Part 1: Eaten
Michael Showoff
Margaret MacAncheese
Part 2: Unfairly Punished
Part 3: Abandoned
Part 4: Abandoned, Unfairly
Punished, AND Eaten
Michael Showoff
Mike the endless agitator
riding down the escalator
cried, “No hands, just look at me!”
Then zwerp. There was no Mike to see.
Where Michael Showoff stood before
the sinking stair sank through the floor
and dragged him ’round and ’round forevermore.
His mother to the store complained.
A sympathetic clerk explained
the steely steps have stubby teeth
to bite your shoes and pull beneath
where ankle-grabbing terrors lurk
with fangs a-gleam in inky murk,
with clinking fangs — their gnawful work!
Other children, well behaved,
hold fast the rail and so are saved.
The child who’s caught in Goblin’s vault
can’t say it’s someone else’s fault.
The boy himself must take the blame.
And though he brought her tears and shame,
his mother missed her Mikey all the same.
Margaret MacAncheese
Little Maggie MacAncheese
a TV tray upon her knees,
could feel a tickling in her feet.
She shucked her shoes and saw her suite
of toes arrayed upon the floor —
a tad more curly than before.
And what she found alarming too,
between her toes a yellow goo.
A most disgusting ooze to find,
she promptly put it out of mind
until ’twas time for bath and bed —
then Maggie found it on her head!
Blonde as butter, tightly permed,
her hair was slipsy and be-wormed.
Said Maggie Mac, “Must not forget
that I’m supposed to be brunette.”
Uneasy were her dreams that night
but morning brought a worser fright.
when out of bed she could not roll.
She lay inside a giant bowl,
above which loomed a giant face.
All noodles now, a hopeless case,
poor Maggie met her fate — too soon! —
as downward scooped a giant spoon.
Maggie’s spirit flew away
recalling how just yesterday
her mother pleaded, “Maggie, please,
you can’t just live on mac and cheese.
You’ll turn yourself to macaroni.”
Maggie scoffed — what mombaloney!
Dearest Mother, far below,
her final words: “I told you so.”
Marcy LeStickler
When Marcy rode the yellow bus,
then Roy would walk — less dangerous.
If Marcy walked, then Roy would ride
and run straight home. He stayed inside.
An open eye he always kept
in case behind him Marcy crept.
And this procedure would have worked except . . .
Somehow she’d catch him unaware,
the “uh-oh” moment then and there.
The giggles came he couldn’t help,
his gasping throttled down to yelp.
A trip, a push, she got him down.
His arms beneath her knees were bound.
“We’re all aboard,” she cried, “for Tickle Town!”
Like spiders racing ’round his neck,
her fingers played and left a-wreck
his heaving ribs with jabs and pokes
like dual-action artichokes.
His thighs and armpits came undone
while bubbles from his nose did run.
“Oh, look how Roy is laughing, having fun!”
The medics came a little later
juicing their defibrillator.
How his muscles bowed and bucked!
Poor Roy was well and truly chucked.
“His bones unfastened, a la carte,”
the doctors noted on his chart.
“Within his skin, the boy just shook apart.”
They sentenced Marcy, only fair,
to death by Tickl-ectric chair.
Robotic feathers south and north
be-wracked her, writhing back and forth,
her eyes a-goggle, neck giraffing…
The paparazzi epitaphing:
Here lies Marcy — kicked the bucket laughing.
Dougie Ditchum
Poor Dougie Ditchum, lost in the store.
What if he never saw Mommy anymore?
She wasn’t in Dresses. Wasn’t in Shoes.
He waited by the door which Ladies Only use.
She wasn’t in the racks with prices in red.
“Everything MUST Go!” a red sign said.
Pretty saleslady, hair in a bun,
asked Dougie Ditchum if he lost someone.
She smelled very nice. Hugged him tight.
“There, there, everything’ll be all right.”
Mommy coming back? Dougie wasn’t sure.
Pretty lady might take him home with her.
Legs sticking out from a too-tall chair,
Dougie heard the all-call loudspeaker blare:
“Attention, valued shoppers. We have a small boy,
a pair of sunglasses, and a map of Illinois,
many little things that you might mislay,
key ring, smartphone, can of pepper spray,
word search puzzles (finished almost),
Honeymooners’ Guide to the Orange County Coast,
loose bag of pills, a pint of Bitter End,
buncha love letters from your boo’s best friend.
Get your life back. It’s not too late.
Come around the Lost and Found. We’re open till eight.”
Five in the morning, sittin’ on the dock,
tykes on pallets all stacked in a block.
