I can remember it being a scorching summer day, I was a young pig in search of anything to cool myself down with. My brothers and I ventured out and happened upon some glorious mud to roll around in. We laughed and snorted with the utmost joy as we coated ourselves in the mucky sludge, steam rising off our hot little bodies. This is my fondest memory of my brothers,
the last happy memory I have of them.

Once upon a time three pigs ambitiously set off from their family home to start adult lives of their own. Each of the three pigs had goals they set out to achieve. First was Larry, who wanted to be a children’s author. The second was Terry, he loved gardening and wanted to grow all his food. Lastly, was Harry and he loved to build just about anything. Harry told his brothers that his house would be the sturdiest because he would use brick to build it. A couple of years passed by and each of the brothers was well established. All of them had homes. Larry was finishing up his third book “Jack and The Beanstalk”. Terry grew the juiciest watermelons in the world. And Harry even met a lovely lady.

Two Years Later

As I push my blade deeper into the stomach of a young wolf, warm blood drips from its mouth onto my forehead. I’ve noticed it tastes bitter and metallic with a hint of sweetness if you leave it on your tongue long enough. I looked deeply into the black abyss that is the wolf’s eyes, and the abyss stared back at me showing me that day when my life changed forever. I wish it was just a dream but I can still remember the chills running up my spine when the police raccoons came to our house and told my parents that a wolf had slaughtered my brothers. All three of them. The chief of police raccoon explained to my parents all the gruesome details,

“There was blood everywhere… body parts were found… Harry’s girlfriend was also brutally murdered… a heinous crime it is”. I ran to my hut and cried until the orange sun crested the mountains the next morning, lighting my tear-stained face. I thought of how the wolf spared no one, how could it do such a thing? What kind of evil exists in this world? Fear pulsated through my body from my snout to my curly tail, my hooves were ice cold while my stomach was burning hot. At that moment, I swore to myself that I would have revenge on that wolf or die trying. I couldn’t sleep that night, nor any night from that point onward.

It has now been five years since my brothers have passed. I have spent every moment of the last half a decade obsessing over getting my revenge. Every day I wake up with a knot in my stomach that reminds me of my mission and motivates me to sharpen my skills. It’s plain and simple, I live to hunt down and kill wolves, nothing more. There is nothing more satisfying than that brief second when I have a wolf on the verge of death. At that moment, when I look deep into the wolf’s eyes, I see my brothers waving at me and I immediately feel a rush of calming energy. Although it lasts for an instant, the experience takes me away from the pain and sorrow. Nothing has ever felt more right to me than that of killing those ungodly beasts.

Throughout my travels, I have slain wolves of all species and sizes, so much so that my name has gained notoriety. Cerdo Guerrero is what they call me, warrior pig I think it means. I’m not sure what it stands for exactly but it rhymes and I like that. In the past, I would spend countless hours tracking wolves, but now citizens from different parts send for me to come to their villages. I have nearly two or three letters dropped off to me by owls each week, and each letter requests that I come to another town and sort out those pesky wolves. I wish I could help all of them, but my time is limited and my goal is clear. I’ve read every letter in search of my wolf, but alas each one has failed to mention the wolf with the scar across its face. When the police were asked if there were any witnesses to my brothers’ murder, they mentioned there was an old chameleon by the name of Jackson who lived near Harry and his brick house. Jackson told the police that he saw a wolf in the area on the same night the murder took place. He also mentioned that the wolf had a monstrous scar upon its face, beginning at the eyes and ending at the snout. This is all I knew of my brothers’ murderer, the only detail that would carry me through the years.

It is now Sunday, and I think I’ve finally found the wolf that killed my brothers. I was given a tip from a local villager a few days ago as he noticed a particularly ugly wolf roaming around his settlement. Now, all wolves are hideous but this one he said “is scarred up in the face”. Naturally, I am intrigued and I find it difficult to contain my excitement.

As I stand in front of the cave, I take a deep breath through my snout and exhale slowly through pursed lips. My body is trembling in anticipation. I reach into my rucksack and pulled out a dried wolf’s head I had been saving for this occasion. I throw the head at the mouth of the cave and begin making a racket clanging my swords together. The head rolls perfectly so that it is facing up as if the decapitated wolf is staring deeply into the cave. I want to show my enemy their death while they’re still alive so that when I kill them they die twice. Never have I ever been so hungry for blood before this very moment. Now I understand the wolf. As I delve deeper into the cave I notice, there in the darkness, not one but three pairs of glowing yellow eyes peering out at me.

Five Years Later

It is a beautiful summer night and my family and I are enjoying a relaxing evening in the very same mud pit my brothers and I frequented as piglets. I watch my beautiful wife and our amazing child play together, an overwhelming feeling of gratitude engulfs my entire being. I can’t help but remember that day when I was face to face with the wolf that killed my brothers. When I laid eyes on the wolf cubs, it dawned on me that she was a mother providing for her young. That hunger for revenge inside of me evaporated. For a brief second all was clear, by hunting monsters I, myself, became a monster. If I slew the wolf, her cubs would have surely died a horrible death they did not deserve. I disappeared that night and never killed another wolf. It was this event that made me realize that revenge would not have given me the satisfaction I wanted. Now, I find that satisfaction in my own family, every day. I can sleep well at night knowing that those wolf cubs did not suffer the loss of their parent, and a family was spared the carnage of being ripped apart unjustly.

Inspired by “The Three Little Pigs”, Tyler’s version is a hero’s story, crafted to showcase character development and redemption after wrongdoing. This story was made to have a higher degree of complexity than the original tale and deals with themes of loss, forgiveness, and family.

