| 1 2 3 |
"Hansel and Gretel and the Big Bad Wolf" (the 103rd ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
4 5 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Hansel and Gretel and the Big Bad Wolf" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Mar 15, 2010 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Hansel and Gretel and the Big Bad Wolf By kws1949@gmail.com (Entry #2) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| “Hey! Stop humping
Gretle’s leg, ya giant hair ball!” Hansel yelled sharply. TBBW dropped to all fours and slunk away. Millennia of canine evolution gripped him. His tail shrank between his legs, all fluff and wag evaporated. He eyed Hansel with furtive glances, wary and afraid of further, perhaps physical punishment. He continued in this contrite manner until he reached the middle of the room, then stopped. “Hey! Fat boy, do you know who you’re dealing with here?” The wolf rose and puffed his chest. “I’m TBBW! The Big – Badassed Wolf! You watch how you talk to me or I’ll make pigs in blankets outta you and miss Cream Puff here.” “She doesn’t want you to hump her leg,” Hansel snorted. “I’m waiting for Mr. Right,” Gretel said. “As long as his last name isn’t Charming,” Hansel warned. “We’ve about had enough of that outfit.” “Try one of the dwarves,” TBBW suggested. “They look like they’d be a pleasant mouthful.” “Ok, let’s get back down to business,” Hansel said as he came in and sat down by the fire, carrying a large mug of beer. He sighed as he sat down and blew the foam off the top, taking a long sip, and sighing again. “Right. Business,” TBBW said as he crossed to the chair opposite Hansel. “What did you want to talk about.” “That hairy broad with the fancy house, of course,” Gretel said. “We need to get rid of her. We figure you’re just the man, er, dog, er, wolf, er, animal for the job.” “What makes you think I care?” TBBW asked. “The old girl isn’t so bad. Why, she even throws me a bone now and then.” “Yeah, yeah, we know,” Hansel said. “Just your type; too old and gristly for eating, too convenient to just snuff. That’s your real problem, you know. You don’t look to the future.” “What future is that?” TBBW said. “Look, we’re Butterworthians,” Gretel said. “What? What the hell is a Butterworthian?” TBBW demanded. “Hello? We don’t eat meat,” Hansel said. “And vegetarians are just so droll,” Gretel added. “No imagination at all,” Hansel explained. “Far too radical and bordering on violence.” “We’ve chosen a different path,” Gretel explained. “Our path is filled with peace and warmth.” She got that far away look in her eye. “Filled with sunshine, the calming influences of caramel,” Hansel said, lost in his own vision. “Date filling.” “Meringue.” “Real butter,” they sighed in unison. “Stop,” TBBW said. “My arteries are hardening. So what does this have to do with me?” “Fresh meat,” Hansel claimed. “And a steady supply,” Gretel added. “Slow down,” TBBW said, leaning back, smelling a rat (or perhaps last night’s dinner in the fur on his muzzle, he was never certain in times like this.) “You need to spell this out in a little more detail.” “It’s simple,” Hansel said. “You off her. We get the house, you get to dine on her to your heart’s content.” “At your leisure,” Gretel said as she came and stood behind TBBW, stroking his ears, scratching his head between them. “Ohhhh…a bit to the left darlin’,” TBBW sighed. “And just look at her,” Hansel suggested. “Picture her in your mind. Warm, full figured….” “Why just one of her thighs would keep you fed for a month,” Gretel said. “Wait a minute,” TBBW shrugged off the fawning hand and shook himself. “Weren’t you just telling me my problem is that I’m too short sighted? That I lacked vision and a future? How does snuffing one old broad fit into that picture? Just what’s in it for you two?” “Why the house, of course,” Gretel said. “That’s right,” Hansel explained. “See, we were in there just last summer. You remember? The big stink when we were rescued?” “Saaaayyy, that’s right!” TBBW said, standing. “You two were pyromaniacs, if I remember right. Trial, judge, the works. Papers said you tried to push the old lady in – her on crutches and damned near blind!” “We were framed!” Hansel explained. “Just more ugly gossip spread to smear our good names,” Gretel said as her eyes flooded with tears. “You surely don’t believe us capable of such a horrendous act, do you?” “They were ready to throw the book at you,” TBBW said. “Open and shut case. Some hunter heard the old dame scream.” “The silly sod was lost, too,” Hansel snorted. “Came to nibble on our house,” Gretel said indignantly. “Our house! The silly get.” TBBW looked at Hansel, then shook himself free of Gretel’s hand and stood, crossing to the door. “I don’t know about any of this,” TBBW said as he started for the door. “You two are just two twisted for words.” “Look, wait a minute,” Hansel said. TBBW turned and watched as the two walking doughkids put their heads together. He shook himself, unable to see them other than in a large roasting pan, dripping fat, browning nicely. “Okay, here’s the thing,” Hansel said as he turned back to TBBW. “We’ll cut you in for a percentage.” “And,” Gretel said as she stepped to Hansel’s side. “You can have any other kid that comes knocking on our door, looking to sample the siding.” TBBW remained silent, looking from one to the other. “What are your options here?” Hansel asked. “You look like you’re one or two days short of the glue factory. Skin and bones – so hungry even the fleas have abandoned your carcass.” “I’ve got plans,” TBBW retorted. “I’ve got skills.” “Yeah? What plans are those?” “Not that it’s any of your business, but there’s this little girl tripping through the woods this very evening,” TBBW said. “Going to meet her Grandma or some such. I could gnaw on that for ages.” “Did you catch her name?” Gretel asked. “Yeah, what’s she call herself?” Hansel demanded. “How should I know?” TBBW shrugged. “All I know is that she wears this funny little red cape.” “Look, Big – can I call you Big? Or do you prefer Bad?” Hansel asked. “Look, Big, we’ve seen the script.” “It wasn’t pleasant reading,” Gretel said. “It ends bad,” Hansel added. “For you.” “How so?” TBBW demanded. “Remember the hunter?” Hansel said. Gretel stood beside him and drew her thumb across her throat. “Damn,” TBBW scoffed. “Where is PETA when you need them.” “You remember that episode with your cousin? In Russia?” Hansel asked. “That silly little boy in the tree and that scrawny duck?” TBBW stared at him. “Same thing,” Gretel said. “Not a pretty picture.” TBBW stood before them, scratching his chin. Hansel could see the gears turning. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “The pig mob has opened up a housing development in your neighborhood.” “We’ve seen that script, too,” Gretel said. “Don’t tell me, another hunter?” TBBW said. “Nope,” Hansel said. “Worse,” Gretel added. “The crock pot this time,” Hansel said softly, trying to ease the blow. “That’s right,” Gretel said. “You end up as Wolf Stew on their menu.” “Look,” Hansel said. “Here’s the deal. The Wicked Old Witch is due shortly. You hide in the closet, we’ll get her to open the stove, you hop out, easy push....you get roast leg of witch to see you through your next several meals.” The next evening found Hansel sitting by the fire. Gretel brought him a plate of freshly trimmed gingerbread, shaped just like the kitchen counter. He ran his bare toes through the new rug on the floor...a new wolf skin. “You’d have thought he might have had a clue that the old girl was poisonous,” Gretel said as she settled into her own chair with a small plate of bedroom ceiling tiles. “Or at least that the ‘stove’ was a microwave,” Hansel sighed. “Still, makes a lovely area rug. Who’s next on the list?” |