Sack lunch, check! Status, verified!
Load ’em in the boxcar, “Krots” on the side.
S-T-O-R-K says hi!
K-R-O-T-S, goodbye.
Hansel and Gretel Newly
I. By the Sea
At Sandy Peedro’s tidal pools, their father
led the search — for creatures by the sea!
Gretel asked, “Is this An Enemy?”
“Anemone,” said Father, “like the flower.
But never mind, too late now to bother.”
Gretel wondered what made Father sour.
She and Hansel, each a pail in hand,
clambered over crags where urchins hid,
where crabs caroused and limpets slimy slid,
where warty-fingered starfish tensed their grip
and weary mussels took their ease in sand.
Baloney shells had portholes like a ship!
Gretel found an undulating wig
with pink and greenish frills around a maw.
She dropped a peanut in. The gulp she saw
reappeared in dreams for nights to come.
Aghast, she thought: It’s better to be big.
She wondered if the maw would bite her thumb.
If dared her brother just might risk a finger.
She looked to left and right, but he was gone.
A seagull skimmed a wave and journeyed on.
Father too had vanished in the spray,
so Gretel saw she shouldn’t longer linger.
Hansel’s peanut shells showed the way.
“Oh, there you are,” said Father, with a cheer.
He and Hansel lunched at Shaky Shack.
“We wondered were you ever coming back,”
Father laughed. “You wandered off so far.”
The hour to drop them off was drawing near.
Gretel had her burger in the car.
II. Mom Is Mad
The drive was always silent back to Mom.
Hansel, riding shotgun, watched for trains.
Gretel thought how cars in other lanes
might be taking kids to happy places:
no one asking whose side are you on;
watching “Lassie,” children in good graces.
“What did your father say about me?”
“Nothing, Mom, like always,” Hansel said.
Then Gretel asked him, after time for bed,
“If Father tried to leave me, would you go?”
Hansel’s forehead wrinkled, like the sea.
Shoulders small, he shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The Father days were twice a month. The fun
that he came up with! Sledding, swimming, boating…
In front of Mom, the kids refrained from gloating.
But bumper cars — come on! — the go-kart loop,
the fishy boardwalk’s kewpie dolls and guns!
“Let’s sail to Catalina in my sloop.”
No wonder Gretel thought her father dashing.
He stood upon the bowsprit bold and free
while Hansel tried the tiller, “Aye, a-lee!”
Gretel ducked to dodge the sweeping boom.
The slippery deck careened, the gunwale splashing.
They all wore Eau Pacific spray perfume.
At last they reached enchanted Avalon,
its candy shoppe, the jugglers in the park,
the swan-like seaplanes breasting waves till dark.
The ballroom, lit like Cinderella’s crown,
glazed the sleeping bay till break of dawn.
Withal there was a Safeway in the town.
Did Mom know they were staying overnight?
Hansel had no answer, pancake-eyed.
Then Father said, “Let’s take a horseback ride.”
In line their horses ambled toward the woods,
where Gretel thought the Big Bad Wolf just might
be waiting for a Little Red Riding-Hood.
III. Lost in the Woods
By noon the sun was nowhere to be seen.
The canopy of trees cast ample shade.
Astride their doughty mounts, the children played
like they were knights and ladies on a quest.
King Father led them through the forest green
until ’twas time to stop and take a rest.
Unpacking lunches, spread upon a blanket,
Father said, “The horses need some water.
Wait here, I’ll be right back. My son and daughter,
it’s sad, the situation that we’re in.
I chose a poison chalice, freely drank it,
and now … I just can’t let your mother win.”
The siblings puzzled o’er the tale he told.
The “chalice” sounded knightly, but “your mother”?
Hansel peeled his sandwich: peanut butter.
Gretel saw dessert was Hostess Twinkies;
her favorite, but — a curdling fear took hold:
“I feel, it, by the pricking of my pinkies,
something wicked’s happening to us here.”
The kids at first tried being extra good,
sitting still and quiet as they could.
The jack-in-the-box of Panic madly sprang,
the nightmare face of Danger lunging near.
With helpless cries of woe the forest rang.
Fading sunlight touched the ground in dapples.
Suppose we build a fire. Without a match?
Or we could build a fort. Of twigs and thatch?
Gretel gasped — with hope! She had a plan.
“Where horses go, you always find road apples.
We’ll follow Father’s trail as best we can.”
The apple plan went sour amid the gloam,
so dim they couldn’t even see their shoes.
Shadows turned their path to curlicues.
Between two trees, was that a distant light?
A lighted window surely meant a home.
