Terribly Twisted Tales

by RABE, JEAN

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  WAIFS

  MY GREAT-GREAT-GRANDMA GOLDA LOCKES

  ONCE THEY WERE SEVEN

  CAPRICIOUS ANIMISTIC TEMPTER

  A CHARMING MURDER

  JACK AND THE GENETIC BEANSTALK

  WHAT’S IN A NAME?

  NO GOOD DEED

  THE RED PATH

  LOST CHILD

  RAPUNZEL STRIKES BACK

  REVENGE OF THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL

  CLOCKWORK HEART

  THE HUNDRED-YEAR NAP

  FIVE GOATS AND A TROLL

  SOMETHING ABOUT MATTRESSES

  THREE WISHES

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED RIDING HOODS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  “Mr. Bear, please don’t eat me up,” I pleaded.

  “Hah!” he said. “What makes you think I want to eat you up?” His big, black, shiny eyes blinked at me. “I’d rather offer you a business proposition. How would you like to make a little extra spending money, Golda?”

  Well, needless to say, I became suspicious of this offer, especially since it came from a bear that talked. “Money?” I asked.

  “Yeah, a little extra never hurt nobody, and I know you Lockes and your neighbors ain’t got that much.”

  As we ate dinner that first night, Papa Bear explained what I was to do to earn my promised spending money. Seems he, along with a few other woodland creatures, had a moonshine still hidden up the mountain, and they all needed a little extra help.

  “I got one girl by the name of Red who helps out from time to time. She always wears this hooded mantle and carries a basket. She tells everybody she is taking lunch to her grandma, but actually she is carrying shine down to the valley. She has a wolf that works with her by distracting anybody that might stop her to check the basket. He makes as if to attack her, and whoever is about will chase after him leaving her free to go on her delivery route.”

  —from “My Great-great-great Grandma Golda Lockes” by Annie Jones

  Also Available from DAW Books:

  If I Were an Evil Overlord, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Russell Davis

  Isn’t it always more fun to be the “bad guy”? Some of fantasy’s finest, such as Esther Friesner, Tanya Huff, Donald J. Bingle, David Bischoff, Fiona Patton, and Dean Wesley Smith have risen to the editors’ evil challenge with stories ranging from a man given ultimate power by fortune cookie fortunes, to a tryant’s daughter bent on avenging her father’s untimely demise—and by the way, rising to power herself—to a fellow who takes his cutthroat business savvy and turns his expertise to the creation of a new career as an Evil Overlord, to a youth forced to play through game level after game level to fulfill someone else’s schemes for conquest. . . .

  Misspelled, edited by Julie E. Czerneda

  There is a right way and a wrong way to do practically anything. And when it comes to magic, skipping the directions, changing the ingredients, garbling up the words of a spell—all of these can lead to unusual, sometimes dire, sometimes comical consequences. Here seventeen authors—Kristen Britain, John Zakour, Doranna Durgin, Jim C. Hines, and others—accept the challenge of creating spell driven situations that get out of control, where: a cybermancer has her spell disk corrupted by unexpected input . . . two students out to brew up some spells completely outside the curriculum forgo a most important ingredient . . . a has-been golf pro finds an old family spell that should improve his game, but at what cost? . . . and a young woman who orders a fairy-tale life, but she forgets to read the fine print and ends up with the worst parts of two fairy tales.

  Enchantment Place, edited by Denise Little

  A new mall is always worth a visit, especially if it’s filled with one-of-a-kind specialty stores. And the shops in Enchantment Place couldn’t be more special. For Enchantment Place lives up to its name, catering to a rather unique clientele, ranging from vampires and were-creatures, to wizards and witches, to elves and unicorns. In short, those with shopping needs not likely to be met in the chain stores. With stories by Mary Jo Putney, Peter Morwood, Diane Duane, Laura Resnick, Esther Friesner, Sarah A. Hoyt and others.