| Hansel and Gretel and the Big Bad Wolf By David Griffin www.windsweptpress.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| A trip to the zoo was not an
adventure my grandmother Gretel would have chosen herself. I’m sure she
had very little interest in the “filthy animals” inhabiting the
smelly buildings on the south side of the city. But, recently widowed and all
but forced to live with our family of Mom, Dad and three young sons … a
circus she often called Boys Town under her breath … the old woman was
learning to live with compromise as well as chaos. A widow didn’t have
many choices 60 years ago. My grandmother never bore children of her own. Instead, she married my widowed grandfather, bringing up Mom from age seven as if the two were girlfriends. Mom called her Gretel, and so did us children, a rather forward way to address a matron born in the 1880’s. I can think of no better way to describe Gretel than as a married spinster. If you’ve seen photos of Eleanor Roosevelt, you have a good idea how my grandmother looked and dressed … whether on her way to church, at the beach or wearily digging for spuds in the garden … a big floppy hat, old-lady dress and “sensible” tied shoes adorning her large feet. Her closet held under a dozen dresses, most a buff color with large pockets for work or play, and the others polka-dot on navy blue silk for church and funerals. Overly formal most of the time, Gretel thought of herself as an educated and properly raised lady, which was hardly the truth. I wasn’t very old when she came to live with us, but as a child often will, I had no problem sensing her frustration. As an adult, I now realize a strange resentment burned in her toward those for whom she had become a burden. Terribly frustrated at being destitute, Gretel was unable to voice her anger and rage. From time to time she would act it out. On a sizzling afternoon in August of 1953, the entire family crammed into the old Ford and began our way home from the beach after swimming and a picnic. When my father suggested we stop at the zoo to see the newly acquired buffalo, Gretel’s jaw set itself into a hard line. She was tired after a full day of family frolic, but said nothing. Soon the hot, sticky smell of animal waste rose up to greet us as the car bumped its way into the parking lot in a swirl of road dust and humidity. The family tumbled out of the Ford and walked to the buffalo’s pen, tripping over tufts of grass on the way. We lined up along the worn rail as if a brass band were about to march through the small corral. From the boisterous enthusiasm of my parents, you might guess that inspecting a buffalo was the ultimate small town experience on a Sunday afternoon. You’d be correct. Gretel carefully trudged up to the pen and arrived last, possibly worried that buffalo-watching was unsuitable for a lady. My brothers and I were not at all impressed with the stringy haired beast. Motionless, he stood quietly in the enclosure, munching on grass, a dull look on his countenance. But our degenerate little boy hearts were suddenly won over when he hunched his back like a huge dog and defecated … loudly, proudly and very aromatically. While everyone else whooped and laughed, my poor grandmother swooned and hung on to the fence. Then she grabbed my hand and marched the two of us away. Gretel habitually rescued me from one declasse situation or another. She regarded me as a sensitive and intelligent 9 year old. “You’re the only other inquisitive mind in the neighborhood, Hansel,” she told me, “and that’s not saying much.” Gretel said we walked a narrow civilized path together through the jungle of our working class neighborhood. For a woman interested in the social ladder, she was not very sociable. Although quite different in age, my grandmother and I shared a variety of interests. On family outings, we might wander off together to spy on the birds or inspect an unusual plant or flower, while the others threw a ball back and forth endlessly or nearly drowned themselves in the lake. We often carried on a spirited dialog, my Timaeus playing to her Socrates. But it was decidedly limited in scope, since neither of us had finished the fourth grade. We left the group as they ogled the steaming pile of dung and hunkered up the hill to the zoo’s Animal House to see the monkeys and whatever the hell you call those things that look like giant rats. Dimly lit, the menagerie baked like an oven inside, and smelled much worse than the buffalo pen. Strolling down the aisle past the caged jackals and vermin, Gretel began to chatter through her complete zoological body of knowledge, which would have taken no more than eleven seconds. As we came to a cage smelling so bad the breath caught in my throat, an eerie huffing sound issued forth and echoed around the concrete interior of the building. A huge form lay at the back of the darkened cage. Attached to the railing in front of the heavy bars, a small sign identified the inmate as a male North American Timber Wolf, one of the largest of the species. I couldn't see well into his shadowy den, and the smelly behemoth gave us no sign of recognition. Easily bored, my attention turned to the monkeys across the aisle. I soon became enthralled with the frisky little fellows, but a little puzzled by the intensity of their play. I glanced over at my grandmother only when I noticed her attempts to entice the Goliath out into the light by leaning over the rail and swinging her purse wide to swipe at the bars. My grandmother was a wonderful woman, but somewhere in her past the fairy of self-importance had touched her a little too hard with the uppity stick. Gretel could stand insult and injury, but never disinterest. You could not purposely fail to notice the old woman and live to tell about it. Unbalanced by the beast’s inattention, Gretel opened her purse, pulled out a pack of Tums, peeled one off and flung it through the bars at the animal. She certainly hit him, because I heard a loud grunt, but he remained at rest. She shouted at him, but got no reaction. Something now snapped in my grandmother’s soul and she became infuriated. If her mind had been able to make a sound, I would have heard the click-clack of a bullet being chambered. Spittle formed in the corners of her mouth and her breathing grew short. She hauled off and fired the entire pack of antacids at the huge shaggy beast. A sharp crack sounded inside the cage and the Tums could be heard bouncing around in the dark. The entire zoo suddenly went silent, and even the monkeys came to a dead stop. A feeling of fright ran down my spine. In my mind’s eye, I saw Mr. Wolf thwacked hard on a large canine tooth jutting out from his jaw. This is the main dental hardware a wolf uses to tear apart his victims, like poor innocent kids and annoying old women. My grandmother succeeded in her quest. The beast reacted, but Gretel got about 400 pounds more than she had bargained for. Maybe he was having a bad day. Maybe he was fed up or maybe his tooth had a cavity. Maybe the big cat didn’t like being moved into the cage of a long departed wolf so his own cage could be re-painted. One thing for sure, the King of the Jungle did