’ll get your hands on all your master’s gold and magic books,” the shoe cleaning rag, who had always had a very practical perspective on life, pointed out.
The apprentice stopped protesting. Slowly, he began to smile. “Will I? Well, I guess if I’m striking a blow for freedom…I’m more or less obliged to do it, right?”
When the master returned from his trip to the witch’s Sabbath, he was somewhat surprised when he was clobbered over the head with a broom. His surprise grew when the broom grabbed him and drowned him to death in a bucket full of dirty dishwater. All in all, his last moments were quite extraordinarily exciting.
From then on, life in the little house was much happier: the apprentice didn’t mind dirt nearly as much as his master had, and so the bucket and broom could play poker all day and let cobwebs grow in the corners of the room—which was good anyway, because spiders are beneficial insects, and, for the good of the environment, should never be killed, unlike nasty magicians.
And they all lived happily ever after.
The moral of the story is: always be suspicious of authority.
Another moral could be: never do your chores yourself if you can get someone else to do them.
And finally: kill nasty magicians![9]
Big Brother and Little Sister
In a faraway enchanted kingdom, there once lived an evil stepmother. Much to her displeasure, she wasn’t the only one who lived there. Instead, she had to put up with her husband, her two beastly little stepchildren, and the agonizingly annoying rest of the kingdom’s population. As behooves every good evil stepmother, she especially hated her two stepchildren—a little brother and a little sister—for they were infuriatingly pretty, cheerful little brats.
So, one day, unable to bear her heavy load any longer, the stepmother took a long-distance course in witchcraft, bought herself a wand, and created a magic pool of water in the forest outside the house. This pool was enchanted so that anyone who drank from it would be turned into an animal.
“Oh,” the stepmother said to Little Brother and Little Sister, “do you see that lovely pool of water there in the forest? It’s so hot! Wouldn’t it be refreshing to take a sip of cool water from the pool?”
“Yuck!” said Little Brother. “I’m not drinking from some muddy pool! I only like fizzy drinks!”
“Me too,” said Little Sister. “Do you have any fizzy drinks, stepmother?”
Thereupon, the wicked stepmother had to revise her strategy. She got rid of the magic pool of water and instead created an enchanted fizzy drink fountain, with a dozen taps, each one spouting a different flavor.
Then she said to the children, “There! Do you see that fountain? It is spouting fizzy drinks!”
And the children said, “Wow! It really does!”
And because they had never heard about long-distance courses in wicked magic, they suspected nothing and ran to the fountain to drink. Little Brother got there first, and, because caramel was his favorite flavor, he immediately took a big gulp of the wonderful, gleaming brown, caramel-flavored drink and—plop—was turned into a deer.
The little sister stopped in her tracks. She was a very smart girl, and so she thought to herself, It is not normal for little boys to transform into deer after drinking caramel-flavored fizzy drinks! There is something foul afoot!
Stepping forward, she took a closer look at the deer and saw that it had her little brother’s bright eyes. It was indeed her brother, turned into an animal! Thinking on this, she made another impressive deduction:
“A witch did this! And my stepmother has a wart on her nose, so she must be the witch!”
The deer nodded and started to nibble on a few blades of grass.
“We can never return home,” the little sister sighed sadly. “If we did, our stepmother would most certainly kill us or turn us into something horribly repulsive. But have no fear, little brother. Even though you are a furry beast with the IQ of a two-year-old, I will not forsake you.”
Fashioning a leash out of grass, she put it around the deer’s neck and started into the forest. “Come, little brother. I will take you with me, stand by you, and care for you until, one day, the spell may be broken. Even if it takes seven years, I will make you happy and whole again.”
They had advanced about a hundred yards into the forest when a huntsman came by, shot the little brother, and took him home for his dinner—which goes to show that you should never make promises you can’t keep.
The little sister was at first a little upset about this, but then she began to feel rather relieved that she would not have to spend the next seven years of her life cleaning up after some furry forest animal. When the huntsman invited her to dinner, she decided to do the polite thing and accept.
“Tell me,” she asked, nibbling on a piece of venison—which really tasted excellent, by the way— “What land is this we’re in? I think I have left the land of King Orwell, where I come from.”
“This is the borderland,” said the huntsman. “And just beyond the forest lies the FFTSR.”
“The what?” asked the little sister.
“The Federation of Fairy Tale Soviet Republics,” explained the huntsman. “It is a vile place reigned over by an evil dictator who kills anything and anyone who stands in his way.”
“That sounds nice,” said the little sister. “I think I’d like to go there.”
“I could show you the way,” offered the huntsman. “I want to visit my cousin, anyway, who works as a secretary for the evil dictator.”
