It was a dark and stormy night. Mummy Pig tucked her piglet Percy into bed and started her bedtime story: “The Three Little Pigs: Penny, Paul and Peter,” Mummy Pig smiled sweetly, as she turned the page. “All leave their Mummy behind to build their own houses outside the village.”
The thunder growled outside the window.
“They bought their materials at the market and skipped down to the forest and got building. Penny built her house from straw. Paul built his house from sticks, whilst Peter built his from bricks. He was always the smarter one. They built them up and were happy for a while. They didn’t even send their Mummy a letter, and were blissfully unaware of the Big Bad Wolf stalking around…”
“Like the Big Bad Wolf who gobbled up Little Red Riding Hood?” Percy piped up.
“The exact one!” Mummy Pig’s eyes widened. “The Big Bad Wolf was hungry.”
Percy gasped. Mummy Pig went on, “So, he went to the first little house, and banged the door. Little pig, little pig, let me come in, he said. Not by the hairs of my chinny chin! Penny cried, so the Wolf huffed, and puffed and blew her house down, and then ate her alive!”
Poor little Percy gasped. “Ate her alive?”
Mummy nodded, “And then he went to the house of twigs. Little pig, little pig, let me come in! the wolf shouted. Not by the hairs of my chinny chin! So the Wolf huffed, and puffed, and blew his house down. Paul was a fast runner, but he couldn’t outrun the wolf! And he…”
“He escaped and lived happily ever after?” Percy stammered, hopefully.
“Not a chance!” Mummy Pig snapped. “Not with the Big Bad Wolf at his heels!”
Percy whimpered and hid under the covers, but Mummy Pig continued, “And then he got to the house of bricks, where Peter lived, and he tried his usual huffing and puffing routine but it didn’t work on the little brick house.”
The storms grew louder and louder as Mummy Pig relented, “Peter was always a little smart arse. He could hear the Wolf coming from miles away and knew he’d come down the chimney. So he started boiling a pot on the fireplace. What was he doing that for, Percy?”
“Mummy, you’re scaring me.” Percy snuffled, choked up with tears.
“Because he thought he was so smart, didn’t he, Percy? But the Wolf was smarter. He got all the straw and twigs from the other houses and placed it around the house, poured a can of petrol all over it and lit the brick house up like a bonfire!” Mummy cackled.
She had a gleam of manic pride in her eyes.
“Those little piggies had the gall to abandon their poor mother! You’re not going to be like those little piggies, are you, Percy?”
Percy poked his head above the blankets and shook his head. “No, Mummy.”
“You’re always going to stay with Mummy, aren’t you, Percy?”
Percy nodded, “Yes, Mummy.”
“Good.” Mummy Pig smiled, as she kissed her piglet on the forehead. “Goodnight, Percy.”
“Goodnight, Mummy,” he whimpered.
Jen Hughes is an Ayrshire writer and poet, living in Glasgow. She’s been performing her poetry since she was a teenager and started co-hosting long-running open mic night Words and Music in 2017. Her debut chapbook, “Keep on Spinning” was published by Dreich Publishing. Her fiction and poetry have been published in many magazines and anthologies, including Paragraph Planet, Quail’s Bell and Acumen. If you enjoy her work, you can find more on her website jenhugheswriter.com. Or you can follow her Facebook (Jen Hughes Writing) or Instagram (@jenhugheswriting).
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