not gladly suffer an old lady hitting him in the head with a pack of Tums. Mr. Leo Lion lunged off the floor of the wolf cage with a great tearing scrape of his cigar-length claws and flew forward into the light, crashing against the bars in a huge orgasmic rage of roaring, spit and very bad breath. Gretel wet her pants. Lions have an uncanny sense of smell, perhaps 20 times more sensitive than humans. Gretel didn’t know it, but her aggression and urine produced the best imitation of a mating overture this 600 pound male lion had seen in a long time. Big guys like Leo make certain movements when they are ready to mate. These are obvious to any species, even humans, unless you’re a youngster whose attention is elsewhere. Despite Leo’s heavy breathing, the monkeys still grabbed my attention and I lost interest in the Big Bad Boy-Toy. Gretel didn’t. When the family joined us in the Animal House, they found my grandmother had taken out her glasses and was standing at the cage in rapt attention, chewing nervously on her fingernails in time to the lion’s grunting. Across the aisle, I stood transfixed by the monkeys. The little guys and girls were sure having a lot of fun, but their games were getting more and more peculiar. My father joined me at the monkey cage. “What’re they doing, Dad?” I asked. “A War Dance,” he said. “We’d better leave before they attack.” My mother led Gretel away from the lion. I’m sure I saw a look of disappointment in his eyes. I don’t believe my parents ever fully understood Gretel’s feelings of loss and desperation in her first years with us. But they had the good sense to give her more attention after our day with the animals. Eventually my grandmother came to accept her new life with us. And for whatever reason, Mom and Dad never took us back to the zoo. © 2010 David Griffin |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #3 Second place: #4 Third place: #2 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Hansel and Gretel and the Big Bad Wolf glenlee10@sky.com |
#1 of 5 |
| 2336 words | |
| The night was lit with a thick dusting of stars but
dawn was hours away. The wolf lay in his lair, high above the river, licking a
thighbone held fast between front paws as big as dinner plates. He was a big
wolf, a wolf with attitude. Had he been human, he’d have been a bovver boy
with big boots, braces, a bald head and tattoos. He was warm. He had fed. Life
was good. If he could have smiled, he would have done so. He had just finished dining on goat. It had been a young and very plump goat. Its flesh had been sweet and succulent. The wolf’s belly was full. His eyelids slowly closed and he slept. A bush outside his lair, tingled by the season’s rising sap, rustled its new leaves, but it didn’t disturb his dream of lightly tripping lambs and gambolling goats. A few miles away, a young Troll was trotting downhill from the snowy mountains towards the village in the valley. To a Troll, the road was passable. Winter hadn’t finished yet this high up, so humans would have problems with the snow and ice. Nevertheless, he was vigilant, ready to dart into a ravine or a scrubby shrub at the edge of the road if he came across any traces of humans. Being young, he was touched with arrogance. He just knew he could get away with this raid. It was spring. His kind had not travelled this route for many decades. They wouldn’t be expecting him. He’d be in, feed on young goat and get away before the humans even had time to climb into their Wellington boots to see what was happening. They’ll all be tucked up in their beds in their stinking, stuffy houses, he thought. He sniffed the cold air. It was above freezing. Just. No, there’d be no one around this early to bother him. If the Troll had been human, he’d have been a spiv, sharp enough to sell knackered old cars to dear old ladies with a smile. The Troll was wrong though. The villagers had been up and about for hours, preparing to rid their village of the goat-eating Troll, which they were convinced lived under the rickety-rackety bridge that carried the only road into the village. There had been a meeting of the village council the night before and the Mayor had made a long, boring speech, as was his wont. After about thirty minutes of political talk, including a strong denunciation of his political opponents, he finally turned to the matter in hand. “I have identified the killer of our animals. All the signs are that we have a Troll in our midst. Now don’t you good, honest folk go thinking there’s no such thing as Trolls. They’re not just myths or characters in a child’s story,” he told the two hundred people in the hall. “The old stories about Trolls living under rickety-rackety bridges are not just old wives’ tales.” “What’s he say?” an old crone asked. “He’s talking about Trolls and old wives, Ma,” her daughter, another heavily wrinkled old woman shouted. “Humph!” the mother shouted back. “I suppose he might know about old wives, what with him being an old man and all. But what does he know about Trolls?” The Mayor looked up from his speechifying and frowned. He was hot and bothered. The Hall had been built to hold fifty or so people and the stench of the great-unwashed mass was making him feel nauseous. He tried to control his intake of noxious air by taking shallow breaths. “Are we going to be here all night?” a member of the great unwashed in the front row of the seating asked. “Why don’t you get on with it?” “Yeah,” his even smellier and scruffier wife joined in. “We’ve got sheep ‘n goats to look after. We want protection not waffling politicians.” “Madam!” The Mayor looked over the top of his glasses at her. She glared back. Her bloodshot eyes held no mercy. The Mayor shuffled his papers and continued with his speech. “As I was saying, there has been a great deal of scientific research done into the subject and it has been found, based on sound evidence and good probability that Trolls have returned to our mountains.” “Nonsense!” a strong voice rang through the rafters, scattering snoozing spiders, which fell onto the heads of two bored girls below. There was pandemonium. The girls screamed. Chairs were overturned and old people woke up mumbling into their beards, including the men. A woman smacked her teenage son thinking he’d had something to do with the chaos while his younger brother helped one of the girls find a better seat and managed to brush his hand across her breast as he did so. The man who’d shouted pushed his way through the wedge of people in the aisle until he was almost nose to nose with the Mayor, who coughed and leaned back. “It’s a wolf,” the man declared. “I’ve seen it.” “Yeah,” a hackler yelled, “just after kicking out time at the pub. That’s when you saw it.” Only the Mayor and the unwashed man and his wife didn’t join in the stamping and cheering and jeering that followed. And the, ‘wolf man’, too, of course. “It was a big, mean creature,” the man said. “Its breath was foul and if the wind hadn’t been in the right direction, it would have known I was there and I’d have been its next meal.” The Mayor knew the man was the town drunk. He wasn’t to know that the man had in fact seen the wolf two nights ago when he’d been thrown out of the Blacksmiths Arms for being inebriated and out of cash. The sight of the big, black haired creature shambling down the centre of the road, delicately picking its way round the freezing puddles, had sobered him up. He’d wet himself. The front of his pants froze as he cringed in