Fairy Tales: Unraveled: A twisted retell shorts collection

by Alana Greig

  No one knows what happened to Grant. He was just gone. As for the baby, eventually he was given his own story. Snow White and her dwarfs still lie in their beds in the little cottage in the woods. At night, the wood echoes with the sound of a woman crying and the clink of bottles.

  VISITATION WITH A MURDERESS

  BASED ON GOLDILOCKS AND THE THREE BEARS

  Blood. Blood is the life force of every living creature on the planet. It carries a creature’s essence. I love blood. I love it most when it is pouring from the dying. I watch as it slicks my skin and paints me a deep crimson. No one knows of my obsession. I intended to keep it that way.

  I have killed dozens of creatures. The one kill I will always consider to be the best was my first-ever kill. It was the triple murder of a family. One bloodline completely wiped out by my hands. Thinking of the way their eyes looked at me as they realised they were doomed makes my own blood rush in my veins. There is nothing like seeing the light in a creature’s eyes fade as their lifeblood pools at your feet. My name is Grace, and this is the truth behind the twisted version of the pathetic tale you all know and love. This is the truth.

  The day started like many others. I lived in a place called Fairy Tale and hated it. It was full of tiny tree- creatures all happy and hugging—so nauseating. On that fateful day, I awoke and headed down to breakfast. My house was bare. I never liked the décor every other creature had, with the lace and the pink and the flowers.

  Where were my parents you wonder? (This is Fairy Tale, people, creatures here don’t always have parents.) Some of us appeared here. Not all of us are princesses and creatures destined to make the big money. Those are the fairy tale legends, who have parents usually attached to some tragic past, etc.

  Blah!

  I hate them all, but I digress. Let’s get back on point, shall we?

  I went to my kitchen for breakfast and realised that I had not been to the shop to get food. This was mainly because BoPeep was on rotation in there, and I cannot deal with her shit. She’s so happy. All. The. Time. With no food to eat, I figured I’d take myself into the woods and get some berries. I had often thought about catching fish in the river or setting a trap for rabbits. I asked the huntsman once about this way of living. He told me he was against it. It turns out that the dude doesn’t actually kill anything, but only likes to masquerade as a hunter. I was like . . . what?

  Regardless of the “hunter’s” inability to steer me in the right direction, I decided to try again, rather than risk a happy-pants sighting. I grabbed my blue cape and took a breath before opening my front door and stepping into the hell that is Fairy Tale Land.

  “Good morning, Grace, isn’t your hair looking beautiful today.”

  “Good morning, Grace. My, that blue really brings out your eyes.”

  “Good morning, Grace, isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  They just come at me like I want to talk to them. I can’t help the way I look; we all look cute and perfect here. I am not even slightly prepared to deal with the happy-clappy greetings today. Instead, I smile and head as fast as I can to the woods. At least it was darker in there and most joyous creatures stayed out.

  Finally, away from the cute stone cottages, flowers, and the bloody awful castle on the hill, I found the path to the berry bushes and went in search of breakfast. I had been walking for a while, enjoying the peace, when I realised I had drifted off the path I was following. Great, where the hell am I now?

  The thing with the woods in Fairy Tale is that they contain several different areas. If you leave the path you were on, you can end up in someone else’s story. I acci‐ dently came across Princess Aurora once, before she knew she was a princess. That was awkward, I can tell you. I am now dreading where I will end up. As long as it’s not some puke love scene with the birds singing and the music, I’ll be okay. I’ve survived worse. Still, no thanks. That would put me off my breakfast for sure.

  I had dully intended to turn back the way I had come when I saw something shiny in the leaves ahead. It was a dagger. Fancy, too. Looking at its golden hilt and sharp steel blade gave me flashes of what I could do with this weapon.

