Not only does Rie read. Rie also writes!
This is part of an art group type thing (I'm so eloquent sometimes it's painful) run by my friend over at honeybeestudio.
Prompt Eleven: Fairy Tales
Bad News Bears
So this is a short story that I've had floating around for about a year. It's part of a collection of short stories that I work on whenever I'm in the mood. The collection itself is called Animal Sanctuary, and I'm sure I'll put more of the stories online at some point.
This particular piece is the only one that really fits the Fairy Tale prompt. It's the first one I wrote and kick started the idea of Animal Sanctuary. As such, it is quite a bit different from others in the mix, as they are in a modern setting.
Anyway, enough of the chit chat. Here's Bad News Bears.
The young prince snuck into the kitchens, hoping to find some tasty morsels left behind after the banquet. He was still bitter about not being invited. After all, he was six years old. His grandfather and father, king and crown prince respectively, had agreed that he was too young. All day he had been tortured by the enticing smells of roasting meats, baking breads and pies, and countless other delicacies. All he had eaten for supper was a bowl of stew from the day before.
A strange shuffling and snuffling froze him in his tracks. A great, shaggy bear head rounded the corner, its nose to the air. The prince bit back a scream and scrambled back as silently as he could. He had heard somewhere that bears had poor vision and hoped desperately that whomever had told him that was right, and that the low light in the kitchen was enough to hide him. He backed into something huge and musky and felt, more than heard the rumbling growl from behind him. This time, he did scream and stumbled forward.
“You’re out of honeycomb and oats,” the second bear told him, smacking its lips. The prince whimpered. “The wine smells of hellebore,” it added with a snort.
The first bear shuffled into the aisle and sat beside the boy. “The meat’s rancid too,” it added with a grumble. It gave the boy a bored sniff and sighed, and shuffled off again. “There’s rust in the good iron pans.”
The boy blinked and swallowed. He tried to say something but only squeaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Who are you?” the prince asked, as politely as he could.
The first bear swung its head back into the aisle and blinked. “Why, we’re the Bad News Bears,” it told him matter of factly. “The stone work is crumbling in that corner.”
The prince stood up and brushed himself off. He straightened his tunic before bowing.
“Welcome to our castle,” he said. “I am the prince here.”
The second bear shook its head with a snort. “No, lad. You’re the king.”