the shadows of the eaves for ages, too frightened to leave their shelter. “Leaving all that nonsense aside,” the Mayor waved a dismissive hand in the town drunk’s direction, “we need to plan how to rid our village of this Troll menace.” Everyone started to shout at once. Everyone except for pretty, blonde Gretel and her freckle faced boyfriend, Hansel. They were fourteen and in love. They were sitting right at the back of the Hall, behind a pillar where their parents couldn’t spy on them. In the uproar, Hansel dared to kiss Gretel on her delightfully snubbed nose. Gretel blushed and murmured, “No, Hansel, no,” before offering her cheek for another peck. He slipped his arm round her waist. She snuggled closer. He sighed. She giggled. He kissed her again, this time on the soft flesh at the top of her arm. She half turned towards him and with the tip of her finger, touched the top of the swell of her breasts as though…. The Mayor banged his gavel on the table. The sudden hush in the Hall brought everyone back to their senses. “That’s it then,” the Mayor was saying. “This lady here,” he gestured to the front row, “has offered to provide two young kids for bait…” “… for which you will pay me the sum of fifty Euros per goat in advance,” she snapped. “… for which the village council will pay a total sum of one hundred Euros…” “… in advance!” “… in advance.” The Mayor’s jowls wobbled in vexation. “A selected group of councillors and woodsmen will meet before dawn at the bridge. Using the kids, the councillors will entice the Troll out from under the bridge and the woodsmen will despatch him.” “And where will you be while all this is going on?” the heckler jeered. “Leading the troops, my man. Leading the troops.” The Mayor tried to look like Winston Churchill leading his nation into battle but failed. The wart on the end of his nose didn’t help. The following day at five o’clock, an hour before dawn, the clerk of the village council led two bleating goats down the road towards the bridge. He hadn’t volunteered for the job but he’d been told, quite firmly by the Mayor, that as the only paid employee of the council, it would be his privilege to do the job. “I don’t suppose there’ll be any overtime?” the clerk muttered, gathering up the ropes tied round the animal’s necks. “Overtime?” chuckled the Mayor. “You’re doing this for the good of your community. But I tell you what. I’ll suggest to the next council meeting that you be given an hour’s time off in lieu.” The clerk walked away from the Mayor, his gait stiff with anger. And fear. He’d been one of the few people in the audience to believe the tale of the big, bad wolf. The town drunk was, after all, his brother and though he liked his ale a bit too much, his brother was no fool. The clerk tied the two goats to the rails on the village side of the bridge. They bleated piteously as he rapidly walked away and left them. They wanted their mums. They were afraid. They could smell predators. Near the village, the council and most of the villagers waited. The people were all aware what was about to happen and were disciplined enough to keep quiet and to keep still. They’d been wise enough to leave their squalling babies and querulous old folk at home in bed. They waited. The woodsmen readied their rifles and sharp knives. They all wondered what a Troll would look like, how big it would be, if a bullet would kill it. Or would they all be smashed to one side by something as big and as nasty as their worst nightmare. The wolf woke from his deep, satisfying sleep. He sat up. He shook his head to clear his mind. He thought about breakfast. He decided to wander down to his favourite field near the village where the food was fast on the hoof but not as fast as him. The Troll was nearing the village, humming under his breath. It was nearly dawn. Perfect. He licked his lips. He could almost taste goat. Maybe with a little lamb for dessert. He could smell the thick scent of goat. He could feel the silky soft fur on his tongue already. He could taste the salty blood slide down his throat. He groaned in anticipation of the meal to come. The wolf slunk from his lair on his belly. He moved quietly downwards. He could smell the village. Its thick stench masked the individual scents of the humans but he could hear them breathing and moving amongst the trees. He could hear the goats. He suspected a trap. And he could also detect Troll. It had been a long time since he’d encountered a Troll. He detested the things. They gave wolves a bad name. They’d often kill just for sport and not through hunger. The wolf thought they were the next worst things to humans and unlike humans they were inedible. Trolls had greasy, sour flesh. The wolf wanted the goats but had a feeling that something was wrong, so stayed low to the ground, stayed hidden. The people waited. The Troll reached the bridge. The goats stopped bleating. They tried to back away. At the end of their tethers, they cried for their mothers. The woodsmen saw the silhouette of the Troll. It didn’t seem too horrendous. They raised their guns to their shoulders. The Troll stepped onto the bridge. His sharp hooves tippety-tapped as he crossed the boards towards his prey. He steadied himself with one hand on the bridge. There! Breakfast! Just how he liked it. The fear his prey felt added a certain rich texture to the flesh he always thought. The goats were crying. The Troll was grinning. The woodsmen took aim and seven bullets flew to their target. Six of them cut six deep holes in his chest. The seventh found the centre of his forehead. The wolf, in cover under the bridge, heard the rush of their passing. He hunkered down into the damp reeds. He felt the crash as the Troll’s body fell on the bridge. The townsfolk ran screaming to hug the woodsman. The owners of the goats ran to release them and dashed up to the village with them. The goats were only too pleased to run back to their mums. Dawn had come and gone by the time the people had brought a cart down to the bridge and loaded the dead Troll onto it. Even then, some stragglers hung around discussing the death of the Troll and their part in it. Eventually they left too, to join in the celebrations. The people’s excitement was almost tangible. The wolf waited them out. There were no goats or lambs in the fields that day. They were all in barns up at the village. He didn’t like the idea of going hungry but felt it would be better than being shot. He slid through the reeds and along the bank of the river, keeping his head down. He paused. Not all the stragglers had returned to the village. Hansel and Gretel, in their own world of young love, blind to anything and anyone else, had wandered off and were kissing and cuddling. They were in a ravine, which the wolf knew led nowhere. Its side were steep and wet. There was no way out The wolf crawled nearer. He licked his lips. Well, well, well. Meat was on his menu today after all; two plump, young kids, just as he liked them, sweet and succulent. He moved to the mouth of the ravine. His stomach rumbled in anticipation. He would feed. Life was good. If he could have smiled, the wolf would certainly have done so. |
|
| Hansel and Gretel and the Big Bad Wolf kws1949@gmail.com |
#2 of 5 Winner |
| 1308 words | |
| “Hey! Stop humping Gretle’s leg, ya giant