After the revitalization, most true humans were altered, under the guise of a chip implant. It was designed to increase the average IQ of the patient, which was the major selling point that the global government, Terra, distributed to the territories of Earth. Unbeknownst to the people who received the implant, they sacrificed their free will, and with that, their humanity. The way the implant worked was through increasing the amount of subservience a human was willing to put forth, all the while making them believe they still had free will. An unknown side effect was that the implant changed the pigment in their eyes to blue. Only those who rejected the mandatory implant, and went underground into hiding, would see their lack of free will. That was how those who received the implant became known as the “sheep”. It was a fitting term represented by safety but lacking freedom.

Ten years ago it was made illegal to deny the implant and the government released specially trained hunters to track down true humans. Those who hunted the people without implants were known as wolves.

***

Pink and blue neon reflected off the murky puddles covering the bustling street. A mass of people moved back and forth, like a school of fish, conducting their irrelevant business at an unnerving speed. Red walked nonchalantly down the street, seemingly an absent observer of all the commotion occurring in front of her. Rundown buildings crowded her peripheral vision, adding to the ominous aura this street proposed to her. The windows of the building reflected the crowd of people in the low night light, creating the perception that there were more people there than actuality. The stomps of footsteps and bubble of astray conversation crowded her eardrums as she attempted to dissect one conversation from the other, trying to learn something about these sheep who mattered so little to her. Sunglasses covered her eyes, revealing nothing about her path of vision to these strangers. The blue eyes of the sheep around her seemed to swallow her up, attempting to unearth the truth about herself, a truth that not many people knew. The sunglasses hid more than her line of vision, they hid her brown eyes. Those brown eyes were a dead giveaway, revealing her true identity; those brown eyes separated the people from the sheep.

A recurring question stirred in Red’s mind, “Is safety worth the sacrifice of freedom and free will?” It was a question she could never quite answer. She often tried to remind herself that suffering is a part of being alive and conscious, so to be truly human was to suffer to the extent of our own awareness. “But what are we aware of?” She thought, quickly spiraling down a rabbit hole of metaphysical and epistemological ideas. Red was brought back to Earth when she noticed a pink reflection dimly flickering in the window, distorted by the raindrops slinking down. As she turned around to decode the reflection, she saw her meeting point. A bright pink sign labeled “XXX” with an arrow pointing towards a doorway directly underneath the sign.

The doorway was like a portal into another dimension. A dark door opened onto a hallway of lights rimming the walls and ceiling, flickering due to age. Red walked forwards in a daze, seemingly walking backward due to the flash of lights. It wasn’t a flash though, it was like a wave, a wave of electricity following over the body of anyone who dared enter this place of dark sexuality.

The aspect of love has been removed entirely from sex in places like this. Again, Red was reminded of the fall of humanity, if one could even say humanity anymore. “This isn’t sex,” she whispered to herself, “Sex is about beauty, sex is about connection, sex is the ability to express the idea of love physically. Although love sadly isn’t a trait anymore when concerning the sheep. Sex allows their obedience to continue.”

The tunnel opened up to reveal a massive room separated into smaller opaque rooms, where one could barely make out a dim lamp and a bed and the intertwined bodies that lay amidst. Occasionally a hand or breast would appear on the walls, allowing any bystander to see more clearly. Red made her way over to what looked to be a receptionist. Her blue eyes and dark grey, almost purple, bags beneath them, told more of a story than she could ever verbalize. Her blonde hair was abruptly stopped by black roots slowly growing back at the top of her head. A body ordained in a loose, skimpy, beaded top and skirt stood with bad posture and a certain sag that only years of repetition could show.

“Hi there,” Red asked the scantily clad woman, “I have an appointment with a woman here who goes by Indigo… Is she expecting me?”

“Ah yes, you must be Red,” The woman responded, “You are very lucky, Indigo is an eccentric woman who is usually quite hard to book. You can meet her in the very back room.”

Red began walking towards the back room, which seemed much farther away than she anticipated, through small corridors lined with more opaque rooms on either side. The sounds of sex seeped through the walls and penetrated Red’s ears, shivering her bones. After what seemed to be an eternity, she reached the backroom where Scarlet was. Red cautiously opened the door to reveal a woman sitting on the bed cross-legged, in an almost meditative state. Upon hearing the door open, the woman turned around to introduce herself to Red. Red was taken aback as she saw the unmistakably blue eyes that frightened her so much. Clearly, this apprehension was visible as the woman acknowledged it.

“Hi there, I’m Scarlet, it’s nice to finally meet you in the flesh! And please, don’t worry about my eyes, I was born naturally with blue eyes, which is nice because it helps me blend in, unlike you I assume…” It was at this point Red realized she was still wearing her glasses, which may have seemed rather suspicious. She quickly took them off and put them away. “Oh my, brown eyes are so beautiful,” Continued Scarlet, “I am envious.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Red muttered hastily, “but listen, I don’t have much time, there’s a wolf following me. I haven’t seen him yet, but I know he’s out there tracking me. So please, give me the basket.”

Scarlet waited for a few seconds, then responded, “Alright, alright, here it is,” and she passed it over. “Do not lose this chip, Red; it is necessary for my survival just as much as it is for yours. Please, be careful in your trek to grandma’s house through this vast, modern forest.”

“Thank you,” Red put on her sunglasses as she turned to leave.

This basket was no ordinary basket you brought to a picnic. The basket was a code name for a computer chip capable of wiping away any strings to lead back to Red’s life and her crimes as a non-implanter. It wasn’t just helpful for Red though, this chip was capable of wiping away the data of all non-implanters, like Scarlet. For this reason, Red was the most important person to the free-thinkers and the most dangerous to those who desired to control free will.

