Alternate Ending of "The Pied Piper of Hamelin"

If you don't know the story of the Pied Piper, it doesn't really matter because I didn't and it made sense, haha... You can just take it as a short story edited/adapted/altered by my lovely lil sister, Sarah Elyse Pickett. Here's to you, Sis!! (I didn't change a thing--this is all her.)

"I was only joking! Did you really suppose I'd give you fifty thousand

guilders? You poor fool!" the Mayor retorted.

"Yes, I did. I didn't realize you were a lying fiend! You are going to be sorry,"

snapped the Piper.

"What are you going to do to me? All you've got is that flute of yours. Blow it.

I dare you blow that pipe there till you burst!" the Mayor idiotically remarked.

That gave the Piper an idea. "Fine, maybe I will." That ugly fat menace of a

mayor had no idea what was coming.

The enraged Piper unsheathed his flute and played a sickeningly mysterious song.

It made the town folk's skin crawl, made their hair stand on end as cool breeze

fluttered over the river and shook the town of Hamelin. The river had turned blood

red and had started to...almost…boil. Everyone slowly backed away, except the

Piper, who slowly, but surely walked towards the river with a mad look in his eye.

Hundreds, no thousands, of rats poured out from the river. But these weren't your

ordinary rats. They were more like R.O.U.S.'s (Rodents of Unusual Size) from

Princess Bride, but worse. The river wasn't kind to these rats. You could see the

rat's bloody bones through the gory chunks of torn off flesh. This is when the quite

shaken up people of this unfortunate town then realized the rats weren't alive. Or

dead. Many of these insufferable creatures were missing eyes, their organs dragged

on the ground behind them, barely hanging on to the mangled zombie rat's undead

bodies. A trail of gushing, sticky blood was left where ever the rodents trod.

The disgusted crowd, many green or puking, looked backed at the Piper with

outrage steaming out of their pores.

With a raving laugh, the Piper played a march, not a happy march, but a

loathsome march. A march that wanted to attack someone. The rats simultaneously

stepped towards the Mayor with vengeance ringing through their ears. The

deranged Piper played a single high, shrill note and the rats charged. Their claws

ripped open the screaming obese Mayor's flesh like a hot knife in butter. They

nuzzled their little noses into his rotting body, liking up some of his blood, but the

rats were very careful to not kill him, only cause him a lot of pain and scars. They

tore off his nose so he will never be able to smell the sweet smell of the bread

his town is famous for. The vicious rats gnawed off his fingers, toes, and tongue

to make sure he’d never utter another word, never do another day’s work in his

life. They poked out his eyes so he can't see the beauty of the world to come.

They didn't touch his ears though. The Piper wanted him to hear every child cry,

every woman shriek, every man run from his hideous face, his demented, mangled

body. He wanted the Mayor to wallow in the sadness of being the ugliest creature

on earth. His whole life. And the Mayor will have a very long life because of the

immunity spell placed upon him.

The piper left the rats to their work as he triumphantly strolled to the

deserted city bank and swiftly took 100,000 guilders (twice as many as promised)

from the bank. No one tried to stop him. They were too afraid of what more the

Piper can do. He stashed the loot in his bag as he went back to examine the scene.

Everyone left the Mayor to fend for himself. The Pied Piper guffawed. He

took out his pipe and played for the mountain wall to open and the satisfied rats to

scamper in. The townsfolk were slowly coming back. The triumphant Piper turned

to walk into the mountain, but he stopped. The people of Hamelin gasped, scared

out of their pants of what he was thinking now. But he didn't punish them anymore.

He turned around, smirked at the people, then started to laugh the evilest, most

crazed laugh anyone can't imagine. As the mountain walls closed, his howling

echoed off the mountain walls, never fully leaving the town's memory. For years,

the children who saw what happened would wake up screaming in the middle of the

night. Even as adults the occasional nightmare haunted their memory.

Hamelin will never forget the day they didn't pay the Piper.

Especially the Mayor.

Hindsight

Wow, that was a doozy. So yeah I know I said "short" story... Haha, I hope it satisfied your interest for all its length. By the way, the origin of that story started on January 12th, 2011. Just in case anyone was wondering. I feel like dates are somewhat important. I dunno when it finished exactly... days later, probably.

I find it funny that (at least I see it clearly) you can read through and kinda see exactly where I stopped writing the first day and tried to pick it up because there's a significant mood/tone change for the simple fact that my mood changed. Huzzah for completely subjective creative writing! Teehee!

Next to come: A special lil sump'n sump'n from my totally awesome and genius kid sister. I told you this isn't just for me. I honestly think her writing is better than mine. So, Sarah--props to you. Also, I love you!