hair ball!” Hansel yelled sharply. TBBW dropped to all fours and slunk away. Millennia of canine evolution gripped him. His tail shrank between his legs, all fluff and wag evaporated. He eyed Hansel with furtive glances, wary and afraid of further, perhaps physical punishment. He continued in this contrite manner until he reached the middle of the room, then stopped. “Hey! Fat boy, do you know who you’re dealing with here?” The wolf rose and puffed his chest. “I’m TBBW! The Big – Badassed Wolf! You watch how you talk to me or I’ll make pigs in blankets outta you and miss Cream Puff here.” “She doesn’t want you to hump her leg,” Hansel snorted. “I’m waiting for Mr. Right,” Gretel said. “As long as his last name isn’t Charming,” Hansel warned. “We’ve about had enough of that outfit.” “Try one of the dwarves,” TBBW suggested. “They look like they’d be a pleasant mouthful.” “Ok, let’s get back down to business,” Hansel said as he came in and sat down by the fire, carrying a large mug of beer. He sighed as he sat down and blew the foam off the top, taking a long sip, and sighing again. “Right. Business,” TBBW said as he crossed to the chair opposite Hansel. “What did you want to talk about.” “That hairy broad with the fancy house, of course,” Gretel said. “We need to get rid of her. We figure you’re just the man, er, dog, er, wolf, er, animal for the job.” “What makes you think I care?” TBBW asked. “The old girl isn’t so bad. Why, she even throws me a bone now and then.” “Yeah, yeah, we know,” Hansel said. “Just your type; too old and gristly for eating, too convenient to just snuff. That’s your real problem, you know. You don’t look to the future.” “What future is that?” TBBW said. “Look, we’re Butterworthians,” Gretel said. “What? What the hell is a Butterworthian?” TBBW demanded. “Hello? We don’t eat meat,” Hansel said. “And vegetarians are just so droll,” Gretel added. “No imagination at all,” Hansel explained. “Far too radical and bordering on violence.” “We’ve chosen a different path,” Gretel explained. “Our path is filled with peace and warmth.” She got that far away look in her eye. “Filled with sunshine, the calming influences of caramel,” Hansel said, lost in his own vision. “Date filling.” “Meringue.” “Real butter,” they sighed in unison. “Stop,” TBBW said. “My arteries are hardening. So what does this have to do with me?” “Fresh meat,” Hansel claimed. “And a steady supply,” Gretel added. “Slow down,” TBBW said, leaning back, smelling a rat (or perhaps last night’s dinner in the fur on his muzzle, he was never certain in times like this.) “You need to spell this out in a little more detail.” “It’s simple,” Hansel said. “You off her. We get the house, you get to dine on her to your heart’s content.” “At your leisure,” Gretel said as she came and stood behind TBBW, stroking his ears, scratching his head between them. “Ohhhh…a bit to the left darlin’,” TBBW sighed. “And just look at her,” Hansel suggested. “Picture her in your mind. Warm, full figured….” “Why just one of her thighs would keep you fed for a month,” Gretel said. “Wait a minute,” TBBW shrugged off the fawning hand and shook himself. “Weren’t you just telling me my problem is that I’m too short sighted? That I lacked vision and a future? How does snuffing one old broad fit into that picture? Just what’s in it for you two?” “Why the house, of course,” Gretel said. “That’s right,” Hansel explained. “See, we were in there just last summer. You remember? The big stink when we were rescued?” “Saaaayyy, that’s right!” TBBW said, standing. “You two were pyromaniacs, if I remember right. Trial, judge, the works. Papers said you tried to push the old lady in – her on crutches and damned near blind!” “We were framed!” Hansel explained. “Just more ugly gossip spread to smear our good names,” Gretel said as her eyes flooded with tears. “You surely don’t believe us capable of such a horrendous act, do you?” “They were ready to throw the book at you,” TBBW said. “Open and shut case. Some hunter heard the old dame scream.” “The silly sod was lost, too,” Hansel snorted. “Came to nibble on our house,” Gretel said indignantly. “Our house! The silly get.” TBBW looked at Hansel, then shook himself free of Gretel’s hand and stood, crossing to the door. “I don’t know about any of this,” TBBW said as he started for the door. “You two are just two twisted for words.” “Look, wait a minute,” Hansel said. TBBW turned and watched as the two walking doughkids put their heads together. He shook himself, unable to see them other than in a large roasting pan, dripping fat, browning nicely. “Okay, here’s the thing,” Hansel said as he turned back to TBBW. “We’ll cut you in for a percentage.” “And,” Gretel said as she stepped to Hansel’s side. “You can have any other kid that comes knocking on our door, looking to sample the siding.” TBBW remained silent, looking from one to the other. “What are your options here?” Hansel asked. “You look like you’re one or two days short of the glue factory. Skin and bones – so hungry even the fleas have abandoned your carcass.” “I’ve got plans,” TBBW retorted. “I’ve got skills.” “Yeah? What plans are those?” “Not that it’s any of your business, but there’s this little girl tripping through the woods this very evening,” TBBW said. “Going to meet her Grandma or some such. I could gnaw on that for ages.” “Did you catch her name?” Gretel asked. “Yeah, what’s she call herself?” Hansel demanded. “How should I know?” TBBW shrugged. “All I know is that she wears this funny little red cape.” “Look, Big – can I call you Big? Or do you prefer Bad?” Hansel asked. “Look, Big, we’ve seen the script.” “It wasn’t pleasant reading,” Gretel said. “It ends bad,” Hansel added. “For you.” “How so?” TBBW demanded. “Remember the hunter?” Hansel said. Gretel stood beside him and drew her thumb across her throat. “Damn,” TBBW scoffed. “Where is PETA when you need them.” “You remember that episode with your cousin? In Russia?” Hansel asked. “That silly little boy in the tree and that scrawny duck?” TBBW stared at him. “Same thing,” Gretel said. “Not a pretty picture.” TBBW stood before them, scratching his chin. Hansel could see the gears turning. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “The pig mob has opened up a housing development in your neighborhood.” “We’ve seen that script, too,” Gretel said. “Don’t tell me, another hunter?” TBBW said. “Nope,” Hansel said. “Worse,” Gretel added. “The crock pot this time,” Hansel said softly, trying to ease the blow. “That’s right,” Gretel said. “You end up as Wolf Stew on their menu.” “Look,” Hansel said. “Here’s the deal. The Wicked Old Witch is due shortly. You hide in the closet, we’ll get her to open the stove, you hop out, easy push....you get roast leg of witch to see you through your next several meals.” The next evening found Hansel sitting by the fire. Gretel brought him a plate of freshly trimmed gingerbread, shaped just like the kitchen counter. He ran his bare toes through the new rug on the floor...a new wolf skin. “You’d have thought he might have had a clue that the old girl was poisonous,” Gretel said as she settled into her own chair with a small plate of bedroom ceiling tiles. “Or at least that the ‘stove’ was a microwave,” Hansel sighed. “Still, makes a lovely area rug. Who’s next on the list?” |
|
| Hansel and Gretel and the Big Bad Wolf David Griffin www.windsweptpress.com |
#3 of 5 |
| 1726 words | |
| A trip to the zoo was not an adventure my grandmother
Gretel would have chosen herself. I’m sure she had very little interest in
the “filthy animals” inhabiting the smelly buildings on the south
side of the city. But, recently widowed and all but forced to live with our
