Tag: Fractured Fairy Tales

Jack, the Giant’s Chef Extraordinaire

Photo by Nadin Sh on Pexels.com

Jack smelled promise in the beans before he traded them for his cow. He imagined a palette of flavors, a cassoulet fit for the king.

His mother fumed. “We need money now.” She tossed the beans into the Earth’s maw.

Overnight a beanstalk grew. It led straight to the giant’s garden where the giantess was weeding. She caught him red-handed stealing beans. “No you don’t.” 

“I only want to taste them.”

“Cook them well and you’re hired. Poorly and you’re dinner.”

Hours later, the ground shook. “Fee, fie, foe… what is that delicious aroma, Wife?” And the giant was satisfied.

Three Times a Charm


Steve Ford Elliott, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

By the third attempted murder, I was onto my stepmother. It was the almond smell that gave her away.  When she showed up at the door, I cheeked the apple and did a fake faint. Overconfident, she left without checking my breathing. That evening, the dwarves and I made a plan.

Doc certified the death certificate and the dwarves laid me in a glass coffin. Sleepy’s in a narcolepsy group with a few royal types. Before you could say Prince Charming, I was in another kingdom. At the wedding, Grumpy wrestled Mommie Dearest into iron shoes;  Happy lit the fire

The True Story Behind the Princess and the Pea

Open Media Library

The pea was the best part of that night. 

The Queen said, “Rest well my dear. Eighteen mattresses should be comfortable .” But the wooden ladder the princess climbed to reach the top had splinters that pricked and lodged in her hands. She squeezed and pulled with her fingernails to remove them. She couldn’t sleep; the mattresses swayed every time she moved. 

So she brought a quilt to the floor and tried to sleep beside the bottom mattress where she smelled a pea. It exuded a delicious smell, earthy and sweet. In the morning she asked where she could find more.

Red Riding Hood, Through the Dewey Decimal System

Photo by Ivo Rainha on Pexels.com


When Red Riding Hood arrived at 823.8 Carroll, she knew she’d lost her way. The hatter invited her for tea, but seemed too mad to give directions to Grandma’s house. He liked to make things complicated. She dead-reckoned into the 500 section where a path led to an oversized book with a European temperate rain forest template at the back.

Mammals- 589 was permanently closed. She took a detour. Soon after, she found a wolf. They walked through Berlitz, chatting in multiple languages, and arrived at 398.209 where they located Grandmother’s cottage.

“Do you play chess,” Grandmother asked, pouring tea.

Fox in the Henhouse

Photo by The masked Guy on Pexels.com

The judge banged her gavel, more in frustration than to bring order to the court. The charge: attempted chaos. The jury had heard from Chicken Little who alleged the sky was falling. The police claimed Fox spread the rumor subliminally on his bedtime story podcast. He then lay in wait around the corner from the henhouse, where he assaulted Little. Big Old Fox denied having done any such thing.

Little cackled, “We will all perish.”

Fox asserted she was crazy. Ugly, too.

The judge adjusted her spectacles and searched among her papers. “We have a process. I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”

Smoking on a Wet Evening

Photo by Mvegas on Pexels.com

You know the way it rains at night after the dogs been out. After everybody settles near the fireplace, shoes kicked off, feet warming. That kind of night when, like as not, a banshee’ll slip in through the cracks in the ceiling and make herself at home. 

Don’t disturb her. She’ll get loud, then. Nobody dies if she stays calm. Don’t be alarmed when she squats, knees up around her head, haunches down on the floor. Offer her a pipe. The one you’re smoking. It’s likely why she came. After a heavy drag, she’ll nod and disappear up the chimney.

Wishing on a Glass Slipper

Photo by Hasan ACI on Pexels.com

Cindy earned while her stepsisters played. Her stepmother said retail work builds character. And isolation. Cindy was the only one in the shoe store when a Ren Fair guy came in and asked for glass slippers.

“Like in fairy tale land? No. Never seen anything like that.”

“They carry you away. Wherever you want to go.”

“But I don’t think we have them.”

“Worth checking. Wish come true.”

Cindy found one pair, her size, on a dusty shelf. From thin air it appeared.

“You mean these?”

“Try them,” he said.

They were hard, slippery, “I can’t walk.”

“Wish,” he said.

If Hans Christian Anderson Were Writing Now

Photo by Inge Wallumru00f8d on Pexels.com

Atticus Finch had never represented a bird. “So, let’s get this. You want to sue your adoptive parents.” 

“I had a terrible childhood. Bullied, teased. They called me Ugly Duckling.” The swan had tears in his eyes.

Maybe they were real, maybe it was just good acting. Horatio Swan was a highly popular leading cob. His beak was a fixture on Netflix and HBO.

Atticus leaned back in his chair. “Why now? You’ve said publicly your tough childhood led to the success you enjoy.”

Horatio trumpeted, “I’ve learned things in rehab. The price I paid. My inner cygnet is traumatized.”

Sensitive Princess

Photo by Carolina Basi on Pexels.com

“Priscella, the way you fuss, no prince will have you.” Spoiled. The king brought her silk from abroad. The Queen disapproved. “How many times has the royal seamstress made a pretty gown, only to have you give it to the chambermaid?”

“It itches, Mama. So bad.”

“But the ball’s tonight.”

“I have…”

“Not that old thing. The rag barely fits.” 

“I won’t go. The canapés are disgusting.”

“Don’t you start with umami again.” 

“Anyway, I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“Try the dress, Lola, there is not a pea in your mattress.”

“Must be a rock.” 

“Show me a bruise, then.”

The Collective

Photo by Eva Bronzini on Pexels.com

She came straight from weeding her small plot of land in the community garden.

The fiery redhead marched to the podium and gaveled the meeting to order. “The first item, the only important one, is the proposal to buy a mill to grind the wheat.”

A large man barked. “No one else grows wheat.”

The crowd quacked their approval.

Her feathers ruffled, the redhead said, “You eat the bread I bake. Let’s turn the garden into a wheat field and mill our own flour.”

A catlike woman spoke. “Hannah, dear, we thought you liked baking. We don’t.”