They staggered through the brambles of the night.
IV. A Cheerful Cottage
A forest cottage! Such a cozy dwelling —
one bath, two bedrooms, garden plot, and shed.
It looked ideal to Gretel, so she said:
“You go ring the bell. Since you’re the boy.”
Hansel balked. What was it he was smelling?
“Chocolate cookies!” Hansel leaped for joy.
“Good evening, ma’am,” said Hansel, oozing charm.
“My sis and I are lost. We’re hoping you
will take us in. Who else could we turn to?”
The woman at the door was bent and gray.
Tenderly she reached for Hansel’s arm.
“Tell me, dear,” she said, “how much you weigh.”
Hansel duh’d. “No problem,” she replied.
“We’ll bulk you up in no time, by my kettle!”
Her parrot eye then swiveled down to Gretel.
“We’ll find good use for sister by and by.
Come in, my lambs.” The door swung open wide.
“I’m Mrs. Parr, and supper’s kidney pie.”
Mrs. Parr made Gretel do the dishes
while Hansel nibbled cookies from a plate.
He left a few to share — alas, too late.
“Bedtime!” chirped the cuckoo in the clock.
Their room seemed bare and cold but not suspicious.
“Goodnight,” said Mrs. Parr and turned the lock.
For breakfast, Hansel ate a stack of waffles.
Gretel had to milk the cow and churn.
“By this, my girl,” said Mrs Parr, “you learn
why every man and boy deserves our rage.
They make us toil and slave. Our lives are awful!
We’re women! We’ll put Hansel in a cage.”
So Mrs. Parr assigned the boy a chore:
mucking out a yucky turkey pen.
The door slapped shut behind him. Even then,
he didn’t see his fate was sealed. He keened:
“Police will come and social workers, more!”
At feeding time, he gobbled hot poutine.
V. The Backyard Oven
Daily Gretel brought the meals to Hansel,
who clung to hope that help might yet arrive.
Father could come back, and they’d survive.
Or somehow they could make a great escape…
Gretel coughed as if from swollen tonsils.
“Mrs. Parr is watching. Here’s your crepes.”
Gretel did the cooking now. She learned
to tend the outdoor oven, glowing red.
She kept in mind what Mrs. Parr had said:
“Take care your platter’s squarely on the rack.
Mind the time, or else your dinner’s burned.
Once it’s burned, it’s never coming back!”
Inside the glowing oven Gretel saw
no firewood nor charcoal ever thrown.
The bricks o’erarched a live volcano cone —
an all-devouring gopher-hole to Hell.
Recalling Sandy Peedro’s gulping maw,
Gretel slammed the door. She felt unwell.
VI. The Woodsman
One day, a wandering woodsman happened by.
He noticed Hansel, struck up conversation.
Was he a bad boy in incarceration?
“I’m Hansel,” Hansel said, “and soon for dinner.
We’re prisoners of a witch, my sister and I.
The stouter I become, our hopes get thinner.”
“Wait here,” the woodsman said. “I’ll look around.”
Beside the outdoor oven stood a girl.
Not the witch, he thought, nor yet a pearl.
“Methinks you must be Hansel’s little sister.”
Gretel’s disappointment was profound.
She wished the handsome prince had softly kissed her.
“Don’t you know me, Father?” pleaded Gretel.
The woodsman was perplexed at her mistake.
“Fine,” she said, “come see. I baked a cake.”
And this was how the woodsman fell — upon
the oven’s yawn — a girlish grudge to settle.
Gretel pushed, and whoops! The man was gone.
VII. Gretel Saves the Day
Gretel ran to find the wicked witch.
“A man was here, intruding on our coven.
He questioned me. I lured him to the oven.
And now the man is learning how to cook.
Aren’t you proud? It went without a hitch.
Really you should come and have a look.”
The mean old witch refused to even listen.
“That’s well and good, but can’t you see I’m busy?
You’re always at me, every day a tizzy.
I’m NOT your mother,” muttered Mrs. Parr.
The last four words made Gretel’s eyeballs glisten.
She realized at last: Oh, yes, you are.
Gretel sobbed until she got her way.
The witch just couldn’t take it anymore.
She sighed as Gretel pulled the oven door.
Then whoops! The witch and woodsman hotly married,
together ever after, as they say.
Lava conquers all. The hatchet’s buried.
Gretel brought her brother’s dinner timely.
As woman of the house, the girl excelled.
The cottage’s traditions were upheld.
When Gretel thought of younger, painful years,
she smiled to see how Fate had worked sublimely
to make her joys the equal of her tears.
Karl Stull - Creative 