family of Mom, Dad and three young sons … a circus she often called Boys
Town under her breath … the old woman was learning to live with compromise
as well as chaos. A widow didn’t have many choices 60 years ago. My grandmother never bore children of her own. Instead, she married my widowed grandfather, bringing up Mom from age seven as if the two were girlfriends. Mom called her Gretel, and so did us children, a rather forward way to address a matron born in the 1880’s. I can think of no better way to describe Gretel than as a married spinster. If you’ve seen photos of Eleanor Roosevelt, you have a good idea how my grandmother looked and dressed … whether on her way to church, at the beach or wearily digging for spuds in the garden … a big floppy hat, old-lady dress and “sensible” tied shoes adorning her large feet. Her closet held under a dozen dresses, most a buff color with large pockets for work or play, and the others polka-dot on navy blue silk for church and funerals. Overly formal most of the time, Gretel thought of herself as an educated and properly raised lady, which was hardly the truth. I wasn’t very old when she came to live with us, but as a child often will, I had no problem sensing her frustration. As an adult, I now realize a strange resentment burned in her toward those for whom she had become a burden. Terribly frustrated at being destitute, Gretel was unable to voice her anger and rage. From time to time she would act it out. On a sizzling afternoon in August of 1953, the entire family crammed into the old Ford and began our way home from the beach after swimming and a picnic. When my father suggested we stop at the zoo to see the newly acquired buffalo, Gretel’s jaw set itself into a hard line. She was tired after a full day of family frolic, but said nothing. Soon the hot, sticky smell of animal waste rose up to greet us as the car bumped its way into the parking lot in a swirl of road dust and humidity. The family tumbled out of the Ford and walked to the buffalo’s pen, tripping over tufts of grass on the way. We lined up along the worn rail as if a brass band were about to march through the small corral. From the boisterous enthusiasm of my parents, you might guess that inspecting a buffalo was the ultimate small town experience on a Sunday afternoon. You’d be correct. Gretel carefully trudged up to the pen and arrived last, possibly worried that buffalo-watching was unsuitable for a lady. My brothers and I were not at all impressed with the stringy haired beast. Motionless, he stood quietly in the enclosure, munching on grass, a dull look on his countenance. But our degenerate little boy hearts were suddenly won over when he hunched his back like a huge dog and defecated … loudly, proudly and very aromatically. While everyone else whooped and laughed, my poor grandmother swooned and hung on to the fence. Then she grabbed my hand and marched the two of us away. Gretel habitually rescued me from one declasse situation or another. She regarded me as a sensitive and intelligent 9 year old. “You’re the only other inquisitive mind in the neighborhood, Hansel,” she told me, “and that’s not saying much.” Gretel said we walked a narrow civilized path together through the jungle of our working class neighborhood. For a woman interested in the social ladder, she was not very sociable. Although quite different in age, my grandmother and I shared a variety of interests. On family outings, we might wander off together to spy on the birds or inspect an unusual plant or flower, while the others threw a ball back and forth endlessly or nearly drowned themselves in the lake. We often carried on a spirited dialog, my Timaeus playing to her Socrates. But it was decidedly limited in scope, since neither of us had finished the fourth grade. We left the group as they ogled the steaming pile of dung and hunkered up the hill to the zoo’s Animal House to see the monkeys and whatever the hell you call those things that look like giant rats. Dimly lit, the menagerie baked like an oven inside, and smelled much worse than the buffalo pen. Strolling down the aisle past the caged jackals and vermin, Gretel began to chatter through her complete zoological body of knowledge, which would have taken no more than eleven seconds. As we came to a cage smelling so bad the breath caught in my throat, an eerie huffing sound issued forth and echoed around the concrete interior of the building. A huge form lay at the back of the darkened cage. Attached to the railing in front of the heavy bars, a small sign identified the inmate as a male North American Timber Wolf, one of the largest of the species. I couldn't see well into his shadowy den, and the smelly behemoth gave us no sign of recognition. Easily bored, my attention turned to the monkeys across the aisle. I soon became enthralled with the frisky little fellows, but a little puzzled by the intensity of their play. I glanced over at my grandmother only when I noticed her attempts to entice the Goliath out into the light by leaning over the rail and swinging her purse wide to swipe at the bars. My grandmother was a wonderful woman, but somewhere in her past the fairy of self-importance had touched her a little too hard with the uppity stick. Gretel could stand insult and injury, but never disinterest. You could not purposely fail to notice the old woman and live to tell about it. Unbalanced by the beast’s inattention, Gretel opened her purse, pulled out a pack of Tums, peeled one off and flung it through the bars at the animal. She certainly hit him, because I heard a loud grunt, but he remained at rest. She shouted at him, but got no reaction. Something now snapped in my grandmother’s soul and she became infuriated. If her mind had been able to make a sound, I would have heard the click-clack of a bullet being chambered. Spittle formed in the corners of her mouth and her breathing grew short. She hauled off and fired the entire pack of antacids at the huge shaggy beast. A sharp crack sounded inside the cage and the Tums could be heard bouncing around in the dark. The entire zoo suddenly went silent, and even the monkeys came to a dead stop. A feeling of fright ran down my spine. In my mind’s eye, I saw Mr. Wolf thwacked hard on a large canine tooth jutting out from his jaw. This is the main dental hardware a wolf uses to tear apart his victims, like poor innocent kids and annoying old women. My grandmother succeeded in her quest. The beast reacted, but Gretel got about 400 pounds more than she had bargained for. Maybe he was having a bad day. Maybe he was fed up or maybe his tooth had a cavity. Maybe the big cat didn’t like being moved into the cage of a long departed wolf so his own cage could be re-painted. One thing for sure, the King of the Jungle did not gladly suffer an old lady hitting him in the head with a pack of Tums. Mr. Leo Lion lunged off the floor of the wolf cage with a great tearing scrape of his cigar-length claws and flew forward into the light, crashing against the bars in a huge orgasmic rage of roaring, spit and very bad breath. Gretel wet her pants. Lions have an uncanny sense of smell, perhaps 20 times more sensitive than humans. Gretel didn’t know it, but her aggression and urine produced the best imitation of a mating overture this 600 pound male lion had seen in a long time. Big guys like Leo make certain movements when they are ready to mate. These are obvious to any species, even humans, unless you’re a youngster whose attention is elsewhere. Despite Leo’s heavy breathing, the monkeys still grabbed my attention and I lost interest in the Big Bad Boy-Toy. Gretel didn’t. When the family joined us in the Animal House, they found my grandmother had taken out her glasses and was standing at the cage in rapt attention, chewing nervously on her fingernails in time to the lion’s grunting. Across the aisle, I stood transfixed by the monkeys. The little guys and girls were sure having a lot of fun, but their games were getting more and more peculiar. My father joined me at the monkey cage. “What’re they doing, Dad?” I asked. “A War Dance,” he said. “We’d better leave before they attack.” My mother led Gretel away from the lion. I’m sure I saw a look of disappointment in his eyes. I don’t believe my parents ever fully understood Gretel’s feelings of loss and desperation in her first years with us. But they had the good sense to give her more attention after our day with the animals. Eventually my grandmother came to accept her new life with us. And for whatever reason, Mom and Dad never took us back to the zoo. © 2010 David Griffin |
