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The Fairy Tales Resurrected…
This collection of dark and disturbing tales is a retelling of our classic stories with a sharp return to the wicked absurdity of their original intent. The familiar characters break free from their prison of ethical chains. Meet them now unearthed from the coffin where their souls have gone to die. Beware, these fairy tales are written for adults.
Pieced together from the skeletal remains of plot points long forgotten, the fairy tales will rise from the grave to enthrall and entertain, as they have for countless generations. The reader is forced to face the depraved villainy of our ancestral heritage in these nefarious tales retold.
From melodic rhyme, to a prose frenetic and intense, each story is crafted to linger like a haunted lullaby. The pages are waves of madness that will toss your moral vessel adrift within the swelling seas of your mind. Prepare for a storm that will threaten to capsize and shatter your ship of fragile values. Let the aural fabric of the fairy tales echo through our culture once more.
Jack skipped across water to the very door of his home, bursting with inner pride and joy. For love of God, he wished he’d had a trumpeter, or a flugelist, or a cockerel to announce his grand arrival. “Mum! I’ve settled the family affairs for all time. Bow before me you filthy swine!”, and his hand thrust magnificently towards the heavens, heralding the magic beans.
“You’ve sold the cow for a handful of beans! You rascal, child! I’ll beat the life out of you for this!” swore his mother, in disgust and outrage. A slight woman, and starved gaunt by years of privation, Jack’s mother yet wielded a determined, ferocious temper when her wrath was summoned. Switch in hand, the spritely red faced witch chased Jack out the room and about the yard, whipping him mercilessly, and, in his efforts to protect himself from the onslaught, Jack flailed the precious beans he knew not where.
Exhausted, panting, sweat pooling at her chin, and soaking the collar of her shirt, mother took o a chair to recover, threatening, “you just wait until your father comes home!”, and Jack sighed with relief. They had heard nothing about his father for two years, since he had been conscripted to soldier in the king’s army, against an obscure enemy in far flung lands. Mother was now in tears.
Both retired to their rooms without a word, and starving, as they had nothing to eat. Jack felt hard done by, and clenched his fists in resentment and wounded honour for some time before drifting off into the land of the elves. An uneasy sleep, haunted by the goblins and ghouls of the other world and their horrendous yips and moans, before coming to at what should have been the
break of dawn.
“Well, well, Little Miss Red! Fine to see you here. How do you do? Are you off somewhere, or can we lie by the river and let the blades of grass tickle our bare feet?”
“Wolf! I thought you weren’t near. But here you are!” The honey in her voice drove Wolfie mad. Her hood hugged fetchingly around her. “It’s been some time.”
“The present is what matters, Miss.” He was overcome at first and blurted out an salacious invitation unbecoming his role, but quickly composed himself for the occasion. Obliging, gentle and tame. “I’m glad to see you safe and well.”
“Why thank you, Wolf! Thank the stars you’re here! I’m all alone in the woods, and I was feeling quite afraid. Luckily the sun’s come up just now. But I’d still appreciate an escort. I’d love to lie in the grass beside the river for a little. Will you accompany me? What a kind offer. Come with me over here.” And she reached out for Wolfie’s paw.
With his paw resting in her little hand, Wolfie was led a few steps off the path, but just for a moment. Wolfie knew this wasn’t right. He savoured her touch, and one day it would be all the sweeter.
“On second thought, Miss, you go on and indulge with a little nap near the river by yourself this time. I’m really not in circumstances which allow me to dawdle. Until we meet again, my dear.” And Wolfie looked longingly over his shoulder as he turned from Little Red back onto the path he had chosen for himself. Wolf felt some of the pain of a loss, but it was overwhelmed by his sense of self-respect. All the sweeter he said to himself, and then grinned in anticipation. Even more so as he took off at a trot towards another fantasy adventure.
It would take a discerning observer indeed to make sense of Little Red at this moment. The slightest hint of disappointment, perhaps, well disguised? A vindictive, steely, self-determination that flashes by? A shrug and a shake of annoyance and acceptance. Then a shadow of concern. Was something not right about that encounter? Something about that Wolf. He didn’t seems quite right. She had seen him, of course, just recently skulking about the cottage. Peeked in her window once, the cheeky prick. And his long looks at Grandma hadn’t escaped her attention either. That son of a bitch wouldn’t dare! Would he? Better be safe.