Stillness is extremely noticeable in a crowd of shifting people. Red was all too aware of this when she noticed a man, watching her with suspicion, as she exited the building. The bustling street hid his intentions to others, but his immense solidarity screamed like a banshee to her. His blue eyes stabbed into her, like an icicle just waiting to fall. His hair seemed impossibly grey as if it was replaced with strands of cold, sharp steel. His clothes were not anything special, just the usual dreary rags that any sheep would adorn. “If the clothes were his attempt at a wolf hiding in sheep’s clothing, he failed miserably,” she thought. It was not his fault though, as he was too cold and calculating to be one of the sheep. Without a doubt, she knew he was the wolf.

She put her hood on, pulling it as far down as she could while still maintaining clear visibility, and walked briskly, venturing further into the forest of buildings and concrete. The footsteps behind her trumpeted much louder than usual because this time they echoed with the silence of the unknowing. She needed to get to Grandma’s house, which wasn’t actually a grandmother’s house, but a safe house with the equipment needed to input the chip into Terra’s servers. There was also the technician, whose real name is unknown, but operates under the code name Grandma. Moreover, everything about Grandma is unknown: her look, her gender, her height, her eye color.

Red rushed through the streets, as quickly as she could casually walk. She walked down alleys and streets that time had forgotten. Suffering had swept through these long-dismissed streets
similar to the likes of a hurricane. But what was lacking was that fight, that innate strength humans possess to combat situations of prejudice, inequality, and situations that dismiss the
pursuit of happiness. Rats scurried about the streets burrowing into their houses of garbage. Humans rested on the floor of this new age forest; their butts’ wet with filth, and their hands
clutching whatever objects held any sort of monetary value. Their faces sank into themselves, grown stiff and stale from a lack of smiling. They acted with no drive, only
completing the most menial of job tasks to satisfy the person above them. This ladder system seemingly went on forever, with the person at the top rung a mere concept, no longer represented by flesh and bone.

Skulking around this mess of collectivism, was Red, using the mess of mindless bodies as helpful hiding spots. At last, she arrived at her destination, Grandma’s house. She didn’t know
what she expected, something out of the ordinary maybe. But upon her arrival, it proved to be just the same as any of the other million small apartments in this forest. She walked up to the metal
door, as wood was too scarce nowadays, and knocked three times. The door opened, and she expected to see this mystical figure in front of her, almost glowing with uncertainty. But there
was no one to be seen, just a dimly lit staircase crawling up into oblivion. “Fuck me this is it,” Red whispered under her breath, stepping over through the door frame and thus sealing her fate.

A crowded room greeted her upstairs, wires were strewn all over the place, and lights blinked inadvertently. The smell was what hit her first. Up until this point, she didn’t realize the word
mechanical had a smell, but this was it. “But is it a smell?” she thought, as she began to taste cold metal on her tongue. What was next was the sound. A fury of bees swarmed over her ears and
down into her stomach, so calmly powerful she felt almost sick. And then she realized the enormity of this situation. So vast it was like dying while alive. Memories rushed into her head;
memories of running, of crying, of pain all came forth. Like a sponge being squeezed out, these past anguishes flooded out of her body as she struggled to maintain balance, using a table to grab hold onto.

“Careful there,” a voice shone through the haze, “You really don’t want to break that, especially at a time like now.” Red thought that the inclusion to this remark was rather peculiar. The man hid under a hood in the darkness of a corner, his features concealed.

“There is no time other than now” was her response, “but thank you for warning me.”

“You must be the messenger. You probably know me as Grandma, but I think I would be better suited as Grandpa,” he remarked.

“You probably would.”

“Mmm, I must thank you for the unique role you’ve played in all of this,” he spoke.

This remark sparked her interest. It pulled on a hook in her brain that said something was not as it seemed. Only through her years of running had she learned this quality. Her eyes darted
around the room, looking for the place where the chip belonged. Immediately she found it, a small computer with the hard drive open, awaiting placement. But she kept looking around as if
to signify confusion and indetermination, feeling his eyes watching from the anonymity of darkness in which he hid.

“You must be confused; all of this computer stuff is very complicated and requires a lot of time to learn,” he said, attempting to clear the air of foreboding.

“Slightly yes. But more so just anxious to complete this,” She admitted.

“Alright well let me grab some supplies from the other room and we’ll finally finish this.”

As he left, she began to look around, and found another door on the left side of the room, presumably a storage cabinet, but when she opened the door, she unearthed the answer to her uneasiness. In front of her was a lifeless body, still with color from being alive minutes before. As she turned him over, her body froze in shock. Before her was a man of similar stature to the
one she was just with but with one crucial feature missing: his eyes. All that remained of them were two black holes in his face. The blood turned black as it dried and was almost reflective.
Red looked at herself through the most abhorrent mirror. “Is this all worth it?” A voice called out, noticeably closer than last time. Clearly, the wolf was here and responsible for this tragedy of
real human death. Red felt needles of fear shoot up her spine as she stiffened in her place, not wanting to turn around and see those horribly blue eyes.

“Is what worth it?” She returned.

“The running. The never-ending hunt you put yourself in. The fear of stepping out in public. The terror of footsteps behind you, but too nervous to turn around and see who it truly is.” Red thought back to earlier when his description provided such an accurate reasoning of her journey to this place.

“Were those his footsteps,” she thought, “Or were they just some sheep going about their business, oblivious to my true nature?” His question posed legitimate truth to her life, while every second was spent in fear, the fear of the undecided future, the sheep had no worries because they had no choices. She slowly stood up and twisted to view him. His grey hair was wet from the rain and his blue eyes seemingly vibrated in their sockets. Her mouth felt frozen shut, powerless to open; her vocal cords disintegrated within her throat. It felt like a horrid lucid
dream, unable to move and cursed to view what she feared most. Finally, she gained enough control of her body to speak. “I regret the constant running. But I don’t run based on my own
volition. I run because I don’t wish for my own autonomy to be subjected to castration, lacerating my humanity from within. Is it not true that this decision to ‘stop running’ merely underestimates the decision to retain my livelihood, and with that the very basis of my humanity itself?” A look of perplexity swept over his face. Was this the first time the wolf had considered the confines of his operation? Could it be that even he, a man incapable of being human, still possessed a sliver of self-reflection? Was it possible that Red had, for the first time, unlocked an aspect of the wolf that he did not know existed? For the first time in her life, Red held the power in her hand, and she knew it.

