The Three Not-So-Little Porkers – A Twisted Fairy Tale!

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Note: This is my piece of writing that won a place on the Showcase Bookcase in my school – enjoy!

Let’s have a little chat about ‘The Three Little Pigs’. Classic fairy tale: trio of porkers, big bad wolf, he blows to houses down, third pig gets revenge and everyone lives happily ever after. Almost everyone seems to believe this sugar-coated porky pie and nobody has heard me speak up before. I’m the wolf: Wolfy dé Wolfa alá Carté Costa Ice Cream Martinéz Belle Pepper Rodriguez Gogo Pasha délá I-Have-Very-Nice-Fur Growl Wolf. You can call me Wolf. My friends (yes, I have friends) call me that, but my nickname is Mozart (Wolfgang Amedeus Mozart…you get the idea). People hate wolves. It could be because of our appearance – hey, I’m not the one who decides we’re born big and ugly. You’ve just got to learn to love us! The fairytale you’ve heard is totally wrong – yes, your parents have been telling you fibbies! I’m going to present to you the TRUE story, which is all about an asthmatic wolf and a missing inhaler…

Way back yonder, in a time when fairy tales were the bee’s knees, I used to live in Far Far Away – you know, the place where a little ogre named ‘Shrek’ lived. Now, back in the day, I had a terrible case of asthma, and on this particular day, my inhaler was missing! I checked my house:

  • Top to bottom
  • Left to right
  • Back to front

I scoured every nook and cranny, but my inhaler was nowhere to be seen.

Then, it hit me! I could just trot along to my neighbour’s house and inquire there – genius! So I sauntered down Fairy Avenue until I reached my neighbour. Now, you see, pigs are probably the dumbest animals in the universe (after humans – no offence) and my neighbour was, sadly, a pig. God couldn’t be that cruel to him! This pig must have lost his marbles, though: his house was made completely out of cotton wool – it ruins the quality of the pig juices, you know. So it’s no mystery why I accidentally ripped out the door when I tried to knock on it. The cotton wool got stuck to my fur and there were several clouds of the stringy white stuff floating in the air. What a shock to the ecosystem. It’s bad manners to barge into somebody else’s house demanding a missing inhaler, and I didn’t want to make a downright rude first impression by doing that, so I gave him a little yodel:

“Little Pig, have you gone to market and are you still at home?”

To my disappointment, he didn’t yodel back. I had nearly agreed on the decision of wasting my money on another stupid inhaler when a tingling sensation took hold of my chest: my asthma was kicking in. I spluttered; I coughed; I ‘poofed’ down the house – unbelievable, huh? My asthma must have been stronger than I thought! Then do you know what happened next? When the dust cleared, I caught sight of the first little porker: lifeless as a hamburger. He hadn’t gone to market after all! Now, I knew that when somebody dies, they bury the body, but I couldn’t let them do it to this perfect meal, so I did the only thing I could to help him: I ate him up.  Imagine it was the question ‘Do you want to eat me?’ and the options were ‘yes’ and ‘yes’. No choice, right?

My asthma had calmed down, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t come back! So, I set off to the next closest house in search of my pesky inhaler. This next house was the abode of the first little pig’s brother: Pigsby The Second. Yeah, he was a pig, but he was even more crazy than normal: he suffered from a mental condition. He would just change personalities this way and that. You would never know what he was going to say next! This was a genuine mental pig on the loose! Poor Pigsby’s condition also affected his common sense – his house was constructed of sticks. When I knocked on the door, I heard a slight cracking noise, but it remained stable. I decided to call out, “Little Pig, have you gone to market or are you still at home?”

And guess what he said? “Take a hike, Wolf, you’re trespassing; leave me to rest and stop fussing!”

Then he said, “Oh wait, you can.”

“But he can’t!”

“Maybe he can.”

“He’s a wolf!”

“And?”

“He’ll eat us!”

“So? I like being eaten!”

“You total ninny! You’ve gone nuts!”

“No, you’re nuts!”

“Wait, we’re both nuts! Hahaha!”