Little Red took off in a skip and a scamper through the thicket and thatch of the hairy undergrowth of the forest. Relieved in her belief that Wolfie would trot along at a measured pace, prognosticating his wicked plan, Red raced along the tops of the flowers with ease and grace, far outpacing Wolfie and arriving at the cottage with time enough to spare.
In late summer of the child’s first year, a fierce heat flooded the land from the west, burning the crops before harvest had begun. From murders of scavenging blackbirds, to swarms of locusts that blot out the sun, and a rain of frogs falling splat from the sky after a thunderous storm, ill omen beset King Ikarl into autumn.
Night fell early on the tenth day of the tenth month as a blanket of black cloud covered the earth in shadow. Candles walked wearily through the dark silence of the sweating palace walls. One such light was lifted by the hand of the Queen herself, shook from her sleep by a clap of thunder, and stirred by faint whispers from the thick of the dark. Always and ever but steps just ahead of her, Luddy was lured with a snap. Through rooms and through halls, she heeds evil’s call to spring her malevolent trap.
Opening now the heavy door of the storeroom, the vanishing light of her candle blew through the stores of hay and illuminated the elf man, head bowed, seated on a stool before the miller’s daughter once again.
“I have come for the child.”
“You mustn’t!” The Queen pleaded.
A sudden rage erupted from the dwarf, as his face boiled, he leapt clear his height and plunged violently into the stones, cracking one considerably with the stomp of his tiny foot.
“The child is mine, you slithering slime! I’ll curse your whole family disease! Famine and drought, hobbled with gout, you’ll scrape and you’ll beg on your knees! You’re nothing! You’re crap! You’re wretched and foul! And I will enslave your miserable soul!”
“Great Goblin grant me one last gasp of hope before you drown me in the ocean of despair! I beg of you, for anything that I have to give, it is yours! I have riches beyond counting. Gems the size of a child’s foot. Ancient and powerful amulets, rings and bracelets. I can satisfy your heed, your greed, your every need, but let my child alone!”
“My patience stretches thin! Your treasures now are worthless tin. The child I’ll 24 take and make it mine, ere love will conquer Nuck in time. I’ll cast aside the chains and purse, and lift from under evil’s curse. We made a bargain, you and I, And you will honour thy word!”
“I will not break my oath. Find favour in your cruelty, and do with me what you will, but grant me this last flicker of time!”
“In the dark of night, when the raven takes flight from your window sill, Princess, you’ll come. With child in your arms, no tricks or cheap charms, you will hand the child over to me. Defy me once more and me dear I assure you my mercy will not match my wrath. ”
Wolfie stalked out that clearing well, and in his addictively competitive way, wore out dozens of forest paths snaking through the surroundings, in preparation. He would mutter to himself, rehearsing interactions, agreeing, disagreeing, pleading, persuading, became irate with himself once or twice, and bumped into a tree, huffing eureka, nearly falling in the stream when finding the right words to complete his ditty:
Piggy, little piggy, let me come in! No?! Then I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in!
Wolfie would tumble around in ecstatic laughter, wild eyes bulging and wet, then shut tightly in unendurable hilarity, gasping for breath.
Wolfie, having arranged his network of forest paths to his liking, moved off from the clearing he had named Piggy Trap, giving space and time for these three young oinkers to establish themselves on this ripe piece of real estate. Surely these piggies weren’t so stupid as to not notice the smell of wolf in the vicinity. But, given time, they would be lulled into feeling secure. Wolf would let that time ripen further. In the fall, he would return to a triumphant and glorious feast on these three arrogant hams. Wolfie was off at a trot into the shadows of sunset.
I realize you don’t know our piggies all that well at this point. Nor am I going to dive into the details of their upbringing, or their childhood experiences. That may be well and good, that you would clamour for some snippet or anecdote telling you more about each of the piggies, in your insatiable greed, your lust, your passion to know all. All you need know of the piggies will be told in this one character revealing tale.