“The question of my existence is hardly a viable concern when considering the innumerable beneficiaries that a controllable population possesses…” his response was cut off by Red interjecting.

“There is no point to a controllable population when those within have no self-drive, looking only at the greater good. There is no point in physical progress if we cannot progress within ourselves. How can one justify an existence based only to serve?” She quickly answered her own question before he could speak, “Surely it cannot be because the overall efficiency is
raised due to this subservience. To be human is to have pitfalls. To be human is to access the very darkest, deepest corners of your mind, and come through with a passion for perception that
one could only derive from within. What do you perceive? Is perception even a property of a human when their ability to make decisions is taken away from them? How dare you attempt to
claim that a lack of free will is beneficial to the progress of humanity! Humanity cannot progress without free will. Humanity cannot even begin to comprehend progression when self-reflection
and free will is taken away.” Tears seeped from her brown eyes as she panted with anticipation awaiting his response.

“Stop…” he attempted to say but stuttered throughout, “These questions are not pertinent in today’s society…” His voice trailed off, paralyzed with an indeterminant inquisition of himself. His hand reached down to his belt, and slowly pulled out his sidearm, “These questions you’re asking, they have no answer, they deserve no response.” He shakily pointed his gun in Red’s direction, although the action was only to expel a response from her, and not to pull the trigger.

“You may pull that trigger, you may not, but I believe it was Tupac Shakur who said: ‘Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside while still alive.’” The Wolf’s face turned mangled with depression, while still somehow maintaining a calm look, “You could kill me, but I would not lose my greatest strength; I would not lose myself. You have already lost what is greatest to you, my friend,” and with this Red closed her eyes and opened her arms, content with the life she lived and the choices she made.

BANG! She winced, but felt nothing, although she dared not to open her eyes. A thud echoed around the room as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Red peeked open
one eye to see the wolf lying on the floor, blood dripping from his cranium, and the sidearm scattered nearby. “I did it…” she thought. Red’s logic had overridden the implant. She had
proven to not just herself, but to everyone, that humanity is triumphant, and that the spirit of free will and individuality is paramount to the progression of humanity.

Retaining her demeanor, she stepped over his uninhabited body and placed the basket in the computer. Waves of code booted up and she followed the commands as scheduled.

Red was free. No more running. No more hiding. Something welled up inside of her as she fell to the floor and burst out crying. “It’s finally over, finally,” she bawled. What followed suit was a rush of serenity, as she got up and left the musty room. When she stepped outside, she felt the rain on her skin, no longer daggers of acid but bursts of freedom. Reaching up to her face, she grabbed her sunglasses and tossed them into the gutter. Slowly she ventured forth into the crowd, allowing herself to be lost within the sheep, the rain cleansing her skin.

Inspired by dystopian movies and television shows, Harrison crafted this retelling of “Little Red Riding Hood” by the Grimm Brothers. Harrison infused philosophical questions with pop culture references into the story to twist this traditional tale into a captivating and timely story.

Once upon a time, there was a man and a woman who long wished in vain for a child. And finally on the longest day of the year, at noon, the couple was blessed with a beautiful son. The boy was born on the sacred day of the solar solstice and he himself was like a little sun. He had such light golden hair that resembled rays of the sunshine and his childish smile that seemed
to illuminate everything around and make his parents impossibly happy.

“Oh, dear, we have a blessed child,” said the husband, “Our son was given to us by the Sun itself. For that we should name him Cyrus and he will be our personal sunshine”.

All their relatives and friends were so happy for the family and adored the baby from first sight. Especially joyful for a precious child was his godmother Gothel. She was an old friend of the family and loved the boy as if he was her own child. It was her dream to have a big family with her husband, but her poor health didn’t allow her to do so. And so, she put all her
love in the Sunny Boy.

As the years passed, Cyrus grew up as a happy child to his parents’ delight and was spoiled by everyone’s love. A few years after his birth, his parents gave him a younger sister, whom at first he was very happy about. But deep down he was afraid that he would be loved less from now on. And so, he started to spend more time with his Godmother as he thought she was the only person who still cared for him.

“Remember, Cyrus”, once Gothel said to the boy, “I will always be there for you, even when nobody else is”.

More years passed and the little boy had grown into a young lad. Like all those years ago, his parents loved him fiercely and still called him their Sunshine. However, he did not look like a little sun anymore and seemed to be more like a rainy cloud. His beautiful hair still was there but it like his smile was lost forever. The boy no longer gave his parents and sister his bright smile and always walked around with a sad or annoyed expression. And how could he not be annoyed all the time? Cyrus was of thirteen years of age now and believed he was a grown, independent person. He did not need his parents to call him silly names and tell him what to do all the time!

“Why can’t they understand that I am not a child anymore? It is not like they really care about me though. They have their favourite daughter, they only have time to criticize me or tell me I am too young to be an adult!” Cyrus often told his Godmother.

“Oh, Cyrus, don’t be too upset about it. You still have me. Your parents are just fools if they don’t see what a fine young man you are,” Gothel always answered him. She was the only person who treated him fairly and wanted to listen to him. And once she told him, “Imagine if we lived together, just you and me. We would live happily as there is no one else who knows us better than we do about each other. I would be the best mother to you!” Then she carefully looked at him and asked, “What if we run away together? I will take you with me to another town and we will live our best life!”

“Run away?”, the boy asked hesitantly, “But wouldn’t my parents search for us?”