As the lunatic waffled on, I felt yet another weird sensation rising inside of me: I spluttered; I coughed; I ‘poofed’ down the house! You’ll never guess what happened next – that whole stick house fell flat to the ground! In the sea of debris was the second hog: ready for basting. He’d have done better to go to market. Now, the authorities would bury this guy too, so obviously, I had to help him: I ate him up. Think of it as a double deed for a good cause.

My stomach was now terribly full (there went my diet) and still, I hadn’t uncovered the secret location of my inhaler! So, the only choice I had was to walk up to the house right in front of me: the home of Pigsby Sr. I gave this pig just a little ounce of respect because of his brains: his house was made completely out of brick-hard bricks – well, the point was that it was bricks. I rang the doorbell (modern!) but nobody responded. I called, “Little Pig, have you gone to market, or are you still at home?”

And you won’t believe what he jabbered back:

“Get outta here, Wolf – don’t you dare touch my house ever again!”

I was just going to give him a piece of my mind when I felt another asthmatic reaction coming on: I spluttered; I wheezed; I ‘poofed’ down…a flower. Then old Senior yelled, “Missing inhaler, my foot!” Now that set me off, and at the perfect time, too. The police drove up just when I was making a scene, pounding on his door. I was locked up and shut up…until now…

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He Came Back To Cornwall

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He came back to Cornwall.

He came back from the war with a bloody arm, a bandaged leg and a few scars on his face. He came back from the war to find his dear family in their little village. He came back from the war, but he wasn’t expecting this.

The year was 1919. After spending a few more months in London, he finally decided to travel back to his hometown. He needed to feel warmth again, he needed to feel love and happiness, and his lovely little Cornwall was just the place for that.

Lugging his rucksack on his back, he walked into St Mawes, not knowing what to expect when he knocked on the door of his house. Maybe shouts of his name or crying or laughing and hugging. He walked through the streets filled with desolate but running shops, and many grey houses. They were tilted and uneven, like buildings from a fairy tale.

He walked further into the village, people eyeing him strangely as they passed him. Then he found it. Right in front of him was his childhood home, still standing as it had been 27 years ago.

Shuffling nervously up to the wooden door, he gave it a slow tap, creating a deep, hollow sound. There was a sudden scrambling inside, and then the lock clicked. The door creaked open, and the face of a middle-aged woman, wet with tears, met him. It was his mother, and as he looked over her shoulder, he spotted his father, sister and brother.

Hastily, his mother wiped her tears away. “Oh, hello,” she sniffled, “Um, who are you?”

He was puzzled. Why wouldn’t his own mother remember him? “It’s me, Mum. Your son!”

“Son?” she repeated, “My dear boy, you must be mistaken!”

“Who is it?” his father coughed.

“It’s a young man. He’s come back from the war. He says he’s our son!”

“Son? Poor thing, you can’t be! It’s all that war business getting to your head! Old Matthew, he…he, um, he died.”

Surely this was a dream, or some kind of practical joke! How would his own family forget him, and, what’s more, say that he was deceased? He simply couldn’t believe it.

“But…” he whispered, “But I’m Matthew!”

“Matthew was killed at the start of the war by a bomb in London.” his mother said firmly but not unkindly. “Do come in though, dear. You must be worn out!”

Silently, he stepped through the doorway, shutting the door behind him. “Thank you.” he murmured.

“This is Sarah and John.” his mother said, gesturing to his sullen-faced brother and sister. He did not respond.

Later on, they all sat down at the table in the kitchen, which was very familiar to Matthew. They had a dinner of corned beef and morsels of bread, and then they all retired to their bedrooms.

He had some trouble dozing off, and it seemed like a few seconds when he woke up again, realising that something was shaking his side. He widened his eyes and turned his head, only to find his ginger cat, Oliver. It was early dawn, and it would need feeding. He got up and walked into the kitchen, the floor making the occasional creak. Then he remembered. Oliver had died before the war.