Curious that despite all their other markings of civilization, like their adorable green patterned lederhosen, or their slightly German accent when they spoke English, their native language by the way, these pigs didn’t actually have proper names, as you would well expect. They were simply called piggy number One, piggy number Two, and piggy number Three. They were the surviving three of a litter of thirteen, all these many years later. Best not to dwell on the fates of the others too much. Yes, some are interesting, and maybe more, one is extraordinary after all. But piggies One, Two, and Three are the focus of our tale.
They had received equivalent educations, were loved equally by their parents, shared equally in chores and community activities, and yet, as you will see, how very different could be the inclinations of these three little porkers. When, many years later, mother came to know of the doings and happenings of her little piglets, she was overcome with conflicting emotions, tearing her in one direction and the next. She suffered a psychotic collapse, and was rushed to hospital. She lived on another 26 months or so, but only as a shell of her former vivacious piggy self. She was listless and distracted, never quite recovering from the shock, and slowly slipped into the sorrow of eternal slumber.
Wild and free the wind blows, but not so free as Mei Ji, so the fellows used to
say of her. The fierce swirls of her youth compounded into a hurricane, leaving her
penniless, barren and prematurely aged. Mei Ji sought help from the wise monks in the
mountain. Mounted ignobly on an ass, Mei Ji would spend three seasons traveling 1900
leagues into the godly city in the sky in search of some magic to alleviate the tragedy
of her predicament.
Many are the stories of Mei Ji along the path to her destination, and you will
hear tell of them in time. But we are eager to relate later consequences of this odyssey and
will not be delayed.
The monks received Mei Ji coldly, yet with the grace of an enlightened hospitality.
Those monks in the godly city in the sky will surprise you. They agreed to supply Mei
Ji with all she desired. After one night, in a cold, barren cell available to visitors, Mei Ji
was summoned before the break of dawn. Under a cold cloudless starry terror, she was
led to the precipice of a grave decision.
Mei Ji was quite unaware as to the gravity of her choice. Mei Ji approached a
ledge upon which several monks stoically awaited, having brought her ass, loaded and
prepared to depart. Mei Ji was presented with a peach on a tray. Without further
ceremony, as I believe was the intent of the monks after all, to be done with Mei Ji as
soon as possible, for something wicked in her nature disturbed them, Mei Ji tore open
the peach and devoured it.
Thus she departed on her ass, thrilled at her success. Dawn burst upon Mei Ji and
her heart responded. For another three seasons, she rode her trusty ass down from the
golden city in the sky. Each step rejuvenated our blackened heroine in spirit and, in fact,
in body. The peach, some say, was watered from the elixir of life, the fountain of youth
if you will, restoring one to a previous age. Within nine months Mei Ji regressed twenty
years, regaining much in vivacity and appeal, yet retaining the wisdom she had so painfully, shamefully acquired. Almost her most welcome surprise.
Mei Ji bore child along the journey down. Mere days before reaching her village,
the child came.
After an hour of rest the mother sets out, shielding herself from the tense desperation of her two daughters. Through the tangled streets and lanes the witch will weave, into the very splendour of wealth and title. A widow she was and all well knew, her husband had died from an horrific flu. So the doctor said, but he wasn’t quite sure. Something wasn’t right, something impure and sinister. And now she’s received amongst all once again. Her days of the black have now come to an end. Act she must, for her funds won’t last. A husband she’ll catch, but she must hook fast. Each day her attraction so slightly it fails, and you have to look right if you hope to hook whales. She’s come with intention, a purpose, a plan. She’s shopping for fortune in the form of a man.
And find him she does! An estate by a lake, a forest out back, a cart she might take. Not the wealth of a duke, but comfort instead, meat with her supper, butter on her bread. Enough to present to the public her girls, invited to balls, where the two might whirl with those belonging to the upper set. The mother’s ambition would set them up yet. The man was but nothing, he inherits the lot, with some nominal title that the court has forgot. A daughter he has, Ella her name, you know her by another, the source of her fame. Calm down and be patient, this meal will be served. You will be fed with the treat you deserve.