“You always tell me how they don’t care about you, so why would they?” The woman tried to convince him. “But, of course, if you don’t want to or are afraid, I understand. After all, you are still so little…”

“No!”, exclaimed Cyrus, “I am not! I’ll go with you!”

The next day, they both were ready to leave. When his parents were not at home, the boy sneaked from the house and went to the place where his godmother planned to meet him. He was nervous and anxious and couldn’t help but think about his parents. Would they miss him? Would they try to find him? But then he became angry at these thoughts. He could live without his mother and father! After all, if he went with his godmother she wanted only good for him! After that, he saw her coming and forgot about any doubts.

For several hours, Gothel and Cyrus rode without stopping till they reached the closest town in the South. There, they bought an old but cozy house. It was small and the boy’s room was in the attic.

“Cyrus, you should not leave the house for now,” his godmother told him. “We don’t want to be caught and we should wait ’till everyone in our town will forget about us.”

But it had been only two weeks since their arrival when Cyrus decided to disregard Gothel’s request. He was so bored sitting in his lonely room without any books or games and wanted to have some fun. And from his window, he saw a handsome boy with dark hair playing in the street every day. He was very pretty and his laughter was so loud and lovely that Cyrus wanted to join him in his game very badly. And so, on the day when his godmother went to the market for groceries, Cyrus left the house for a short walk. On the street, he immediately heard a familiar laugh and at the same second, someone crashed into him. It was the laughing boy.

“Sorry!”, exclaimed the dark-haired, “I didn’t see you!”

“Oh, no worries. I’m fine”, answered the blond-haired boy, “My name is Cyrus, by the way”.

“I’m Ehann, nice to meet you! Do you want to join? We’re playing tag”, suggested the new friend and Cyrus immediately agreed.

The game was so exciting that the boys absolutely forgot about time. But suddenly a loud shout interrupted their fun. It was his godmother, Gothel. She grabbed his arm and roughly dragged him into the house.

“How could you disobey me?” she cried in her anger, “I told you to sit in your room!” Cyrus was shocked by his godmother’s reaction. He had never seen her so furious and angry before. He felt fear and resentment and tears appeared in his eyes. The woman also noticed that. “Don’t!” she cried out, “Boys don’t cry, you silly boy! Go to your room and think about what you have done! I hope you were smart enough to not tell anyone your name!”

Cyrus didn’t dare to tell her about Ehann and quietly went upstairs. Once he was there he heard the sound of the locking door and realized that Gothel had locked him in. He tried to fight his tears but could not hold them. He remembered his mother and her soft touches

“Don’t ever be shy to show your emotions, honey”, she always told him, “You can cry or laugh no matter what everyone thinks and that’s okay.” Oh, how he missed his family all this time. He wanted to fall asleep and wake up back at his home surrounded by his parents and little sister. With that thought, Cyrus closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

The next day he woke up to the sounds of familiar voices and gentle touches. The boy raised his head and saw the beautiful face of his mother. She had tears on her cheeks but she smiled happily at him.

“Mum, is that really you? Or am I still sleeping?” Cyrus asked incredulously.

“Oh, it is me, my dear. We finally found you!”, she answered, placing a kiss on his forehead.“Your father and I were so worried!”

“Mummy, I am so sorry, so sorry!”, the boy started crying, feeling guilt and relief at the same time. “I shouldn’t have gone away, I missed you all a lot!”

“Sweetheart, we all missed you, too. This is not your fault, we don’t blame you. But next time, please, come to us and tell us about your feelings, don’t run away. Your dad and I will always listen to you”, his mother soothed him. “We searched for you everywhere and in all of the close towns people looked for you. And only yesterday someone told the police that they saw a blond-haired boy called Cyrus here”

“I promise, mum, from now on I will be honest with you about my feelings. But can you promise me something, too?”, the boy hesitantly asked and after a short nod continued, “Can you call me by my old nickname again?”

The woman smiled warmly and knowingly.

“Of course, my Sunshine.”

Aida’s retelling of “Rapunzel” by the Grimm Brothers explores the themes of family, gender neutrality, and child abduction. This gender-swapped rendition parts ways from the family narratives that exist in many traditional fairy tales by showcasing that oftentimes family dynamics are healthy and loving.

My house isn’t actually built out of gingerbread, but it certainly smelt like it that day. I’d just finished putting the third batch into the oven, not quite satisfied with how the first two had turned out. It’d have to be perfect to gain the approval of the Fairytale Foodies. They judged one of the most prestigious baking competitions on this side of the river. But never mind that now, that’s another story.

I had been out gathering herbs for supper when I first heard them. Poor babes were crying together, and yet, it had been the rumbling of their tummy’s I’d heard first. Clearly, they hadn’t eaten properly in a long time. Hansel had looked like a skeleton, all bones with very little skin, and certainly no fat on him. Gretel hadn’t looked much better herself, and so exhausted she couldn’t stand on her own, she’d collapsed at Hansel’s feet in despair. I’d desperately wanted to scoop them up right then, but oh, how that would have scared them. A lady covered in twigs emerging from the bush to smother them, that’s what they’d have thought. If they didn’t think of me as a transforming thunderbird with my brown cloak acting as wings. So, I’d gone home. I would have loved to wait there, but I still had a gingerbread loaf in the oven, and I’d be no use to anybody if my house burned down.