“That is very kind of you,” said the little sister. And, after finishing their meal, they left that very same day.
*********
The Federation of Fairy Tale Soviet Republics was indeed a vile place reigned over by an evil dictator. One could tell many stories about the FFTSR—only, they would all be censored, and the storyteller, his family, and his pet starfish would be incarcerated in an icy labor camp some three miles south of the North Pole. Suffice it to say, therefore, that over this great and glorious nation ruled a ruthless and devilishly handsome man known only as Big Brother (note capitalization).
Big Brother was in control of everything. Unlike the neighboring kingdom of King Orwell the Wobbly, he had invested heavily in manufacturing and infrastructure and the economy was flourishing. He’d also had magic crystal balls installed in every house so he could watch whatever people were doing, and arrest them if he didn’t like it. Thus it was that, although he was a m
ysterious figure and hardly anybody had ever seen him, he knew everything that happened within his domain and was the most powerful potentate in all of Fairyland.
It just so happened that, when the huntsman dropped by to visit his cousin, with the little sister for company, Big Brother was watching his outer office through a magical crystal ball installed in the ceiling. He was curious to see what the cousin, his secretary, was doing and whether he ought to be arrested and sent to a forced labor camp to freeze to death. Thus, when the little sister came into the office, he caught sight of her and was instantly struck by her beauty and fell hopelessly in love with her.
“I must have her!” he said to himself. “I will demand that she marries me! And if she will not, I will send her to a forced labor camp until she changes her mind or until her toes have frozen and dropped off!”
Big Brother rang for his secretary.
“Bring that young lady out there into my office,” he demanded through the magical intercom.
“Yes, sir!” said the secretary. A moment later, the doors opened, and the secretary herded in a confused-looking little sister.
“Leave us!” Big Brother commanded, and the secretary obeyed, closing the door behind him.
“Greetings,” said Big Brother to the little sister. “I demand that you marry me instantly!”
“Who are you?” asked the little sister.
“I am the evil dictator who kills anything and anyone who stands in his way. Surely you have heard of me?”
The little sister brightened. “Oh yes! You’re the one they call Big Brother!”
“That’s right. And I demand that you marry me right away!”
The little sister looked the evil dictator over and liked what she saw. “Are you rich?”
“The richest man in the world.”
“And powerful?”
“I am the most powerful man in all of Fairyland. Anyone who stands in my way I crush beneath my feet. Just as I will crush you, incidentally, if you refuse me.”
“How wonderful!” The little sister clapped her hands in delight. “I think I’ll marry you! There’s just one thing…”
“What?”
“I know they call you Big Brother, but…you are not actually my brother, are you? Like a long-lost sibling or something? Because, if we were related and I were to marry you, that would just be…yuck!”
“No,” said Big Brother. “I am not your brother.”
“Ah.”
“But, even if I were, that would not matter. Because this is a fairy tale, and lots of crazy things like incest or cannibalism happen in fairy tales without people complaining about them.”
The little sister had not considered this. “True,” she said and nodded. “Very well, then. I will marry you.”
Big Brother opened his arms. “Come to me! You have made me the happiest man in the world! Now I won’t have to send you to a forced labor camp!”
The happy couple were married soon after, and they moved into a big, new palace with golden doorknobs, silver plates, and hundreds of magic crystal balls through which Big Brother could stare adoringly at his bride all day and night. Soon the little sister was with child and, not long after, gave birth to a beautiful little junior dictator.
“You have made me so happy!” said Big Brother to his wife. “Isn’t there anything I can do to make you happy in return?”
“I am already the happiest girl in the world,” said little sister. “But if you’d like me to be even happier…”
“Yes?”
“You could get rid of an old witch with a wart on her nose.”
“Where does this witch live?”
“Just beyond the forest, in the Kingdom of King Orwell the Wobbly. She’s my stepmother. She tried to turn me into a beastly animal and chased me away from my home.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Big Brother.
When his bride stared daggers at him, he hurriedly added, “I mean, it is wonderful that I finally have an excuse to attack King Orwell! I have been waiting for a chance to get rid of that fat old fool for ages.”
Thus he spoke, and the very next morning, his troops marched over the border. All the heralds in the FFTSR proclaimed that the glorious leader of the people, Big Brother, was responding to an attack of King Orwell, the Wicked and Wobbly, on the peace-loving Federation of Fairy Tale Soviet Republics.
Soon after, the Kingdom was conquered, and Big Brother sent the secret police, under the command of his bride, to arrest the wicked witch. After being tried and convicted of treason in about three minutes, the witch was sent to a forced labor camp in the North, where her nose probably froze and dropped off.
