Here’s today’s BlogFestivus entry, based on “Three French Hens.”
Shane looked at the old house with its sagging porch and dusty windows. “I’m not chicken,” he said, voice quavering.
“C’mon, I’ve done it a million times!” Derek said.
A quick look in the window, that’s all. But Shane never made it to the window because suddenly the front door swung open, revealing three withered old ladies.
“Hello dearie,” said one in a French accent. “What’s your name?”
“How nice,” said another. “Won’t you come in for some cookies?
Shane couldn’t resist the delicious aroma he smelled at that moment and a second later the door closed behind him. Moments after he finished his cookie, he collapsed, unable to move. Just before he lost consciousness he saw the ladies move toward him with cleavers as one said, “Roast Shane for three French hens, my pretties.” Their cackling was the last thing Shane heard.
After I wrote that, I though the ‘hens’ reference may have been a little obscure. So I ended up writing a second entry. It’s marginally less dark, but mostly I’m just angling for extra credit. *crosses fingers*
Ralph cursed. Those three French hens were the most infuriating creatures, always taunting him because he was Italian. He was a wolf, after all. They should fear him.
This time they’d learn. His cousin Tom had brought a pack of old grenades he’d picked up in Germany.
When they arrived at the hens’ house, the three hens sat on their porch looking smug. “Look at zee big bad wolf. Who’s afraid? Not we.”
Ralph said, “You should be,” pulling out one of the grenades.
“Ooh, a potato masher,” mocked one hen. “If you had a brain bigger than a pea, you would know better.”
“What should we expect from an inferior species?”
“And a foreigner.”
“Damn you!” Ralph shouted, pulling the ignition cord. Sadly, the seventy year old explosive blew up instantly.
One hen said, “Giselle, it’s your turn to clean up the mess.”
Don’t forget to check out some of the other creative interpretations of BlogFestivus.