Not long after returning home, the idea struck me. Leave the little darlings a trail of food. I could see no flaw in it initially, but as I started to prepare little sandwiches and shine some apples, I realized I couldn’t just leave them exposed on the forest floor. Any passing forest creature could steal an apple. Even the smallest of squirrels would try. And on a day as overcast as this, the sandwiches would surely become soggy. Besides, how many apples or sandwiches could two tiny children eat on any given day, no matter how hungry they were? No, it wouldn’t due at all. No humans lived this far into the woods, so they would just have to come here. It was the only safe place close by where the creatures of the night wouldn’t find them and swallow them up. I had sat down to have another think on the matter, and my eyes were drawn to the delightful dish on my tables center. Candy. Bright, beautiful, candy. Crisp wrappers that would glimmer if any sun ray escaped the cloud cover. Yes. Candy it would surely have to be. So, I divided up all the candy into my pockets and set out to find them again. Leaving a little trail of shiny packages along the way. A cloaking spell to hide the candy from all but human eyes. Very useful for keeping other animals out of things. The only problem animal was cats. I’ve never been quite able to get it to work on them. It’s as though they see the absence. But there are no cats near where I live anyways, it’s too far outside of the village for them to roam over here. The woods are full of chupacabras who’d happily drink any strays that wandered too far from the village.

Once I’d gotten the candy trail nearly all the way to where the youngsters were lying down to take a nap, I climbed up into a nearby tree to keep an eye on them. The leaves were just barely starting to change into their autumn foliage, so I was hidden well enough without further spells. They slept fitfully for a while, but eventually, they woke up and started looking around. Trying to decide where to go now, no doubt. It didn’t take them long to spot the first candy. I’d set it on a nearby stump, and I had another a few feet from the base of it, sitting on a tower of small stones. Both the size of a marble with little wrapper twists and bright red, they really were impossible to miss. I’d tried to keep the colours together in bunches so they wouldn’t squabble as siblings are oft to do. So far it had been working. The farther along the trail they went, the larger amounts of candy they would find, until ultimately, they’d be in the clearing around my house. From there I figured it wouldn’t be too unusual if I introduced myself.

Once they were near enough to my house that I felt safe leaving them unattended, I dashed ahead. The last of the gingerbread was still warm, so I’d brought it over to the windowsill to cool. It might not have been pie, but the scent certainly carried. Sure enough, the little dears scampered over soon after. Hiding out behind the garden shed as they decided what to do. They would never admit it to me, but I know they planned to steal the colling gingerbread from my windowsill that day. I wouldn’t have blamed them for it if they had. They were clearly used to having to sneak scraps here and there, whenever their parents’ visited town.

The whole village knew who they were. The Woodcutters weren’t particularly poor, and yet Mrs. Woodcutter seemed to have sticky fingers. Or so she’d say when caught holding someone else’s jewelry. Mr. Woodcutter was no better, often found rooting through trash cans and pantries alike. It was this habit the children had quickly picked up from him. The town believed the whole family a menace. Only leaving them be since they lived just far enough out of town that people could forget about their existence for a few weeks at a time. Plus, Mr. Woodcutter had one redeeming quality in the village’s mind. In that the tonics he smoked, imbued him with a certain calmness at all times, making him rather agreeable. Some of the townsfolk would use that to their advantage, negotiating much lower wood prices on account of it being ever so easy to get anyways. It drove Mrs. Woodcutter mad, I’m sure. But that was no excuse for leaving their children out in the woods alone, and hoping they wouldn’t return.

The children had told me of that, they’d heard her scheming some nights prior, and she’d tried other such moves in the past. She told them they were fat and ate too much of the food she worked so hard to provide, never offering any thanks for it. The forest was meant to harden them up, teach them how hard food was to come by, and to Mr. Woodcutter she’d remarked that it might just eat them up once and for all. I might not have believed them, had I not known the family had plenty enough food for the four of them. But Mr. & Mrs. Woodcutter were always eating, her to drown out her sorrows, and him because the tonic was famishing. Or so he’d often say. I’d never had an interest in such things. No matter now.

When Hansel had run over ‘neath the windowsill, I picked the gingerbread up to move it inside. Feigning surprise when his hand appeared a moment later. Him, having not known I was there. He’d run back to the bush, gesturing to his sister -who’d been hiding by my garden shed- to begin running too. But when I called out for them to wait and asked if they’d like some food to eat, both children had paused. Gretel stared at her elder brother, trusting his judgment at the moment more than her own. He’d asked the silliest question then if I was going to eat them. Ridiculous really what children could come up with. I’d laughed lightly at that, and assured him I’d no intention of eating either of them, and they were both too thin to be worth the hassle anyway, they’d slowly come inside. Hansel clearly prepared to break for the door at any moment, but I kept true to my word. I let them each have a slice of the first gingerbread loaf, I thought it was a bit too dry myself, but they seemed to be in awe. I had left them to it and prepared a simple supper for us all.

By the time supper had ended night had already descended down from above, and the landscape lay shrouded in shadows. They knew enough to see it would be safer for them to stay with me and immediately accepted the offer to stay the night. That’s all I intended it to be really. One night somewhere warm and safe, then I’d head to the village with them in the morning and get them settled back in at their home. Maybe give their parents a talking to, supposing they youngsters hadn’t run off themselves. I’d taken them to the spare bedroom to tuck them into bed, telling them this, and that’s when they broke down and told me their half of the story. I’d gone to bed more conflicted than ever. Take them back to a place they were uncared for only because the people there called them their own children, or find somewhere else for the kids to go? I knew few, if any, of the villagers would have any interest in adopting them. Most households already had their fill of kids. But I wasn’t sure I had the time to watch them myself, I was so used to living alone and wandering off as I pleased throughout the day. It wouldn’t matter too much, the next morning it was clear that my clearing had been visited by some large forest creature in the night, and to travel outside of the house wouldn’t be safe that day.

