Three Little Pigs

        It angers me to no end that my version of the story (the truth) is seldom told. Only the special few refuse to believe the tale told by that conniving pig; everything he said was a lie. However, most people these days thrive on pinning the blame a bad guy: me. This time, it’s my turn to set things right…again. Let me tell you what really happened.

         It was a quiet, hot, Sunday morning. The air was dry and I was in desperate need of some food. I was walking through the forest with the intent of finding a small rabbit to satisfy my empty stomach before visiting the sick grandmother of my old friend, Red, when my large nose picked up on a strange scent.

        “Smoke,” I murmured to myself, prowling forward, scouting the forest ahead of me as I followed my keen nose. I quickly came upon three houses in a field, one of which was made of straw, one of wood, and the other of sturdy-looking bricks. The wooden and straw houses were both ablaze, and I could hear pitiful noises coming from the inside. I approached the houses at a brisk run. While passing the brick house, a swish of the curtains caught my eye but I thought nothing of it.

      “Is anyone in there?” I yelled, my voice already hoarse from the smoke that clung to the air like a pair of old friends and perused my lungs at leisure.

      “Yes!” hollered a voice from the wooden house.          

      “Please, save me!” cried a terrified voice from the straw house.

      Frantically, I ran around both houses in search of a safe entrance, but found nothing.

      “Hurry up!” demanded the first voice. “Who do you think you are, leaving two pigs to roast in a perilous fire?”

      “I am the Wolf of the Western Woods,” I managed to say while choking on the smoke. “Stand back, I’m breaking down the doors!”

      Just as I was about to charge the straw house, the pigs stopped me in my tracks.

      “No!” both voices shouted simultaneously.

      “I’d rather die than receive the help of my enemies!” yelled the pig in the straw house.

      Ignoring the pig, I proceeded to try blowing out the fire. I huffed and I puffed, but the flames just spread further along the roofs of both poorly-built buildings.

      “What are you doing?!” Yelled one of the pigs. “You’re going to blow my house down.”

      “I’m trying to save you!” I growled. I kept trying to blow the flames out while the two pigs screamed from the inside.

Suddenly, both voices were silent, and I stopped what I was doing, straining my ears to pick up even the slightest sound of life.

Nothing. I panicked and ran as fast as my legs could carry me to the brick house, pounding on the door. It flew open to reveal a fat pig with a disinterested expression.

      “Please,” I coughed, “help me. I think y-your neighbors are d-d-dead.”

      The fat pig silently raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?” He peered around his house and stared at the now charred remains of the wooden and straw houses. In the middle of both structures were two burnt pigs.

      My stomach rumbled instinctively, but I pushed the feelings out of my head.

      “I’ll be right back,” the pig grumbled before slamming the door in my face. A few seconds later, he reappeared with a fork and knife and made his way over to the poor little pigs that had died in the terrible fire with a cannibalistic grin.