“She ought to be grateful,” the Captain of the Secret Police said to the little sister. “After all, if her nose drops off, that means she will also be rid of that ugly wart.”
“So true,” the little sister nodded. “You are a wise and just man, Captain.”
As for her father, who had married such a wicked witch, the little sister made him drink from the magic fizzy drink fountain, which turned him into a parrot that she took home and put in a cage for her child to play with. Having thus re-established a loving father-daughter relationship, she returned to her husband, Big Brother, and lived with him happily ever after.
And the moral of the story is: ruthless, evil dictators aren’t so bad if you’re happily married to one.
Or, alternatively: don’t drink from fountains. Never, ever.
Or: little brothers can be quite tasty, especially with roasted onions.
The Little Typo’s Tale
Author’s note: This story is not a usual fairy tale. I wrote it on the spur of the moment as a test for volunteer proofreaders and editors. But it turned out to be so popular that I decided to include it in this little collection. I hope you enjoy it.
Once upon a time, there lived a little typo in a cottage by the sea, far away from the ruthless horde of proofreaders that had hunted him and his kind to the edge of extinction since the dawn of time (or at least since the dawn of editing). The little typo lived a quiet life. He didn’t intrude into any great works of literature or dare to appear on the title page of an encyclopedia of philosophy, but now and again he made a little trip into a school paper, to the great vexation of hundreds of students and teachers. He was content with his lot in life.
But, alas, such happiness couldn’t last. It was a cold winter day, and outside the little cottage, it was raining commas and semicolons, when suddenly someone started banging on the cottage door.
“Let me in!” someone shouted from outside. “Let me in, quickly!”
“Who is this?” the little typo demanded, quivering with fear. Had the proofreaders found him? Quickly, he reached into his cabinet and pulled out the badly leaking pen that was his only weapon. “What do you want?”
“It’s me, Frid!” called the voice from outside. “Let me in!”
Breathing a sigh of relief, the little typo ran to the door, pulled back the bolt, and opened the door. In a tumble of wet commas and semicolons, Frid rushed inside. “Lock the door behind me!”
The little typo did as he was told, his fear returning in full force. Frid wasn’t one to scare easily. If Frid was afraid, there was reason to be. Quickly, the little typo turned to face his friend.
Frid was a diminutive sort of typo. A strange misspelling for “Fred,” he had made himself rather scarce ever since that name had gone out of fashion. But he was still, and would always be, the little typo’s best friend of all the typos in the world. Right now he was looking terrified.
“What is the matter, Frid? You look as though someone had threatened you with an eraser!”
Frid shuddered. “It’s almost as bad. My friend—they’re coming for you!”
“They?” the little typo asked, though really, there was no need to ask. “Who?”
“The proofreaders!”
The little typo opened his mouth to ask how they could possibly have found him, but in that moment, a terribl
e noise rose outside over the roar of the rainstorm: the noise of an automated spellcheck. Maybe… maybe even an autocorrect.
The two friends went pale.
“The proofreaders!” Frid cried. “Run! Run for your life!”
“But I can’t leave you here!”
“They’re after you, not me! Run! They might mistake me for Fred, but you they will never believe to be correctly spelled!”
The little typo grasped Frid’s hand and shook it. “Thank you, Frid! Thank you!”
“Go!”
Grabbing his leaking pen, the little typo threw a few periods into a bag as food for his journey and rushed out the back door. As fast as his legs would carry him, he rushed towards the gruesome grammar forest. Just before he vanished under the shadow of the trees, he saw the threatening, monstrous shape of an eraser looming over his little cottage.
Please! Oh please don’t let anything happen to Frid!
With that last thought, he disappeared into the forest.
*********
For hours and hours, the lonely little typo wandered through the forest, lamenting his fate and feeling terrified for his friend. More than once he heard the distant howling of hounds hot on his tail. But things didn’t turn really desperate until dusk.
“There! There he is!”
The little typo whirled around. There, silhouetted against the sinking sun, were the dark shapes of several proofreaders, armed with reading lamps and accompanied by huge, terrifying erasers.
“Get him! Catch the little bastard!”
The little typo turned and ran for his life. It was hopeless, he knew—no typo ever escaped the proofreaders once they had caught sight of him. But he still ran. He couldn’t just lie down and submit to his fate, could he? Someone had to stand up against grammar, proper spelling, and all the other dark doctrines that threatened the peace of this world. So he ran. He ran for freedom. He ran for Frid, who had risked his life to save him.
But it was no use. The proofreaders came closer and closer. Soon they were only a few yards behind him. It wouldn’t be long now. They would have him, and then…