It was in that way that one night passed into two, and two turned into a week. Then weeks started to blur into months. The first snowfall came down, and the children convinced me that it would be too cold a journey to take them on now. I admit, perhaps I was too easily persuaded by that and every other excuse they’d come up with each new day. Even having skipped the bake sale entirely, since Gretel had caught some sort of chill she couldn’t shake. I hadn’t even minded really; it was so wonderful seeing how Gretel had taken to baking immediately. She was making so much progress, and I was so excited for her. Hansel had taken longer to warm up to, but eventually one night, about two months in, he’d asked about the creatures of the forest, and how I kept them away from the cottage. I’d shown him my spellbook and taught him a few of the easier spells, one to flip the page of a book from across the room, another to spawn a tiny floating light that would hover by his side until dismissed. He was slowly working towards defensive magic and time-based spells when a villager finally came by to see if I’d heard anything about the missing children.

Unfortunate. That was the only way to explain the interaction. I didn’t even consider turning Mrs. Potts away, having all but forgotten the children weren’t really mine already. Gretel had been stirring a pot on the stove, and I’d been just about to call Hansel in from the garden shed. Which I’d refitted now for him, as a safe place to cast spells to prevent any further damage to the house. One rouge ignition spell was enough to motivate that. Mrs. Potts had been stunned to see Gretel alive and well, looking almost unrecognizable now that she was well fed and happy. But only that: almost. Mrs. Potts had demanded to see Hansel then, and we probably could have sorted the whole matter out then and there, but Hansel’s newly learned locking spell was surprisingly strong. I’d had to cast what must have been a rather scary sounding counterspell to unlock the door. At least based on Mrs. Potts’s reaction. Hansel tumbled out then, having been trying the door for a while prior. It’s worth noting that Mrs. Potts had a son of her own, Chip, I believe she called him. Clearly, the idea that at any time I could have taken him and hid him away in a shed for half a year was too much for her to consider. Even if that wasn’t truly the case here. It certainly could have looked it to an outsider given the circumstances. That’s how it is sometimes. Regardless, Mrs. Potts couldn’t be reasoned with, and she’d dashed off to the town without even asking the children if they were okay.

From there everything went a little crazy. I’m would never find out exactly what Mrs. Potts told the rest of the village. But based on the crowd at my front door a few hours later, it couldn’t have been good. I’m not sure who broke down the door that day, but they needn’t have, it wasn’t locked. From inside the house, I had heard Mrs. Potts screaming at someone not to light the shed on fire, and that Hansel was probably still stuck inside. I had thought to myself that it was good she’d remembered that. Even though Hansel wasn’t inside there, it was nice to know that if he had been there, instead of sitting wide-eyed at the kitchen table across from me, that he’d have been okay. Except that, at about that point I was no longer sitting at the table. It’s hard to say when exactly it happened, but I do know it was Mr. Woodcutter holding one of my arms behind my back. My face had been bashed into the tabletop, and Gretel was crying. I know I should have been in a great deal of pain, but during that moment, I could only see Hansel’s shocked face. I couldn’t even see Gretel, she was sitting to the other side of Hansel, away from where my face was pointed. Too many people had been shouting to tell what was being said. Or perhaps it was only the ringing in my own head, that had drowned most everything out. Hansel seemed to have heard what Mr. Woodcutter said. Unless he was just good at lip reading or was shouting just to shout. Both were certainly possible.

I wouldn’t know until later, but Mr. Woodcutter had lived up to his family business, bringing with him a sharpened axe. What I did know at the time, was that Gretel kept crying and begging Hansel to do something. Anything, to get them to stop. Had he been studying from the start of his stay here, he might have been more successful. But alas, the defence spell he cast had backfired horribly, sending him flying backwards instead of Mr. Woodcutter. My free arm had shot forward and I had sent out a slowing spell, hoping to soften Hansel’s blow to the wall. But for some reason that had only incited Mr. Woodcutter and the rest more. Suddenly more people had been pushing me down. So much so that the oak table had split apart at its seam, vanishing into a pile of sawdust. Hansel must have cast another spell? I was never quite sure what he’d intended it to be. I hadn’t been able to see much of what happened in the following moments, but the kids had screamed just before there was pain across my back. A mere few inches down from my neck.

The world had slowed down. Or perhaps Hansel just sped up. His voice had been both pitchy and fast, but also firm. It was interesting. I was aware of the sensation of time. It’s not one I’d felt very often before, but that day it was like the rolling waves of a river, each lapping lazily at my ankles. Except this covered my entire body, leaving my head feeling light. Little white dots were swirling across the room as I tried to stand. My body felt sluggish, worn by time. But I knew if I gained some momentum I could speed back up. Maybe catch up to the speed Hansel was moving at. He’d run across the room to pull the rest of the people off me. Gretel was there too. I realized after she’d been excluded from the spell entirely. Her hands were clenched around a bloody axe, eyes locked on Mr. Woodcutter in a mixture of horror and disbelief. She had sputtered out question after question. But the only part I caught was the word ‘why’. I had turned to see what was happening, seeing Mr. Woodcutter’s shirt was splattered with blood. Then there was suddenly way too much of it in the room. The axe, him, the floor at my feet. Dripping, it had been dripping. The kids were yelling at everybody to stop, although I’m wasn’t sure why at the time, since no one else was moving much at all. Hansel was trying desperately to pull a dagger out of Mr. Huntsman’s hand. That didn’t have blood on it. One small victory that day. The white floaters hadn’t gone away, but I had just been relieved that the kids at least, were settling down. There was no blood on them which was another relief. I’d been mistaken, Gretel hadn’t settled down yet. She had just been taking a break for a moment while trying to shove Mr. Woodcutter out of the house. Calling him all sorts of words I hadn’t realized she’d known in the process.