A life of modest indulgence was enjoyed by all that mattered. Ella’s father died, leaving all he had to his wife of less than a year, heart attack assumed the local apothecary, the doctor engaged for the moment with an horrific birth of a monster. In truth the wicked coven had conspired in murder and delight. The grave was pre-dug. In some witchy wickedness, the corpse was interred standing up, the narrow hole an astonishing thirteen feet deep, like a post or a pillar, a crux on the east, where the evil winds blow.
And what of the daughter? Keep her, a slave. She’ll cook and she’ll clean, and have the beds made. She’ll know the way you like how dinner is laid. She’ll scrub and she’ll fetch and roll over and play. She’ll mend and tend and off she’ll be sent to suffer the hours in errands we’ve spent. Lock her in the cellar and I’ll keep the key. And perhaps from her labour we’ll gather a fee. There must be some way to profit from her toil. She’ll dig and she’ll seed and she’ll nourish the soil! A garden we’ll keep, and some sheep and a cow. Goats and some chickens, a horse and a sow. Lots of farm animals Ella will raise. We’ll fill her life full so she’ll not feel malaise. Her life will be hard, but saintly and true. Her soul will not suffer as her body will do. We’ll leave her this comfort to soothe her in plight, for we can’t escape the balance between the dark and the light.
A candle each month, a cloak and some hay, however will you thank us, Ella? We’ll have to find a way! Then she’s booted down the stairs in a splendid bit of fun. Or she’s first to go in a game they play, called slap her face and run. They pull her hair, her clothes they tear, they push and punch and swear. But Ella took the higher ground, and seldom does she care about the tortures they performed on her, she breathed a freer air. Ella held aloof from all, considered them a selfish herd, their lust and greed and sloth and hate, ambition all absurd. In nature Ella found her peace, and all her love returned by the trees and plants and animals, whose secret lives she learned.
Ella listened to the blackbird’s cry, up in the canopy. He wondered whither true love lay? Where could his soulmate be? The rabbit, still within the brush, is tense in mortal fear. Something triggers startled shock amongst a pack of deer. The eggs are wary in the nests of snake and fox and rat. Something wicked this way comes, presaged by the bats. All the forest feels a curse has set upon the land. The witches are a darkness. They are Nuck’s left hand.
“If only they could see the glorious future I have mapped out for them. I see waste and spoil wherever I look, and all that is needed is the fine management of a superior mind. The consensus is the disease! The representation of the people is but a needless irrelevance. Vie! The day he may die!”
Just then, taking shape from the tangled dark itself, came an elderly woman with a weaved wicker basket, covered and slung in the crook of her arm. The dark came with her. A cloud suddenly blighted the sky. A wilt took hold of the leaves as she passed. Polly, mired in his own woe, felt the looming shadow as a reflection of his own sorrowful spirit, a companion to his soul. And perhaps she is. She is Nuck. And she is a bringer of ill omen. Closer now, Polly was overwhelmed, “Egads! Woman! your breath is polluted!”
It was too late. A hoary palm conjured forth from beneath the cover among her wicked wicker wares a pill of purple powder which she pulverized and puffed into poor Prince Polly’s visage. Polly wailed in torment as he shrunk like a frightened turtle, within three teary blinks, into an repugnant fat frog the size of a child’s foot. The evil, noxious Nuck gripped the frog in her skeletal claws, and poor Prince Polly’s body burst out in bubbles between her fingers. Polly was strangled into silence, and feared for his very life.
“You will suffer, you selfish entitled adolescent. The lives of the people are not play things for your amusement or pride. You are punished to live as an odious amphibian until the day you can prove a creature worse than you. I wish you misery!” Nuck arms and legs synchronize astoundingly accurate to the most exquisite trebuchet, Nuck launched the frog Prince East, over valleys and vales and glen and gorge, and rivulet, stream, and creek, plunging Polly plop into a pond at the far edge of an unfriendly neighbouring fiefdom.
