TL;DR - Start a fairy tale with “Once upon a time, and include five words from a list. 1000 words max. Deadline of one week. Link to yours in the comments, or not ;-)
This was a challenge in 2012, from Flash Fiction Friday.
Write a fairy tale with this starter: “Once upon a time” and these words: Widow, Woodcutter, Witch, Willow, and Wander. I imagined characters from Grimm’s fairy tales, no longer in their traditional roles, stuck in modern times and out of work. I had fun with this idea and used the same characters later on in other short stories, and eventually in a novel, Agnes of Grimm. I set it in the Ottawa area, with good and evil spirits—a bit of voodoo, a bit of First Nations. I like it, but after several edit cycles, it’s still in draft form, unfortunately. Some day.
Here’s my original story, just tweaked a bit. 721 words.
Once Upon a Time
Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a woodcutter, a witch, and a wolf. Once upon a time, they lived in an enchanted forest, with stately oaks, winsome willows, whispering pines, sunny meadows, babbling brooks, birds, butterflies, and bunnies. Once upon a time, they and other characters spun tales of heroes and villains, princes and fair maidens, love and horror.
Now they live in a condo by the beach. Tuesdays, they play bridge, Saturdays are movie night, and most other days find them lounging under beach umbrellas.
“Anyone seen Red?” asked the wolf.
“She went into town with Snow and some of the others,” said the witch. “She said they were just going to wander around for the day. Do some shopping, then out for Mexican, and then the karaoke bar.”
“Oh god,” said the wolf. “Have you heard her sing? She screams like a —”
“A witch?” said the witch. “I’ve heard her, yes, she does. Nice girl, pretty enough, but that’s it. Always struck me as a little —”
“Flighty?” said the woodcutter.
“Totally,” she said.
“No real talent there,” he said. “Now your scream, just beautifully projected. Love how you blend in that cackle, that evil grin, that feeling of impending doom, all in a body that turns the eye away.”
“You’re sweet, thanks,” she said. “My husband, the ogre, used to flatter me terribly. Too bad he went off to fight and left me a war widow.” She turned her arm in the sun. “This is doing me no good at all, you know. I used to be such a deathly white, and look — the boils have almost disappeared too. You, my dear, played the strong, silent hero so well. Those smouldering glances, sweaty biceps swinging that axe, always dashing in at the last minute.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I was trying for a very minimalist approach, simplifying down to the essence of the character.” He sipped his beer and patted his stomach. “Need to simplify this down a bit too, I’m losing my trim form. I do miss those days in the forest, cutting down trees, chasing after our friend the wolf here.”
“And cutting me down,” said the wolf. “I always enjoyed how we all built on those sequences - a helpless, naive damsel, something evil charms her, then shows its true, wicked side, so she screams, you rush in, the chase, the battle, me cowering while you swing for that final chop. And always a clean chop - I appreciated that.”
“Least I could do for another professional,” said the woodcutter.
“And a friend,” said the wolf. “Ah, it’s an easier life now, but I must admit this rich food gives me gas.”
“We’ve noticed,” said the woodcutter.
“So what happened to it all?” said the witch. “We did it so well, all of us. Why did it stop?”
“People lost their imaginations somehow,” said the wolf. “They just retold the same few stories, rather than add to them, or make their own. Consumers, not creators. If anything, they sanitized the few that were left, made them politically correct, no more violence or horror.”
“Or sex,” said the witch. “Disney, with his sweet little stories, all chirpy birds and fluttering eyelashes. Gag me with a spoon.”
“It happened gradually,” said the woodcutter. “And then suddenly, here we were on the beach, along with all the other characters from the forest. I never did expect retirement to be forced on me, and I’ll tell you, I don’t like it. It’s annoying.”
“It’s boring,” said the witch.
“It’s depressing,” said the wolf.
They sat and sipped their drinks.
The wolf sat up suddenly. “What’s that?” he said. “Is that your phone? No, it’s mine.” He fumbled in his beach bag. “I hate these things.”
“Let me guess, Red’s calling to say she forgot her wallet again,” said the witch.
“No, it’s a text from the Grimms,” he said. “It’s about some stories.”
“What, the old ones?” she asked.
“No, no, some new stories,” said the wolf. “Little short ones for now—some kind of internet thing— but they’re getting all the gang back together.”
He sprang to his feet, flexed his claws, bared his fangs, growled, coughed, and growled again.
“Come on, guys,” he said. “Drink up. We’ve got some kids to scare.”