Dunkernickel

Untitled 1

I doubt that any of these will be titled. I kinda like them better like that. But here's my first short story for you all. It's not my first chronologically, but that one is currently unavailable to me. So here goes:

Once there was a small boy named James. He was a very sad and lonely boy. At the same time there was a girl. Her name was Mary. She was always very happy, and she had the uncanny ability to make anyone happy. Once, many years ago, someone told her, "Mary, you have the uncanny ability to make anyone happy. Did you know that?" She did not. Since then, she spent all of her spare time making others happy. Then she met James.

She noticed him sitting in the cafeteria, alone at a table with his head hung low. Classic sign of sadness. He had a dark blue pullover sweatshirt on, the hood up as far as it would go. His appearance was very simple; no fun little trinkets hanging off of his red and black Jansport backpack, he wore only neutral or dark colors, no chains or black fingernails or thick black eyeshadow or any of that nonsense. She smiled, walked to him and said, "Hi! My name is Mary. What's yours?" confident she could brighten his mood. James raised his head slightly. Then he spoke.

"My parents will never love me."

Now, you must understand that this was usually all James ever said to others. They most often responded with an "Oh..." or sometimes an awkward glance as they slowly retreated. One particularly offensive child gave the most wordy response: "Maybe no one else will, either." James was accustomed to being alone.

Mary was taken aback. She did not expect such direct opposition to her talent. But she was determined. She quickly recovered and said, "Now that just can't be true!"

At this, James looked up. "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me... Too bad it's not true." His head fell again.

Mary smiled. She had him. She opened her mouth to speak, but James cut her off. "It won't work, you know. What you're trying to do." Her smile faltered for a split second. No one ever recognized that she was actually tried to make people happy. She liked that they thought that it was just something that happened with no effort. But she was good, after so much practice.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I've seen you around." It was true; sad kids like James might not say much, but that doesn't mean they're not perceptive. "You seek out the sad kids to try to make them happy. you always find a way. But it won't work with me. Sadness is just a part-- it's just who I am. My parents will never love me. If you want to keep your perfect record, you should leave."

Mary was astonished. "Well, at least could you tell me your name?" was what came out of her well-practiced mouth.

James looked Mary over. "James." He repeated, "You don't want to do this."

Mary hesitated. This was new to her. Maybe she really couldn't make this James happy. Oh, posh! She thought. Of course I can, don't be ridiculous! "Well, James... I don't believe you. Of course your parents love you. They're your parents!"

"My parents will never love me."

"How do you know?" she asked, confident he didn't have an answer. He couldn't. How could he? I mean unless they flat out--

"They told me so."

The bell rang.

"I'm sorry you tried to make me happy," James said as he took his book and backpack and left the cafeteria.

Mary just stood there, stiff as a board.

During her next class she couldn't think of anything but James. Eventually, she reached the conclusion that she had to make James happy. If she could make him happy, she really could make anyone happy. She had to go for it.

After school, she waited outside the doors for James. She waited and waited. Almost all the kids were out now. Where is he? She looked down the sidewalks and across the playground. She saw a boy with his head hung, dragging his feet. It was James! She ran down the sidewalk, politely saying, "Excuse me," so she wouldn't offend anyone by bumping into them. She finally caught up with him after a while.

"Hi James!" She said, almost out of breath. James merely raised his head for a moment to look at her. "Do you mind if I walk with you?" No response. "I'm going to take that as a no." Still nothing. "Do you mind if I sing a bit?" Nothing. Mary smiled. She could sing happiness into anyone, and she knew it. I know the perfect song...

"Lollipop lollipop/Oh lolly lolly lollipop..." she sang. James did nothing. What? That always works! Mary thought. They continued walking, while Mary tried furiously to find a way to at least get James to crack a smile. She tried everything she could think of, but James stoically withstood all of her attempts, maintaining his sullen countenance.

Several minutes of this passed, and the two children arrived at James' house. James turned up the driveway and Mary followed. When he noticed this, he turned and looked at her. She looked back, and smiled. James let out a sigh and continued on up to the door, opened it, and went inside.

Mary could hardly believe her eyes.

The house was magnificent: ivory handrails down the stairs, polished wood floors, an ornate mirror hanging on the upper level, vaulted ceilings with wide windows to let the light in. But the most paradoxical of all of the things Mary saw that moment (at least paradoxical relative to James) was two little boys chasing each other, laughing. Laughing! And James never even smiled. She saw his mother, sitting on the couch, smiling to herself, enjoying the playful cooperation of younger children. This can't be the right house... Mary thought.

"I didn't know you had little brothers," was all she could say.

"Didn't ask." James' mother's head perked up at the sound of Mary's voice.