|
| Hansel and Gretel and the Big Bad Wolf Heather Lazarus hjlazarus@gmail.com |
#4 of 5 |
| 156 words | |
| So blow, why don’t you? You think we’ll squeal like pigs? Man, we’ve seen more in these woods than some bad-breathed bozo jonsing for a pork chop. Mama left us in a bad way, some crumbs and a see-you-later, but Pop will have iced her by now, in four days he’ll be over the shakes. So you say you’re smoking us out? All that huffing to spook us? Well we’ve been taking this place down with our bare hands, that bitch of a witch was pimping my sis, but she don’t know what hit her- turned her back and now it’s burn baby burn. Ya, and we know this ain’t the way it’s supposed to go down. We know the story, you think we can’t read? That there should be strawberries and gingerbread and a candy-lesson learned? But I’ll tell you how this one ends. We’re ready for the next course. And we’re thinkin’ it’s gonna taste a lot like chicken. |
|
| Hansel and Gretel and the Big Bad Wolf Rachel Bailey rstriffolino@yahoo.com |
#5 of 5 |
| 2476 words | |
| Hans wakes up to a pounding headache so bad his
eyelashes hurt. He looks around having no idea what has happened. He notices
his bedroom door is torn off the hinges and there is broken glass everywhere.
“Greta! Where the fuck are you?” He stumbles out of his room.
“Greta!” He goes downstairs to the kitchen. He notices the trail of blood on the tile. Hans hears distant shallow breathing. He follows the trail to the kitchen pantry and slowly opens the door. “Mom?” His mother is lying in a pool of blood and brain matter, he can hardly recognize her smashed in face. She starts shaking vigorously on the floor and begins to choke on her own blood. Hans grabs a kitchen knife and stabs her until she stops breathing. Greta races down the stairs screaming Han’s name. “Greta I’m in the kitchen, stop fucking screaming!” “What’s going on? What the hell happened? Did we do this?” said Greta “I am going to guess you don’t know what happened either.” said Hans “All I remember is getting fucked up and from then on it’s all a blur. There is no way we could have done this and not remember.” said Greta “We did a lot of shots last night.” said Greta “But shots don’t make you kill people.” said Hans “Holey shit! Where is dad?” said Greta. They both look at each other and start to run back up the stairs calling his name. No one answered. They searched everywhere and all they could see was a blood trail leading to their parents walk-in closet. They looked at each other once again and slowly opened the closet door and see their dad mangled and hung with a sheet attached to the light fixture. There was cigarette burns all over his body and the smell of burnt flesh engulfed the room. “Jesus Christ why did we burn his face. What the fuck are we going to do!” said Greta “We got to leave. We can’t stay around and get caught.” said Hans “Where are we going to go?” asked Greta “Enough with the god damn questions. We have to go! God only knows what the neighbors heard or when all of this happened. Get some shit packed up and we got to go. Grab all of dad’s money in the safe and I will go through the jewelry. We are going to need all of the money we can get.” said Hans. “You got to clean up Hans you have got blood all over you.” said Greta. They both pull their dad down from the light fixture and take a shower together. After the shower they packed their things. “Grab dad’s keys we are running away in style.” Greta takes the keys to the black Lincoln Town Car that he would never let anyone touch and heads to the garage. “Don’t even think about it I’m driving.” Hans beats her to the driver’s seat. “Whatever, Greta laughs. It’s a good thing dad is dead because seeing you drive this car would have killed him.” “Full of jokes today Greta, just full of jokes. Get in the car. I just hope the when we open the garage door we don’t see a swat team.” “Now you got me nervous.” Greta hesitates to push the button but gathers the nerve and the garage door slowly opens. Both Hans and Greta say nothing as the squeaking and rattling of the garage door lights up the inside of the garage. Hans and Greta are frozen, neither one of them want to look back to the street. “Greta is it clear?” Greta finally looks back and takes a big sigh of relief and motions for Hans to go. “What the fuck does that mean? Can I go or not?” “Yes, yes you can go everything looks normal. I’m sorry I just couldn’t get the words out. Go Hans, just pull onto the street. It’s all clear!” yelled Greta. Hans pulls the car out casually like he is going for a Sunday stroll. “Nice we are on our way. Well I would say I am still drunk, but waking up to dead parents and a crime scene fit for a television show really sobers you up. If I could only get rid of this hangover. My head hurts so bad I can feel everyone of my eyelashes.” said Hans “My heart fells like it is pounding out of my chest and right back into my throat. My nose is so dry, and my throat feels like cotton laced with rusty nails.” said Greta “It’s probably all that coke you snorted. That will dry you up pretty good. I think we need some food it will fuel us up a little and hopefully get rid of this god damn hangover.” said Hans “I don’t know about eating but I could sure use the largest fountain coke ever invented, and then well see about a cheeseburger and fries.” said Greta “I’m going to get three pancakes and four slices of the greasiest bacon they have. This place looks good.” said Hans. Hans and Greta pull into the parking lot of a restaurant. “Hey you want to smoke this before we go inside?” Hans takes a couple of hits and passes it to Greta. “Great now I’m gonna smell like weed and tequila going into this lovely family restaurant.” said Greta “I bet you won’t find that on the kids menu. Hey do you think they will have strawberries to go on my pancakes? “Alright I fucked up enough lets go in and eat some food.” As they were seated in the restaurant, Hans orders his pancakes and Greta gulps down two cokes awaiting her cheeseburger and fries. “Well what do we do from here?” “Well I could lie to you and say I have a plan, but I don’t. The only thing I can do is just drive until I can think of something. The good thing is we have enough money to make it on the run for a decent amount of time.” “Good, I am so glad I have such a smart beautiful brother that takes care of