Synopsis
When her father is murdered by Nazis right before her eyes, seventeen-year-old Rose Harcourt must go on the run. She undertakes a harrowing journey through the forest in an effort to rescue the only family she has left—her Grandmother. With Nazis combing the forest looking for French rebels and fleeing Jews, Rose knows her mission is do-or-die. The journey to her Grandmother’s cottage is even more dangerous than she thought. A murderous wolf is stalking the forest and killing everyone it encounters. Can she escape with her Grandmother before the Nazis—or the wolf, finds her first?
Welcome to Good Tales For Bad Dreams, a short-fiction series of re-imagined fairy tales. Each story is set in a different time and place. Some will be familiar, others will not. So strip bare your assumptions, open your mind, and see these tales told like never before.
Content warning: violence, death, and disability trauma
WINNER: 2024 CHRYSALIS BREW PROJECT AWARD FOR EXCELLENCE IN INDEPENDENT FICTION
Read an excerpt
When the light of morning touched her pale face, Rose mistook it for her father.
“Papa?” She rubbed sleep out of her eyes. The cold gray and green interior of the truck greeted her with the stillness of a cemetery.
She pushed her matted curls from her face and sat up. The creak of the truck seat made the crows on the hood turn and squawk at her.
Crows? Why are there crows? A painful ringing in her ear made Rose clutch the side of her head. Her ear throbbed terribly. Had she slept on it funny? She flexed her neck to release the tension, but it did nothing but make her want to vomit. Rose opened the door and dropped out, gagging in the snow. Dizziness turned her insides out until there was nothing left to throw up. Only when her guts stopped heaving did Rose notice the birds. A murder of crows hopped about the scene, greedily pecking eyeballs out of dead Nazi sockets. One of the feathered scavengers had chosen a dog tag as its prize and fluttered off into the trees.
Rose shivered, despite the fact that the morning sun had brought the temperature up a little. She thought of looking through the bodies for supplies. Maybe even ammunition.
That would require you having a gun, Rose.
But the thought of picking through remains like some sort of white coated vulture seemed grisly. The ringing in her ears increased. It’s just shock. It will pass.
She got upright on shaky knees. With everything that had happened last night, Rose had dropped her walking stick somewhere by the creek. She looked around for a suitable replacement, even considered taking a rifle, but nothing seemed right. Could she take a rifle without knowing how many people it had killed? Rose decided there wasn’t a right answer to that question, but this was a matter of survival. Though her father had never taught her how to shoot, she could practice with it. It was better to have some protection than none at all.
If only her head would stop throbbing. The rising sun brought forth a new warmth to the chilled scene. The rotting dead emitted a sickly sour smell that made Rose retch. Nearly all the Nazis had died clutching their weapons. So, she began wading through fallen bodies for one that wasn’t covered with blood. Rose picked up one of the only clean rifles out of a Nazi soldier’s dead hands. It made her stomach flip-flop. Racking the bolt proved fruitless—this one had a jam Rose couldn’t clear. Another had a broken stock, making it nearly impossible to balance. Yet another had a stone wedged in the barrel from the attack. Rose then considered using one of their pistols, but when she pulled one from the leather holster, she saw that the Nazis’ pistols were the same model that the Hauptmann had used to kill her Papa. And now one was in her hands. A wave of revulsion rose up the back of her throat. Rose dropped the gun and reached to scrub her hands with her cloak.
But then noticed that her cloak had already changed colour. Gone was its ivory purity and vetiver-sage scent. In its place was a dried, stiff fabric that looked like it had been left overnight in a barrel of red wine. For several seconds, Rose tried to identify the vintage of said wine by its colour. Her father would’ve been able to do it.
Wait, no—you know it’s not wine. You’ve been soaking in Nazi blood.
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