  What would it feel like to slide its cold beauty into another’s soft solar plexus? To glide the keen edge across a throat and be showered in blood? These were the things I wondered about, until I was almost transfixed on the thoughts.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I was bending to retrieve the dagger from its hiding spot. A rustling sound reached me, and I snapped out of the daydream I was having to see Prince Charming heading straight for me with his squire. Fan-bloody-tastic. Mind you, I loathe this creature—with his perfect features and that hair. I mean what kind of prince wears tights and soft booties? No prince I’d ever want in my bed.

  “Good morning, Miss Grace, I don’t suppose you have seen my dagger, have you?” he asked me, all the time sort of bouncing off the balls of his booties. What a pansy. “It fell from my belt, and I can’t very well leave it in the wood for someone to hurt themselves on, can I?”

  The guy wasn’t really interested in my answering; he just liked the sound of his voice. Prat. I fought the impulse to roll my eyes at him and bent to retrieve his dagger. I held it by the blade and pointed the hilt at him. A fleeting thought scuttles across my mind: What if I stab him? Gut him? Would his steaming entrails look just like mine? Or does he really have blue blood like some believe? It was then that I realized the blade was not sharp. It was a toy, a display piece. It figures. I mean look who it belongs to. Anyone this dense owning a sharp object could only end in disaster. Not that I’d mind.

  “Thank you, Miss Grace, and you are looking lovely today.”

  Jeeze.

  “Thank you, your highness.” I choke out the proper reply. Can he just go so I can get on with my day already? With a final smile, he turned, leaving with his just-for- show squire.

  The thoughts of hurting him stay with me as I continue my walk in the woods. By now, I am getting pissed that I haven’t found anything I can eat, and the birds are singing and flying around my head like I am Snow White or something.

  “Piss off,” I yell at them, waving my arms to get them to leave me. My outburst will get back to one of the princesses who actually likes these flying pains in the ass. And I will be called before the author. Meh, the author won’t do anything. They lost control over Fairy Tale the second humans realised that books can be made into movies. So, I don’t give a crap what the flying tell-tales do. I’m ready to give up and just go hungry until tomorrow, when Pinocchio starts his rotation. He, at least, leaves me alone. That’s when I see the cottage. Damn. Whose story is this now? It isn’t mine. I haven’t been assigned yet. I should have mentioned that before. I am currently without a tale. It was a mix up with the assignments. Not that I care; it means right now I am just me. The second I get assigned a tale, I get new personality traits. No thanks. I am cool being me.

  The cottage looks lived in. Well, game over. Hunger it is then. It is then that my stomach growls so loud that I am sure it’s what freaked out the critters in the loam beneath my feet. Well, screw it. I am going to ask whoever lives here for some food and then leave. It’s Fairy Tale, no one here says no. Even I don’t say it out loud.

  The door is blue and has a rippled glass window in it.

  I knock on the hard wood and wait.

  Nothing.

  I knock again. I guess they are out. Awesome. I take the handle in my small hand and try it. I don’t know why; I was acting on instinct. The door opened, and I was greeted with the smell of hot milky porridge. Jackpot.

  I walk into the small home and shut the door behind me. Downstairs has two rooms off the central hall. The stairs are directly in front of me. These creatures must be new here because the place is still painted white with cream carpet. This information nags at me, but I ignore it and follow my nose to the origin of the yummy smell.

  I am greeted in the small kitchen by a circular table set for three, and there are three b
owls of hot porridge just sitting there waiting. Are these creatures crazy? This stuff is best hot with any number of toppings. I am not a fussy eater at all. I make for the bowl closest to me. This one has no toppings. I don’t bother to sit; I just pick up the spoon and dig in. My face almost turns inside out. Wow. Salty. I look at the table. I find the honey pot and dump a good dollop in the bowl. Giving it a stir, I then try it again. Way better. I pick up the bowl and walk around the small room. It is clean. Like really clean. Whoever lives here is a neat freak.

  The porridge is making me hot, so I put my almost empty bowl down and take off my cloak. I decide to be a good house guest and hang it in the hall. It is on my way back to the kitchen that I hear voices.