  Copyright © 2009 by Jean Rabe and Tekno Books.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1476.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA).

  All characters in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  First Printing, May 2009

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  .S. A.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-02577-2

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Introduction copyright © 2009 by Jean Rabe

  “Waifs,” copyright © 2009 by Dennis L. McKiernan

  “My Great-Great-Grandma Golda Lockes,” copyright © 2009 by Doris Stever

  “Once They Were Seven,” copyright © 2009 by Chris Pierson

  “Capricious Animistic Tempter,” copyright © 2009 by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “A Charming Murder,” copyright © 2009 by Mary Louise Eklund

  “Jack and the Genetic Beanstalk,” copyright © 2009 by Robert E. Vardeman

  “What’s in a Name?,” copyright © 2009 by Kathleen Watness

  “No Good Deed,” copyright © 2009 by Jody Lynn Nye

  “The Red Path,” copyright © 2009 by Jim C. Hines

  “Lost Child,” copyright © 2009 by Steven D. Sullivan

  “Rapunzel Strikes Back,” copyright © 2009 by Brendan DuBois

  “Revenge of the Little Match Girl,” copyright © 2009 by Paul Genesse

  “Clockwork Heart,” copyright © 2009 by Ramsey “Tome Wyrm” Lundock

  “The Hundred-Year Nap,” copyright © 2009 by Skip and Penny Williams

  “Five Goats and a Troll,” copyright © 2009 by Elizabeth A. Vaughan

  “Something About Mattresses,” copyright © 2009 by Janet Deaver-Pack

  “Three Wishes,” copyright © 2009 by Kelly Swails

  “The Adventure of the Red Riding Hoods,” copyright © 2009 by Michael A. Stackpole

  INTRODUCTION

  When I was a kid, I’d make up my own fairy tales—or, rather, I liked to twist the age-old ones. After hearing about The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe and Red Riding Hood for the umpteenth times, I’d craft my improved versions. I remember fancying the wolf catching all three pigs and then proceeding to huff and puff and blow down The Old Woman’s shoe. It was the same wolf that caught Red Riding Hood unawares and later nabbed Chicken Little and Bre’r Rabbit and the race-winning turtle and then gnawed on Paul Bunyan’s axe handle for good measure. The wolf always won. I guess I was a quirky kid.

  In any event, I liked my fairy tales folded, spindled, and a little bit mutilated . . . like many of the fine stories in this anthology. Sure, the original versions are just fine and dandy, but the altered versions show some great creativity, cleverness, and maybe a dash of maliciousness.

  I was delighted so many wonderful authors could contribute. They pleasantly stirred my imagination.

  I hope they stir yours.

  Thank you for picking this up!


  Jean Rabe

  WAIFS

  Dennis L. McKiernan

  Dennis McKiernan is known for his high-fantasy novels, including The Iron Tower series. He served in the U.S. Air Force and holds degrees in electrical engineering. He also has written in the science fiction, horror, and crime fiction genres. He lives in Tucson, AZ. His other works include: Once Upon a Winter’s Night, Once Upon a Summer Day, Once Upon a Spring Morn, and Once Upon a Dreadful Time.

  When I finally escaped from that thrice-cursed oven, I went after those two little shites who not only had tried to roast and eat me but had destroyed my house as well. I mean, do you know just how long it takes to make even a single gumdrop? And they have to be special, too—warding off rain, not getting all gooey and soft in the sunshine, resisting those effing birds that come and peck away at my decorative and colorful touches as if it’s their right. Orioles are especially bad. And gingerbread eaves—don’t talk to me about gingerbread eaves. I mean, they have to hold up under the most severe downpours and not turn to mealy slush and sluice away. Oh, and sugar siding, too. Do you know just how hard it is to even get sugar in these dark ages? You can get plenty of honey, but sugar? The only thing honey is good for is to make rock-candy-hard shingles.

