The Real Story of Hansel and Gre­tel

Pasatiempo - - TEEN POETRY - by Sarah Hunter Markley Sarah Hunter Markley, age ten, lives in Telluride, Colorado.

Now, you all know the story of Hansel and Gre­tel. You know, the witch bribed the kids into her house of candy and pushed one of them into the oven, blah, blah, blah. Well, I am that “witch” in the story, and I am go­ing to tell you the real story of Hansel and Gre­tel. One day, I was tak­ing cook­ies out of the oven for my book club when I heard a knock on the door. I was go­ing to the door when I re­al­ized that the cook­ies looked like they were burned. I looked closer, and they were plump and per­fectly golden-brown. I stepped back, and they looked all fuzzy and they looked burned like when I looked the first time. I need to get my eye checked, I thought as I opened the door.

At the door were two chil­dren, a boy and a girl. The boy had golden-brown hair that was ex­actly the same color as the cookie bat­ter I had made as a backup batch. (Thank good­ness I did. Nor­mally, I eat at least 12 cook­ies, and if you add what the chil­dren were go­ing to eat, them hav­ing a sweet tooth, they could eat four to eight cook­ies each.) Hansel’s freck­les were ex­actly like the chocolate chips that were in the bat­ter. While the cook­ies were in the oven I gave the chil­dren some le­mon­ade so that they would feel re­freshed.

Gre­tel said that they were ad­ven­tur­ing in the woods look­ing for their grand­mother’s house. She said her grandma had a sur­prise for them, and Hansel said he hoped it was candy. They had seen my candy house with the smell of cook­ies com­ing from it. Hansel started to reach for the candy, but Gre­tel stopped him and said we should ask per­mis­sion. “So can we?” she asked. “Sure! Help your­self,” I said. They went out­side, and I saw them take lol­lipops, Skit­tles, pieces of gin­ger­bread, and ic­ing. While they were out­side, I took the cook­ies out of the oven. They ran in as I was clos­ing the oven. Hansel ran in front of me, and he tripped and fell into the oven as I was clos­ing it. I thought he was a run­ning cookie, so I pushed him in a lit­tle bit and shut the oven. (What can I say — his hair, freck­les, plus his round face made him look like a cookie. I have very bad eye­sight.) Gre­tel prob­a­bly thought that I did it on pur­pose. She started yelling at me to open the oven. (Which I was about to do, but I was treat­ing a burn that I had got­ten from the oven.)

“You evil witch!” Gre­tel said, as she was pulling her brother out of the oven. Sud­denly, out of the blue, Gre­tel pushed me into the oven and shut the door tight. Some­how, I man­aged to open the door and saw them run­ning away. Gre­tel was on her smart­phone (which had a lol­lipop with a face on the cover), and I heard her yelling into it about a witch who had a shoved her brother into an oven and shut the door. (She was talk­ing to 911, which I think was way too ex­treme.) I have no idea what she was talk­ing about be­cause that witch was not I. (I do have a few warts now and then, though.) Hansel was passed out in her arms. I guess she couldn’t carry him any more be­cause she set him down.

The po­lice cars and an am­bu­lance came. The am­bu­lance took Hansel on a stretcher, and the po­lice came over here and broke into my house. (How rude!) The po­lice said, “You’re un­der ar­rest for al­most killing this poor boy!” So here I am in jail with my pub­lisher, the Wolf, from the Three Lit­tle Pigs, and my ed­i­tor, the step­mother of Cin­derella. (They were both falsely ac­cused of a crime, too.) Now you know the true story of Hansel and Gre­tel. I hope you choose to be­lieve me and not any­body who tells you this is not true.

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