  Shit. The owners are home.

  I finish my last spoonful and rush back to my cloak. I am too late; the door is opening. New plan. I head back into the kitchen and hide in the pantry. Not the best plan, but it’s all I have. There isn’t a back door.

  “Momma, is the food ready now? I am so hungry my knees are empty.”

  “Well, if you are hungry all the way to your knees, we should check to see it if is cool enough. Now remember to wash your paws.”

  I hear them conversing. From the tiny gap in the door, I can just see the table. The voices are getting closer. Well shit. Bears. I did not expect bears to be house- proud. The three of them head to the sink and wash their paws. Seriously, I couldn’t make this up. I watch as they head to the table and sit.

  “We give thanks for this food. The sun for its warmth and the rain for nourishing the seed to allow the crop to grow so that we may enjoy it.”

  For real. They are giving thanks. Maybe the salt in that porridge messed with my head because this shit is messed up. It is then that what I assume to be the father notices that he is sans breakfast. I back up quickly when he lets out a roar so loud the jars in the pantry start to shake. I fall back against the marble slab that is used to keep cheese and whatnot on. And that’s when I see it. The bread knife. Its rough wooden handle looks well used, and the serrated teeth of steel look sharp. I pick it up and press my thumb onto the teeth. A bead of blood wells on the pad and everything falls away. It is all I can see. All I can smell. Blood.

  I want to know what it feels like to watch another bleed at my own hand. I want to see if it tastes like mine. Of copper and salt. I slide my new treasure into the waist of my skirt and return to watching the bears.

  “Well, I am done here,” the dad says. Looks like he made himself a pancake with honey from the stack I failed to notice on the countertop. The two remaining bears continue their meal while the other heads, by the sound of his heavy foot falls, into the sitting room.

  The child is next to finish. He wipes his snout and paws and leaves. I heard him thundering up the stairs and heading into the room above me.

  My pulse is hammering in my ears. It is just the mother left. She has finished and is collecting up the bowls for washing. I watch her, analysing her every move. She is bigger than me for sure. Stronger, too. But I could come at her from behind. Stick the bread knife in her back or something. If I angle it right, I might hit some‐ thing vital the first time.

  The thoughts race around my head. So many ways I could do this. Each thought is more gruesome than the next. My excited planning is shut down when the door to my hiding place opens, and I come face to face with Momma bear. She has a plate of leftover pancakes in one paw and the honey pot in the other. For a second, we both freeze. Then I reach back for the knife at my waist and lunge for her. The honey pot and pancakes fall to the rug, which mutes the sound of their landing. Being interrupted now would end this experiment. The force of us colliding has knocked us to the ground. I still have the knife in my hand. I push myself up and bring it down swiftly, plunging it into her chest.

  I feel it scrape a rib and then sink into her. Right to the hilt. I watch her eyes. Surprise fills them and then realisation that she is going to die. I watch her; she barely holds on to life, but still she lives. I pull the knife out and watch as blood pools on her fur, matting it. Her eyes are even wider now. Pink foam spills from the corners of her mouth. She shudders once. A tear runs down the side of her face as I watch her die. It is exhilarating. I lean down and lick at her blood. Yes. It tastes like mine, only musky. I lay the knife at my side and push my fingers into the jagged hole I tore in her chest. I can feel her bones and tissues.

  I feel alive.

  I need to leave before her absence is noticed. I pick up my knife and wipe it on the bear’s fur. The pool of blood on her chest has leaked onto the floor; a deep red puddle that slowly swallows up the white and black tiles. I am in the hall, when I notice that the head of the household has his back to me. My hand is on the door frame. I should leave. I can leave; he is reading. But all I can think about is slicing his neck open to see what will happen.

  I am moving before I have really made the choice. Reaching forward, I grab his jaw and run the knife across his throat. The pressure I used was enough, and the walls are sprayed with crimson. He gargles and grabs for his open throat. I don’t get to see his eyes. The fact that he was killed and it could have been his wife is an added bonus.