I had collapsed moments later, not quite unconscious, but certainly feeling lightheaded. A flash of movement later and Gretel had been leaning over me, calling my name. I had tried to tell her I was alright, but the words didn’t come out right. Hansel joined her not long after that, armed with my old spellbook. Warmth had rushed through me, and my back was nearly aflame. Gretel had looked to Hansel, and anyone could see the worry in her eyes, but he was doing alright. What the book failed to mention was how much being healed could hurt. I’m sure I was screaming. But I was being healed. My back would be tender for weeks after, but any permanent damage had been undone. I had held Gretel after, watching as Hansel waved his newly acquired dagger around, the spellbook abandoned on the counter. He told me later he was trying to shame the other adults present into leaving, although they were still frozen so it could never have worked. They could hear him though. An unusual property for a time spell, likely a result of a misspoken word, but I never did find that out either.

It had taken what felt like a few hours to calm down the children after that. Afterwards, we had moved all the villagers outside, sitting them on the front lawn to better understand how many were there, and why they’d come. Mrs. Potts was the first one I’d unfrozen, hoping to make sense out of what had gone on in the village. Gretel hadn’t left my side since Hansel had healed me, and Mrs. Potts had looked quite confused by that. She had tried to convince the children to run home, but they only told her they were already there. Mr. Huntsman came next since Mrs. Potts hadn’t said much more. He ended up being more helpful, although he was convinced the children had been kidnapped for some reason. It hadn’t taken the children long to convince him otherwise, telling him the same story of abandonment in the woods, that they’d told me half a year earlier. Which was the other important point. It had taken half a year for their disappearance to be noted. I had unfrozen the rest of the villagers slowly, leaving Mr. Woodcutter frozen last. Each had their own questions for the children, or for me, but the youngsters had made it very clear they didn’t want to go back with Mr. Woodcutter. When it was time for him to be unthawed back into reality, he’d just collapsed. Eventually admitting he only reported the children missing since they were the last family he had. His wife was claimed by the river not long after they’d taken the children out into the woods. I thought they might go back to him after hearing that, but neither seemed to care much at all. There were no tears, just a lot of repressed anger. It might not have been his plan to begin with, but he’d gone along with it each step of the way.

Most of the villagers left after that was revealed. Casting harsh, but deserved looks in Mr. Woodcutters’ direction. Many of them having kids themselves, and with a system already in place to share food through the harshest parts of winter, none could understand his motivations. Mr. Huntsman had wanted his blade back, which Hansel had done with some regret I’d noticed. I’d get him his own a year later, to mark the day. I’d also returned the axe, much to the children’s surprise. Mr. Woodcutter seemed surprised too, but he’d accepted it wordlessly. I figured he’d need it wherever he ended up. It was clear the other villagers would tolerate him around no longer, and I certainly wasn’t going to invite him to stay here.

Where he went after that I’d never know. Perhaps a Chupacabra got him. Regardless, the children grew up with me. Visiting town more often as they grew. Hansel became my protegee, learning more magic than I’d ever cared to know before. He got a job working for a nearby kingdom, something to do with enchanting their armoury, very top secret he’d tell me. Gretel would join me at the local bake sales each year and ultimately went on to open her own bakery. But both continued to visit now and then, as they found time in their busy lives. My only true regret about all this is that witches live such long lives. Although I know they had improved mine, just as much as I’d improved theirs.

The moral of Mary’s reimagined “Hansel and Gretel” is “just because people are related to you through blood does not mean they have your best interests at heart.” Written for a slightly older audience, this version deviates from the original by making the witch the protagonist, while Hansel and Gretel are the villains. 

I asked the mirror ’bout you

“Who’s the fairest?”

And something ’bout it felt like you’d be mine and I

Brought my apple to that dwarf house

And you’ve still got it in your trash even now

Oh, your sweet ebony hair

And your snow-white skin

You’re singing with the dwarfs, and won’t let me in

Engagement ring target ads all up on my phone

And I can picture it on this mirror

And I know it’s not real and that magic’s not here quite yet

And I might be single but it won’t be for long, oh-oh-oh

‘Cause here we are again with the

Seven small dwarfs

You almost flashed a smile when you were

Looking over at me

Love in my heart, I was there

I remember it all too well

Stepmom is always hating on you

Your cheeks were blood red

You used to be a little kid and not the fairest in the land

And your stepmom’s trying to murder you, for being pretty

So I offered you a life in a kingdom far away

And I know it’s so far and the dwarfs could not come with us

But I love you so crazy much that it hurts that you’re not mine

‘Cause here we are again in the middle of the night

And we’re thinking about ways that your stepmom can die

In dwarf house, I was there

I remember it all too well, yeah

And finally we are on the same page

So that your stepmom will die

Now this thing is just a masterpiece

With us and the dwarfs

Running thrilled, I was there

I remember it all too well

And she called you up again

Just to break you like a promise

So casually cruel in the name of being ‘hottest’

I’m a homicidal maniac lying here

‘Cause I remember it all, all, all too well

Our love won’t die, it’s like I’m paralyzed by it

I’d like to kill your step-mom again, but they’re still tryin’ to find her

After saving you yay I can make you my own

Now you grab all your things and we walk hand in hand

But you keep my old knife from your stepmom’s death

‘Cause it reminds you of freedom, and it feels like strength

You can’t get rid of it

‘Cause then you went and killed me with it

‘Cause there you were again when I loved you, Snow

But you would have lost the one real freedom you have known

It was rare, dwarfs were there, they remember it all too well

Ring off your hand, you were there, you don’t belong to no man

You are free, Snow White Queen, fairest in all the land

You used me, stepmoms dead, you were the apple of my eye

Larissa decided to mash the Grimm’s version of Snow White with Taylor Swift’s new release of her original song “All Too Well.” In this parody, Larissa tells the story from the prince’s point of view and crafts her song for a young adult audience.

Shahzeb took the traditional Jack and the Beanstalk story and reinvented it for the modern age. In this version, presented as a movie trailer, Jack ends up sacrificing his dignity while carjacking from the wrong victim.