Polly’s plunge into the pond was an unimaginable perfection, the angle of his entry coinciding exactly with the muddy slope of the pond’s shore. Polly’s touchdown was gentle, if fast, but even the slight friction sent him somersaulting at tremendous rota- 37 tional velocity. He skipped across the surface of the pond like a flat stone, pushed a surf in his wake as he slowed, and sunk, dizzy eyed to a degree you or I might only dream of, suddenly into the murky strangling tangled depths of maddening uncertainty.
Finally the spell was broken and they looked around. Like it might still be there.
“This has been here a while. The skin is stiff.”
But it didn’t help. The eyes were there. They were seen. Watched, even. Their fear was feeding something. Something in the very air. How could it be so still?
“Do we turn back?”
A moment passed.
“Do we turn back?”
“No.” But he meant yes. And now her will was equal to his own. She walked on. He had no choice but to follow. The trail was a loop. It passed by a lake. They had seen so on the map. The map on the board. At the beginning of the trail. And now the cat was gone behind them. It was a door. They had walked through. And they knew it.
The sky was overcast. But they both noticed it had gotten darker. The bark of the trees, the ridges had a contrast now, veins of black crawling up and down, hiding, what they couldn’t tell. And they were everywhere. Like the watching.
Their teeth were touching, tops and bottoms, clenched, foreheads pushing forward. Their steps were fast, but forced. And it went on for a while.
“There’s the lake ahead!” A welcome call, said like he’d been saved. They closed the distance in an instant, found a fallen log, and settled down. He feigned a comfort that wasn’t felt. She didn’t. Her regret was worse than his. She had walked on first. And the door had shut.
They gazed out on the lake, the water still as glass.
“The water’s still as glass.” , her eyebrows raised, said with joy, and full of hope.
“Glass moves. It’s not a solid, it’s a liquid.”
Her eyebrows fell, her cheeks aswell.
“Let’s get going” , and they did.
The steps made little sound, but their attention made them loud. And the watching growing worse with every minute on the path.
“Are we on the path?”
“Yes.” But no. They weren’t. There was no path. She followed anyway and had no more to say. But then he stopped.
“No.”
She looked at him with hate. But what was that above his head? A line of smoke was curling up and disappearing in the cloud.
“Look!” He turned and did. She lead the way again, determined, but for what she couldn’t say. The smoke was from a chimney, lost among the trees. It drew up quickly, so it seemed, but when he glanced the lake was gone.
“I’’ll just knock upon the door.”
“No, don’t.” But she was gone.
“Come in!” The smile was reassuring,
At first they aren’t much noticed. They’re seen in ones and twos, caught in kitchen cellars, or crawling over shoes. The people start to talk about the problems that they make. Just what it is that they should do, what precautions they should take. Some are laying poison out, some are grabbing brooms. Cats are hunting everywhere, in each and every room. It’s not enough, the rats still spread, determined in their doom. A week goes by, their numbers grow, the stored grain’s getting thin. The fields are bare, rats ate it all, no harvest’s coming in. Nothing done can stop the rats, and, much to their chagrin, the town concedes against the rats they simply cannot win.
The young are in a panic. Their screaming fills the air. The old are much more stoic, absorbed in silent prayer. Many carry handkerchiefs to mop a teary face. We’ll not humiliate them in this very special case, for I would be found sobbing, curled up fetal on the ground if these vicious rats in masses came laid siege within my town. Cupboards barren, money spent, the water’s stained and brown. They chew and gnaw and bite and 20 claw, they scratch and make a mess. They’re everywhere and all at once, a growth we can’t suppress. We’re on the brink, we’re at wit’s end, and now I must confess I’m off to drink one with a friend, I do humbly acquiesce.
Jerome the gnome, mayor of Hamelin, sat fat and official, defended by a broad oak mayoral desk. You’ve met once before, so you know what’s in store from this self serving whore. “You lousy, sub intellect, bleating, furred moo! I’m blaming this whole god damn mess upon you! You were cheap and indulgent, you let them begin, and now they’re amok! Tell me, where they’re not in!? An election is coming, just a twelvemonth to go. You’re fired! It’s all on you. Get me re-elected. I’ll find you something new. Now call in those guys that came in from the zoo.”
“You there! You guys go round up these rats. You can use nets, bullets or cats. I don’t care what you do and I won’t ask you why, but those rats have to go or we’re all going to die.”
