Hetle and Gransel
Scorched yellow fields,
on a bright day.
In a graveyard,
two children play.
A sinister character appears on the stage.
While crows claw a ripe carcass —
Disgustingly displayed.
The audience is enraged
and they strain in their seats.
As the ominous figure looms
at the murder of crows,
it steals the last scraps of meat.
With lips dripping red and crooked teeth,
The deranged thespian devoured the rotting flesh.
A nauseating scene.
Then the two children smiled
A haunting grin.
In tattered clothes
And eyes gleaming in sin.
Then all of a sudden —
Without a word —
The curtain closed,
Leaving us all very concerned.
So we stirred in our seats
Shocked and unmoving.
Eyes seized and entrapped
and stomachs churning.
The second scene starts
and the backdrop is revealed:
A drab asymmetric structure
in that same yellow field.
A door opens and a hunched woman sweeps.
And from behind her,
run those same two children
into the street.
"Hetle! Gransel! Watch your feet!
You filthy heathens, you are always ruining things!”
A man exits the house and sighs in defeat,
“My beloved wife,
The honey is not sticky
The bread has more fungus than wheat.
And worst of all the butter looks like cheese.
We will starve by the weeks end.
And what of the children, what will happen to them?”
The wife looked at Hetle and Gransel destructively playing,
Then turned to her husband and gently said,
“Your children are vicious
They are creatures not children.
So when they go to bed,
We shall feed on them.”
When they entered the house to prepare for the killing,
Hetle and Gransel stayed outside and continued playing.
They heard their step-mother’s immoral words.
But their demeanour was not disturbed.
Innocent and yet full of sin,
Hetle and Gransel held hands in unison.
They hopped along an unbeaten path.
And as if on cue,
A beautiful crow —
with a hint of blue —
Landed atop of Gransel’s shoulder.
Then bowed its head as if it had manners.
Hetle’s hand,
Dried and cracking,
Reached towards the bird’s feathered body.
And with a clenched fist,
Hetle twists
and snapped the neck of that poor little birdie.
The children lingered in the kill spot for just a second,
Their minds grinding for some unexplained reason.
Then Hetle and Gransel ran back home,
Excited to show-off the blood dripping crow.
“Oh father, Oh father”
Hetle sang melodically
“Sweet Sweet food,
We have found for you,
So put up your feet like you always do.”
“Dearest new mother,” Gransel laughed
“On a petrified tree:
Four eggs still rest.
For you,
we left a trail of blood to its nest.”
The children screamed the most sinister giggle,
Their nefarious excitement barely containable.
But off the step-mother went
Following the trail of fresh blood to the nest.
After arriving,
She began climbing
Atop of the dying tree.
And found four eggs and some jewelled encrusted beads.
She jumped right down and gasped,
“What a miracle.
The kiss of death
was upon my breath,
And to think I almost sacrificed those angels.”
She ran to the house,
With galloping strides.
Her tangled hair flying behind.
Pockets full of treasure.
She stumbles inside.
And sees her husband’s stiff stature,
With feet hanging
And an unnaturally stretched spine.
Hetle and Gransel were surprisingly calm.
Their smiles proud and standing tall.
The children reminded their new mother
Of their father’s torpid way
And that the only possibility of survival,
Was to cut his disposable weight.
But let me interject and add a warning into the story,
Because this is the part that kind of gets gory.
After accepting her new position as the matriarch of the family.
They began hacking the blood drained body.
And that is when it hit us.
The assault on our senses.
An inescapable stench of rancid rust.
Not even our nose hairs were a match for that ungodly odour.
As it burned through our sinuses,
I searched for a saviour.
But instead,
All I saw was a cascade of heaving heads.
In a praying posture.
I had enough,
And my stomach ached
And I barely had the strength,
But I knew I needed to run away.
And that was the last time I ever saw a play.