"Is someone there?" She called. James nodded toward Mary, indicating that his mother was talking about her. Mary walked up the few steps to the upper level.

"Hello. My name is Mary. I came home with James, I hope that's alright." James' mother stood and walked toward the landing as James kicked off his shoes and moved them into the corner of the closet.

"What a delightful child! Mary... It's nice to meet you." She extended her hand to shake Mary's. This woman is so kind. Mary observed. She obviously loves her children. How can he think that she doesn't love him?

"Your home is very lovely. You must be so happy with your family here," Mary hinted.

"Why, yes. My husband should be coming home from work any moment. And you've already seen my beautiful twins." She smiled. James walked past, up the stairs behind her.

"I just met James a couple of days ago, but he's a very nice boy."

"Why don't you come in? I made cookies this morning, and I can't let the twins have too much sugar, but I can't just let them go to waste either, you know how it is." She gave a laugh and went into the kitchen and got out a plate and put some oatmeal chocolate chip cookies on it. She led Mary into the living room, where James was sitting in a wooden chair. Mary sat on the couch next to James' mother. "Have as many as you like." She smiled.

"Thank you, but I can't finish all of these. James can have the rest."

"Oh my husband can just finish the ones you don't eat, it's alright." Just then the door opened, and in walked a man. "Well, speak of the devil!"

"Hey, honey, I'm home!" James' father called to his wife.

"Welcome home, sweetie," She replied as she wrapped her arms around him. "This is Mary. She just knocked on the door a few moments ago and I just had to let her in."

Mary was a little confused. "Actually, I came home with--" she started, as she glanced at James. He just sat in his chair, staring back.

"Very nice to meet you, miss." James' father beamed and shook Mary's hand. Mary could help looking utterly lost. "Why, what's wrong, little one?"

Mary hesitated. "Umm... James brought me here. Or rather, I followed him."

"What is it?" he repeated. It was like he didn't hear her. Any comment about James didn't seem to register with either of his parents. They wouldn't neglect their own son so blatantly, would they? James stood and made to leave the room. I have to do something, quick.

"Excuse me if this seems strange... or bold of me to ask--but you love your kids, right?"

"Why, of course we do! Why would you ever need to ask such a thing?" they replied.

"So you love James, right?" She hurried to get her words out before James disappeared down the hallway. She waited for their answer, not exactly sure of what answer that would be. James stopped.

"Our twins are the greatest things that ever happened to us," they said. Mary just stared. She didn't understand. She turned to James.

"What are you, a ghost or something?" Mary cried in exasperation at James' back. She couldn't comprehend the situation.

James raised his head momentarily and muttered, "If only...." Mary frowned and turned back to his parents. She pointed directly at James so they could not misunderstand.

"Your son, James. Standing right over there. Do you love him?"

The parents' faces dropped. they could carry on no longer. They looked right at Mary. "We could never love him."

Mary's little heart stopped. Surely this had to be some kind of twisted joke. She spun to look at James for an explanation, who had started down the hallway again. He turned his head slightly only to offer these final words to Mary:

"Told you so."

Genesis

So this is basically Genesis for this blog:

In the beginning, there was a ginger. Then came ideas. Ideas became words. Words became short stories. Short stories became an idea. An idea became a suggestion.

Then there was a lack of short stories, which became a lack of implementation. Then words became lyrics. Lyrics became a new idea. The new idea became this blog.

This blog became the landfill for the ginger's ideas.

Now here's my thought process (a sort of pseudo-translation--any period means a large amount of time passed):

It'd be cool to write a short story someday. Man, today's a crappy day Hey, how about I write a short story? That was cathartic Maybe I'll do it more often in the future. I'm bored Let's write another short story! Hmm blogs seem to be a growing trend, like half of everyone has one Hey that wouldn't be a bad way to let people read my short stories Maybe I should get one and just put my stories on it Oh, but I only have, like, 2 Maybe it'd make me write more, that'd be good I dunno. 'Anyone Else But You' is really easy to play on guitar. I gotta think of a verse for Jana, Vic, and Norienne I should write a verse for everyone in the group. I get extra credit for Writing 150 if I turn in a short story? Sweet Oh that's right I was gonna put those in a blog Hey, why don't I put all my writing into the blog? It'd make up for the incredible lack of short stories.

And that's how it happened. I'll be throwing up a short story in a lil while. I'll put up the 'Anyone Else But You' verses for all you beautiful people after they're sung in the non-virtual world. To be honest I'm not sure how often posting will occur, but I'll try.

Oh, also, this isn't just for me. You can either give me your stuff and I'll put it up, or you can ask me to write a story for you. You cannot, however, ask me to write a poem for you. I apologize, but it just ain't gon' happen. I hope you enjoy!

Dunkernickel