  Anyway, there I was, inviting into my cottage what I thought were two abandoned waifs who seemed to be lost in the forest. They told me about their supposedly poor parents having to set them loose deep in the woods. Oh, and they spoke of a breadcrumb trail and greedy birds; when it comes to greedy birds, I could sympathize with the children. Gladly, I took them in. Ah me, little did I know.

  I fed them a good nourishing soup with croutons and even a candy apple. And I warmed them before my hearth and gave them hearty chocolate drinks (Ha! Chocolate. Another precious rarity, but I wanted to sweeten up the little darlings).

  Oh, you might think I didn’t notice how they whispered to one another, but I did. Foolish me: I thought they were sharing childish secrets or perhaps were a bit intimidated by the wart on my nose or whatever. And all the while they were conceiving their fiendish plot to cook and eat me and live in my house happily ever after.

  So, I asked them if there was any other thing they might like, and they requested an angel-food cake. Angel food, no less. I would have to quadruple-sift flour to the finest and use even more sugar, and there would be egg-whites to whip, and what could I do with the leftover yolks? I mean, I am just a poor old goody who could ill afford the splurging of my precious resources.

  Regardless, I did so.

  I mean, I could always use a yolk-milk slurry to baste the meat I would shortly have.

  And I heated the hearth oven to bake the cake, but as I started to slip the filled pan into the hot chamber, the little bastards shoved me in instead and slammed the door behind me.

  Somehow they locked it.

  Thank the nine infernos, in that same moment the skies opened and engulfed the forest, and the torrent was rather like a flood, and bucketfuls poured down my chimney and quenched the hearth fire and cooled the oven.

  They tried to kindle a new blaze, but everything was wet, and they finally gave up. Yet I remained quiet, for I realized that if they knew I was alive, they would certainly wait until the wood dried out and roast me to a fair-thee-well. Over the next several days, I heard all sorts of ripping and tearing, but I held my tongue.

  Finally, on the fourth or fifth day—by that time I had lost count—everything fell silent, and I understood they were gone.

  It took me another day to loosen the bolts on the door latch and get free, all of my beautiful long black fingernails now gone from using them like screwdrivers, the remainder nought but jaggedy, bleeding stumps. Hrmph! Once I heard that prissy Snow White complain of a broken nail. What would that little miss prim and proper have said were her hands like mine, nails down to the quick? One of these days I’ll shove a poisoned apple up her—Oh, wait, speaking of apples, by this time I was nearly dead of thirst and hunger. I mean, all I had had to eat was unbaked angel-food batter that had splashed on my hands as the children had pushed me into the hearth oven. But in the first day I had lapped away that meager bit of sustenance. And now it was four or five days after—perhaps even a week. And so, I staggered outside and drank from an overflowed rain barrel, after which I snatched an apple off the tree in my front yard.

  I was on my third apple when I turned and looked at my beauti—My house! My house was ruined. Those evil little bastards had stripped the house of gingerbread and sugar siding and honey shingles and all the ornamental gumdrops . . . Oh, the gumdrops. The horror, the horror.

  That’s when I went after those sons of a bitch . . . er, rather, the son and daughter of a bitch.

  Fortunately, the ground was soft from the rain, and I tracked them to Tom-Tit-Tom’s place. I called out his name, but there was no answer, which was strange; I mean, he really, really didn’t like anyone knowing his name, and he flew into a rage at the sound of it. He had been that way ever since that fraud of a princess—Ah, wait, the princess and her child; maybe that was it. I opened the door and slipped in, thinking that perhaps the reason he didn’t answer was because he was busy with those very same brats who had almost done me in. I mean, given his peculiar penchant for wee tots, he had always wanted a child of his own. And with two, I mean, he could have twice the—Uh-oh! His house was ransacked, a real mess, his spinning wheel gone. Rats! I wanted that thing. I mean, who couldn’t use a bit of gold now and then?

  I searched, but the place was empty. Even so, the tracks of the brats went on, so I followed.

