11th grade English class. The assignment was to re-write a fairy tale imitating Hemingway's style.
I stood at the entrance to the three pig's house. "Little pig, won't you let me in?"
"You can't come in."
"Let me in. I'll be good."
"You can't. We won't let you in."
"Please let me in. It'll be grand."
"Won't you have some wine? Wine really is grand."
"I shall not have any until you let me in."
"We can not let you in. Let's not talk about that."
"I shall blow down the house. I really shall."
"You still can't come in. Not yet."
I took a deep breath and blew out and out and out. My breath went out swiftly, all of it. Then I breathed and it was back. Again I blew out. Then I was exhausted, and I started to cough.
From inside I heard the laughter of the pigs, and it angered me. I went to the roof to drop down the chimney, but the pigs had set a pot below me and filled it with Kummel, Cognac, and Vermouth, then set it on fire. I landed in the pot, but jumped out and fled. I felt no guilt about abandoning my supper. Although I still have several friends who eat pork, and I wish them the best of luck, it is not my show anymore.
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1 comment:
Very, very funny - and you were only in eleventh grade?
I like it. I'll have to come back to read more.
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