In runs a man with a worried nervous look. In his hand he holds but one sad lonely chewed up tattered book. “It’s all that’s left! They’ve come and eaten every single page. Our knowledge, lore and custom gained in struggles over ages gone in days. This infestation must be stopped! Or the mayor’s head, off it will be chopped!”
Here comes a girl, a forehead full of furls. So young to be anxious, but she’s trying to be brave. “These rats, my lord! Have no respect, they fill each nook and cave within my home and in the street. They cannot decently behave! I’ve come upon a prayer that the state my soul will save!”
A third shuffles in, this one just a child, “My tummy is empty, I haven’t eaten for a while. No grain, one can’t get fed. Can one of you here spare some bread?”
“Out, child, now! That’s enough of your complaints.” He was pushed out the door and later put into restraints.
“You bastards are staining my triumphant campaign! My career is over and my
secrets out! My guilt and my shame! No! I’ll
not have it. We’re stopping this game. Set
fire to the buildings. We’ll burn the place
down!”, when in pokes the head of a mysterious clown. Or colourful, one might say.
“I’m Piper. I can help, if you’ll pay.”
At first they aren’t much noticed. They’re seen in ones and twos, caught in kitchen cellars, or crawling over shoes. The people start to talk about the problems that they make. Just what it is that they should do, what precautions they should take. Some are laying poison out, some are grabbing brooms. Cats are hunting everywhere, in each and every room. It’s not enough, the rats still spread, determined in their doom. A week goes by, their numbers grow, the stored grain’s getting thin. The fields are bare, rats ate it all, no harvest’s coming in. Nothing done can stop the rats, and, much to their chagrin, the town concedes against the rats they simply cannot win.
The young are in a panic. Their screaming fills the air. The old are much more stoic, absorbed in silent prayer. Many carry handkerchiefs to mop a teary face. We’ll not humiliate them in this very special case, for I would be found sobbing, curled up fetal on the ground if these vicious rats in masses came laid siege within my town. Cupboards barren, money spent, the water’s stained and brown. They chew and gnaw and bite and 20 claw, they scratch and make a mess. They’re everywhere and all at once, a growth we can’t suppress. We’re on the brink, we’re at wit’s end, and now I must confess I’m off to drink one with a friend, I do humbly acquiesce.
Jerome the gnome, mayor of Hamelin, sat fat and official, defended by a broad oak mayoral desk. You’ve met once before, so you know what’s in store from this self serving whore. “You lousy, sub intellect, bleating, furred moo! I’m blaming this whole god damn mess upon you! You were cheap and indulgent, you let them begin, and now they’re amok! Tell me, where they’re not in!? An election is coming, just a twelvemonth to go. You’re fired! It’s all on you. Get me re-elected. I’ll find you something new. Now call in those guys that came in from the zoo.”
“You there! You guys go round up these rats. You can use nets, bullets or cats. I don’t care what you do and I won’t ask you why, but those rats have to go or we’re all going to die.”
In runs a man with a worried nervous look. In his hand he holds but one sad lonely chewed up tattered book. “It’s all that’s left! They’ve come and eaten every single page. Our knowledge, lore and custom gained in struggles over ages gone in days. This infestation must be stopped! Or the mayor’s head, off it will be chopped!”
Here comes a girl, a forehead full of furls. So young to be anxious, but she’s trying to be brave. “These rats, my lord! Have no respect, they fill each nook and cave within my home and in the street. They cannot decently behave! I’ve come upon a prayer that the state my soul will save!”
A third shuffles in, this one just a child, “My tummy is empty, I haven’t eaten for a while. No grain, one can’t get fed. Can one of you here spare some bread?”
“Out, child, now! That’s enough of your complaints.” He was pushed out the door and later put into restraints.
“You bastards are staining my triumphant campaign! My career is over and my
secrets out! My guilt and my shame! No! I’ll
not have it. We’re stopping this game. Set
fire to the buildings. We’ll burn the place
down!”, when in pokes the head of a mysterious clown. Or colourful, one might say.
“I’m Piper. I can help, if you’ll pay.”