  At Little Red’s grandmother’s house, I found my friend all hacked up. His long nose slashed and his big ears chopped and his sharp teeth smashed. Whoever had killed BBW was no longer around. Gram and Red were missing, too, and there was no sign of their friend the woodsman.

  I went on, my suspicions growing, my alarm increasing. Those two kids seemed to bring disaster into the lives of everyone they came across.

  The pig’s digs were destroyed—straw strewn, sticks splintered, though the brick one still stood. But inside that house, there were signs of slaughter everywhere: a pig’s foot there, a sow’s ear here, a curly tail ripped raw and bloody.

  Did I want to keep tracking? I mean, revenge is sweet, but after all, life is sweeter. Still, I had to get to the bottom of this, so I headed for the poor parents’ house the children had told me about—the one sitting on the edge of the forest. At the time I had suspected those two little monsters had been feigning when they had claimed they had gotten lost and didn’t know where it was—breadcrumb trail, my ass—but I knew the locales of most cottages along the verge, so I headed there.

  Many were abandoned, but I found one yet occupied but barricaded. The trembling dwellers were locked inside, weapons at hand—the man grasping a newly sharpened sickle, the woman wielding a wooden pitchfork with wicked, fire-hardened sharp-pointed tines. Yet they opened the door a crack when I told them why I was there.

  “Demons,” the father muttered, after I asked him about his children.

  “Demons! Demons!” screeched the mother, in between fits of sobbing. “Demons!”

  “Threw ’em out, we did,” muttered the father, not lowering his curved sickle.

  “Before they could eat us!” shrilled the mother between gasping sobs.

  “Then they do eat people?” I asked.

  “The neighbors!” cried the mother, blubbering.

  “And pigs and other such,” muttered the father.

  “Bones out back!” wailed the mother, bawling.

  “Cracked for the marrow,” muttered the father, and then he slammed the door, and I heard a heavy bar thunk! into place.

  No longer afraid, now that I knew what I was dealing with, I slipped back into the deep, dark forest.

  I continued to track the children, and a day or three passed. But on the next day I heard an enraged roaring, and I edged forward until I came to where I could see a hut in a clearing. Outside, Papa Bear ranted
and raved, while Mama Bear wept. Of Baby Bear there was no sign. On the ground before Papa Bear lay a girl’s head and a pile of cracked bones. As to the rest of her, there was nothing. I looked sharply, very sharply, to see if it was the head of one of the waifs I was after. No-no. This one’s hair seemed to be more golden, with long curly locks, not the straight yellow hair of the girl I was after. Where was Baby Bear, I wondered.

  The next day I found the remains of a campfire, a small clawed and torn bear skin nearby. Ah, my question was answered.

  A day or so later, I caught up with the two I was after.

  We three now live in my cottage. The roof repaired, the siding replaced, the gingerbread restored, and my lovely gumdrops once again making the place sparkle with beauty.

  Now and again a person comes by, and we invite them in for a meal.

  MY GREAT-GREAT-GRANDMA GOLDA LOCKES

  Annie Jones

  Annie Jones is a displaced Southerner who lives in Wisconsin with her Yankee husband and Yorkshire terrier, Ali. She is a grandma and a beginning fiction writer.

  After my grandmother passed away some months ago, I was helping clean out her attic and came across an old journal that had been written by my great-great-grandmother. I am sharing an interesting part of her story, just as she told it, with nothing changed.

  My name is Golda, and I am a daughter of the Lockes family that lives on the edge of the forest somewhere in the West Virginia Mountains.

  No doubt you have heard stories about me involving three bears and how they were angry with me for eating their porridge and sleeping in their beds . . . all lies, every word.

  When I was young, the forest was my playground. I would forage for berries or any edibles that I could find because our family was very poor. We ate every scrap of food we could get—fruits and vegetables and nuts, that is. We were vegetarians and never ate meat of any kind.