Goldilocks dyed her locks cherry red. She sensed daddy bear closing in. Daddy had a hunch she was holed out in a bar near Eastleigh. He found her binge scoffing on porridge in bed. He shut the door. “I won’t be too rough…or too gentle, kiddo. I’ll be just right.”
They made Spanish omelette out of Humpty. Even the King’s horses ate it. The wall crumbled and collapsed. Now there’s a seriously pathetic plaque saying, “Humpty fell here”. Tourists flock, snapping pictures. Don’t they know I pushed him? Where’s my place in history? I’m broken too. WHERE’S MY GLORY DUMPTY?
As Greg Jones awoke one morning from nightmares, he found himself transformed into Franz Kafka. Greg the quantity surveyor now had an artist’s sensibility. Trapped and riddled with pains, boils and crippling anxiety, he died that night understanding for the first time, the simultaneous beauty and horror of life.
The wolf gnashed at the boy’s ripe jugular and in a bloody fountain chomped off a fatty cheek. Then he devoured the squirming boy’s beef-lined intestines.
The shepherds gave wolf a nod. “Thanks for that mate. We owe you.”
“No problem,” said the full-bellied wolf, “the pleasure was a-a-a-a-a-ll mine.”
A curse befell the town. Children started disappearing. The town panicked. Was the haggard woman on the hill a witch? The mayor led the townsfolk to her shack and hammered the door down. She was already dead. Bludgeoned by the small fists of a hundred children who were never found.