  My own blood sings in my veins. I have a taste for murder, and I want more: The child upstairs.

  I head up the stairs and into its room. Judging by the taste in toys, this is a boy cub. He will become the end of his bloodline. I am the end, and I waste no time. He is playing with a train set, his back to me. Before he knows I am there, I have plunged the knife deep into his back. I must have pierced his heart. He drops like a stone, blood seeping from his mouth.

  Surrounded by the smell of blood and the knowledge that they all died at my hand is intoxicating. I look at myself and see the blood on my hands and clothes. The knife is sticking out of the bear’s back, and I feel truly alive for the third time.

  I take my knife and leave the home of the three bears. Whoever this tale belongs to is in for a shock. When I get home, I wash my clothes and myself. I hide the knife under a floorboard. Even though I look clean, I can still see the blood on my skin. I want more. Lots more.

  Ironically, the week after my mass murder, I was assigned. I was renamed Goldilocks. The bears, it turns out, were part of my tale. Only, I had already rewritten it. When they were discovered, there was an outcry for the offender. Of course, no one came forward. I now was minus a tale again. So, the author fabricated the story.

  I was eventually caught a hit went sideways, I won’t get into it now. Visiting hour is over.

  My name is Goldilocks. I am a murderes.

  THE HIT

  BASED ON RED RIDING HOOD

  Rebecca was a silly girl. Always getting lost and falling over. Her mother despaired at the number of holes she had to darn each week. By the end of spring, she wanted rid of her daughter. She had been passed over by the prince for a girl with golden hair and the voice of an angel. The fact that this girl had been asleep for a hundred years and he had only read of her beauty really pissed her off. Rebecca was a beauty with her chestnut hair and rosy cheeks. But no, she wasn’t good enough for a happy ever after; she was now stuck with her forever.

  It was late one night, while darning yet another pair of hose, that she had an idea. What if she had Rebecca killed? Then she would be free of the embarrassment of having a reject for a daughter, and maybe she would be blessed with another. With the idea taking root, Rebec‐ ca’s mother began to plan her only child’s murder.

  She first approached the huntsman; he was shocked and explained that he was more of a deterrent than an actual killer. She approached a witch who told her that she was only in the line of princess poisoning, so unless the kid was meant for a royal life, she could get lost.

  Then it came to her. Rebecca could visit her grand‐ mother; she lived on the other side of the wood. There was bound to be something in there that would eat the girl.

  The very next day, Rebecca was given a basket of bread and fruit and told to take them to her ail
ing grand‐ mother. Rebecca, being a compassionate young lady, took the basket and promised her mother she would pick wildflowers as well to present to her relative.

  “Goodbye Mother, I shall return to you when Grand‐ mother is well again.”

  Smiling at her unwanted offspring, she waved her off with promises of cake and lemonade on her return.

  Now, Rebecca was not as silly as she made out. She had learned early in life that it is better to observe and be considered simple of mind than to actually be considered a threat. Unfortunately, her mother had blindsided her. She had no idea until she heard the huntsman in the tavern telling his friends about Old Scarlet and how she wanted to off her daughter. It was then that Rebecca began to plan. She knew of a girl who thrived on murder; she was hiding out in the woods now. Fairy Tale was up in arms looking for the sweet girl who used to live in the end cottage opposite the bakers. They all believed her to have died within her own tale like the bears. Rebecca was pretty damn sure that Grace was the Fairy Tale Killer, and she wanted to find her.

  The wood was a dark place with paths that criss- crossed and led to other tales. She was not going to wander off her path. Too many tales had been going off plot lately. Rebecca was going to her gran’s house, and from there she would find out where Grace was.

  She was almost upon the cottage when a wolf shot out of the undergrowth. Its yellow eyes bore into her; the saliva dripped from his exposed teeth. There was nowhere to run; she had no weapons. All her plans were going to end here and now because she appeared to have activated her tale.