He dropped the bowl he was holding onto the floor. It made a loud crash, sure to wake someone up. He turned around. The cat was not there. Frantically, he ran up the hallway to the other bedrooms, not finding anyone. He ran outside, meeting with cold, icy air biting into his cheeks. The village looked deserted. Then he saw something coming up the street. Oliver. He was dazed, confused, not understanding what was happening. He turned back to return to the house, only to be pushed to the floor by another man. It was his father, and he was armed with a gun.

“Heil Hitler.” he whispered. The family followed: “Heil Hitler!”

Then the father pulled the trigger, and then it was the end. If only he hadn’t felt the urge to come back home. If only he was ordered to stay in London. But he still arrived. He came back to Cornwall.

Hansel & Gretel – A Twisted Tale!

 

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You’ve probably heard of the tale of Hansel and Gretel. They sound like really nice people who help around and save people from witches – but they aren’t. They are actually horrid witch hunters practicing the Dark Arts.

My sister, Alexis, was a good witch who wanted to save people from the Dark witches and wizards. But then she died and I watched it all from a window. From then on, I hid in the forest and tried to find a way to get revenge on Hansel and Gretel. Of course, I knew that it was virtually impossible, but something deep inside me, something that raged fiercely like a fire, pushed me more and more.

It all started on a cool spring day. The sparrows were tweeting away happily in the havens of leaves above. Sunshine illuminated every part of the forest. Everything seemed perfect. Me and Alexis had finally finished building the candy house for children and adults who were lost in the woods. It had shiny windows made of sugar, scrumptious gingerbread walls and a door created with the finest chocolate in the world. A fence of candy canes and strawberry string acted as a border around the dwelling. There was a small space left for a gate built of marzipan. All of it was finished off with a shortbread door knocker and a single cookie stepping stone.

“The people will absolutely love this!” said Alexis excitedly, a huge smile on her face.

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Later on in the day, I went to collect some food from the forest whilst Alexis stayed at the house. With me, I took my satchel and dark blue travelling cloak. I managed to gather enough mushrooms and wild berries for both of us. When I came back, I heard several voices inside, Alexis’, a man’s and woman’s. Suddenly, there was a loud smash. I looked through one of the windows and saw the owners of the other voices inside. The woman, who was dressed head to toe in dark-coloured clothes, was rushing to to get a broom and clean up a pile of shattered glass. Meanwhile, the man was apologising to Alexis for his sister’s ‘foolish actions’. He was clad in a checkered shirt, with colours of green and red blending together, and baggy, patched trousers. Then, I realised that a brown stick was sticking out of a pouch in each of their trousers. They had ancient runes and symbols carved on them. I couldn’t believe it! Could they be Hansel and Gretel? But if they were, why were they being so friendly?

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Alexis went over to turn the oven on. As she twisted a knob, orangey-blue flames blazed behind the glass pane. She opened the oven door and walked over to a two-tiered cake sitting on the worktop. Just as she turned around, Hansel and Gretel immediately leapt to their feet, got their wands out and pointed them at Alexis, who suddenly started screaming. I wanted to go and help her, but my foot was being held captive by a gnarled vine snaking out of the ground. I pulled and tugged but it was no use. An impenetrable plant. Inside, the treacherous witch hunters waved their wands over to a spot in front of the open oven. Alexis was dragged to the same location.

“Ha! You thought you could hide from us? You were wrong!” yelled Gretel.

“W-W-What do y-you- want?” Alexis spluttered.

“You know what,” replied Hansel, evil drifting around in his voice. “We want to rid the world of all the good witches and wizards.”

Then, without warning, they stuck their wands out even further and shouted in unison, “TIMORIOS ET MORTEMIS!!!”

A strong wind blew through the house and splintered the window, making my cloak billow out behind me. I nearly fell back but managed to regain balance. Alexis jerked and choked. Then she staggered back and fell into the oven. Her screams were most unpleasant. It lasted for about half a minute and then there was only silence. The vine holding my foot released. Smash! A long object crashed through another of the sugar windows, shattering the peace that had once deluged the woods. I ran deep into the forest and went into hiding. One might say that I went crazy after spending such a long time in the woods, but they don’t know the truth. And as for Hansel and Gretel, well, I’ve heard they’re going to twist the tale again.

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