me.” “Yes, you are very lucky we get to run away for life. Some reward.” “Hey there is a land of opportunities out there for us. We can runaway to the country and build us a log cabin, live off the land I say!” she laughs “You are so high, running away yes, your Little House on the Prairie dreams not so much. Just finish your cheeseburger so we can get out of here you big junkie.” he laughs. Hans and Greta were laughing so much they could hardly pay the bill. “Oh my gosh, now I remember why I can’t get high with you out in public.” Hans wiped the tears from his eyes still laughing as he is getting into the car. “What’s a matter Pa aint you got the money to fix the wagon so we can get the lumbar too the mill.” “Greta, shut the fuck up I can’t drive and laugh like this.” “Alright no more prairie jokes but you have to admit it’s pretty funny.” “Yes Greta you are a regular comedian. Pretty soon we have to switch plates on this car, so keep an eye out for another black Lincoln.” Hans and Greta drive half the night before they spotted an Lincoln that they could switch plates with parked in a nearby restaurant. “You go into the restaurant and order some food and I will switch plates.” Greta did as she was told and Hans was ready to switch plates. Greta sits down at the booth and orders two cokes and waits for Hans. It seemed like an eternity but Hans finally joins her. “Did you switch them out?” “Yep, we are good for another couple hundred miles.” “You are the best brother in the world.” “Are you ready to order?” asked the waitress “I will take the patty melt and she will have a cheeseburger and onion rings.” Hans and Greta eat their food and continue on with their road trip. “I think we should head east.” “Why east?” asked Greta “Well I figure everyone always runs south, if we run east no one will be looking for us there.” “Its been hours of driving can we get a hotel room soon?” “We will see. I was thinking about driving overnight and heading to Idaho.” “Why Idaho, who runs away to Idaho.” “That’s my point baby sister, duh.’ “Brilliant. Corn fields here we come.” “Hey stupid, Idaho is the land of the potatoes.” “Whatever, can we stay at that hotel it looks pretty good Hans please, you should rest.” “I wasn’t planning on stopping this early, but I am pretty tired. A shower and a good nights sleep sounds pretty good.” Hans pulled in the hotel room and headed towards the little office. Greta starts to get things organized, but she keeps a close eye on Hans. Hans Hurries back to the car with the hotel key in hand. “I got us a king size bed. I am going to take a shower and after that you owe me a peaceful night.” The hotel room was pretty, Greta jumped up and down on the bed like a little kid. “I’m taking a shower.” “Alright, sounds good.” Greta slips into some comfy pajamas and waits for Hans to get out of the shower. “What are you doing?” asked Hans “Just lay down on the bed and I will tuck you in. I’ll take care of you.” “Oh my gosh Greta you are the best.” “I’m going to get some rest now.” Hans lays on the bed and looks at Greta smiles and closes his eyes. Hours passed by and Hans was still asleep in the hotel room. He woke up to some strange voices outside their door. He turns around in bed to look for Greta but she wasn’t there. Then he hears her laughing. He springs up from bed and grabs his pants and opens their door. “Greta, what the fuck are you doing?” “I’m just having a drink with my new friends. This is Robert and Frankie.” “Greta, I don’t care who the fuck they are. Why the fuck are you drunk.” “Hey big bro we are just drinking some tequila and chasing it with a little beer and I am not drunk! Chill out.” “Yeah, let the girl have some fun.” said Frankie. Frankie grabs her waist. “She has to do something for all this liquor we bought her.” “Get your fucking hands off my sister. Greta get the fuck in the room.” screamed Hans “Look let the lady decide what she wants to do.” said Frankie. “I am going to ask you one more time to get your hands off my fucking sister and if you don’t I am going to fucking kill you.” “Hans settle down I’ll go to the room, just stop.” pleaded Greta. “Nope little lady you are going with us.” Frankie pulls her arm. Hans grabs the tequila bottle and smashes it across Frankie’s head and he falls to the floor. Robert grabs his knife and stabs Hans in the ribs. “What did you do?” She screams and hits Robert in the face with a beer bottle. Frankie and Robert stumble down the hallway while Hans and Greta stager to their room. “God damnit Greta why? We were so close to being free. Why did you have to fuck things up?” Hans wraps a towel around his waist and heads to the car. “Grab your shit we gotta go now!” “Alright but at least let me drive.” yelled Greta running to the car. “You can’t drive! Your fucking drunk!” “I’m sorry Hans. I’m so sorry!” “Just get in!” Hans struggles to get the keys in the ignition. “Hey mother Fucker!” Hans turns his head. Greta turns to the drivers side and there is a loud gunshot. Hans slumps over the steering wheel and the inside of the windshield is covered in blood. “No! no! no! Hans please, please. I’ll never do anything bad again just wake up please, please, please.” She lifts his head and sees brain matter on her hands. She starts to cry and scream. The cops show up and see Greta in the car crying. “Maam step out of the car!” The police offer yells. “That’s my brother! That’s my brother!” she screams. Later on after the police finally got Greta out of the car and to the police station, they fingerprinted her. “What’s going on with her?” asked Detective Rainer. “Well you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” answered Detective Burnett. “Try me.” “We got called on the scene to a gunshot victim. When we got there we saw this little teenage girl holding our victim. She wouldn’t let anyone touch the body. We had to use pepper spray to remove her. She kept repeating that it was her brother but that’s all she would say. We got her back to the police station and fingerprinted her. This is where the story gets good.” “Okay.” “Well when her fingerprints came back it showed she was a missing person from Sacramento California. It seems that her and her brother, well their parents were murdered in Sacramento.” “Holey shit, did they murder their parents?” “No, it seems that their parents were big time drug dealers and had a guy by the name of Thomas Wolf, one of their drug runners. Well this Thomas Wolf decided to rob them one night, needless to say it was a robbery that went very bad. Mr. Wolf couldn’t get the money out of this safe they had so he tried to torture it out of the father, but he never got the safe open. At the crime scene the safe was open so the officers knew he was lying. “Wow. Did the kids see any of this?” “Thomas Wolf said there was no kids around so the police thought he just murdered the kids somewhere else.” “So what were the kids doing in Kansas?” “That’s what we can’t figure out. We tried to talk to the girl but she keeps repeating the same thing. Hopefully you can have better luck.” “I’ll try my best. This sounds like one hell of a case.” said Detective Rainer. The detective opens the door to the interview room and sits down. “What are you doing in Kansas? What happened to you guys?” Greta didn’t even look at the detective she just stared at the floor. “That’s my brother. That’s my brother.” The detective tried several times and eventually left the room. Greta still stared. “That’s my brother. That’s my brother. |
|