The two children were thin and hungry when their (loving, probably) father led them deep, deep, and deeper into the forest. Two days later, they're weary, dehydrated, their clothes ragged, and their pale, strawberries-and-cream-skin scratched. They are also, not to put too fine a point on it, thoroughly lost.

Hansel is older, taller, and ostensibly the more responsible of the two. He has spent a great deal of his life aware that one of his jobs in life is to look out for his little sister, and he does try to. When he remembers. He considers himself practically a man already, but the truth is, he is credulous. He is, like many boys, impulsive. His light blue eyes are wide, and thickly lashed, like a calf. They often give his face a vacant expression.

Gretel may appear to be about seven years old, but don't let that fool you. Underneath all that near-white blonde hair is a cool and cynical head. She is also occasionally calculating. Right now she is calculating their odds of survival, and finding them pretty slim. She is often impatient with her brother's apparent lack of sense, and her own small stature meaning that she is supposed to let him take over and boss her around.

Hang on! They've spotted something! Something that has made hope lurch in their little chests and splash across their faces. 

It is a glint between the trees, and it attracts them, as surely as if they were a pair of magpies. 

They don't articulate this, (cognitive functions suffering due to a lack of glucose) but they 

it. Legs aching, and scratched by brambles, they fight their way through the thicket, tugging their clothes free of clutching thorns.  

The gleam that caught their eye was the sunshine reflecting off a building of metal and glass. This structure is almost entirely one giant window. It looks quite out of place here in the middle of the forest. Not least because it's plastered with posters, most of them depicting nearly-naked folks with improbable muscles, and large lettering proclaiming 

On a strip of well-kept grass in front of this architectural monstrosity, a trim, age-indeterminate woman is bending herself into weird shapes. Her hair is pulled into a tight, neat pony tail. Expensively manicured feet are planted on an exercise mat. The mat is supremely environmentally unfriendly, violently pink, and curls slightly at one end. 

The children hesitate. They watch the woman shift into a new position. It  probably has a name like Warrior Pose, or Mystic Moon Salutation. She 

drank something green for breakfast, and if she has eaten bread at any point in the last five years I will eat my own yoga mat, plus a purple towel for dessert. (A 

purple towel. One of the communal ones, not one I've brought from home.)

The girl is hanging back with a frown pinching at her brows. Her common sense is tingling. Something tells her something is off here, and she is strung tight like a bow. Or more accurately, like a rabbit or a fawn; ready to flee. 

The boy isn't advancing either, but it's unlikely he's engaging any sense at all, common or otherwsie. If we are being brutally honest, some tingling might be involved. He is openly gawping; his jaw drooping and his cheeks tinged a darker pink than usual. This could be because the woman is wearing a miniscule amount of skin-tight clothing.  The back of her trousers is ruched to accentuate her 

Her breasts are covered with bits of string. She turns, smiling, and the flush on the boy's face deepens. His ears are such an absurd purplish colour, they look like bits of beetroot he tucked his in his hair for later. In a moment, he will tug at his collar, under which he is definitely looking rather warm. It will be some kind of miracle if his lederhosen don't catch fire.

"Hello, children!" she trills. "Are you lost? Hungry?"

Gretel scowls, pulling back further. Hansel is looking 

"Y- y- yes, miss," he manages to stammer. "Very hungry."

"Poor dears! Come in. I'll get you some water."

Hansel hurries forward, pathetically eager. Gretel follows, reluctant, but even more loathe to stay outside alone.

The door clangs shut behind them, unnecessarily foreboding. 

Once hydrated, Arachné encourages them to hit the showers. Afterwards, wrapped in fluffy white towels, they find matching athletic wear has replaced their dirndl and lederhosen. 

"Your clothes are being laundered and mended," Arachné explains. Hansel accepts this, just as he does the SuperBerry Protein Smoothie Arachné hands to him with a shiny smile. Gretel scrunches her nose.

"Join me for a run," Arachné purrs, practically falling out of her string. Hansel goggles, nodding and slurping on his smoothie. He totters after her as if in a daze. Gretel rolls her eyes and folds her arms tight across her body.

Arachné hands him a pair of running shoes. "Try these on," she says. "I've got ever such a good eye for sizes. I'm never wrong."

Hansel laces them up and concedes that, yes, they are very comfy, and yes, they are the perfect fit. Arachné leans forward to lace up her own trainers, and the string almost gives out. Hansel is still sucking on his straw, though the Protein Smoothie cup is empty. 

"You'll soon be addicted to runners' high!" Arachné enthuses, showing Hansel how to work the treadmill. She takes the one just in front of him, and starts running at a steady pace. 

Hansel jogs along as if in a trance, gazing at her muscular haunches. Afterwards, famished, she leads him to a nourishing spread. He seems to be in thrall to her, following her like a puppy. 

"Help yourself!" she says. "Plenty of protein! And don't skimp on the pasta!" She gives Gretel a Ryvita cracker with avocado, some tap water and a slight scowl.  

Gretel, who did not need extra scowl, marches over to her brother.

She does not, however, deny the cannibalism accusation.

Sven Mieke

Fifty Per Cent Off Your Summer Body

Legends Rewritten entry. (Monday 27th January 2025, Story #393)

The two children were thin and hungry when their (loving, probably) father led them deep, deep, and deeper into the forest. Two days later, they're weary, dehydrated, their clothes ragged, and their pale, strawberries-and-cream-skin scratched. They are also, not to put too fine a point on it, thoroughly lost.



Fifty Per Cent Off Your Summer Body

Legends Rewritten entry. (Monday 27th January 2025, Story #393)

About the Creator

L.C. Schäfer

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Wiggle Your Big Toe

Fifty Per Cent Off Your Summer Body

Legends Rewritten entry. (Monday 27th January 2025, Story #393)

About the Creator

L.C. Schäfer

Comments .css-4do22h{color:var(--text-default-mute);}.css-1svwz57-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-default-mute);}(12)

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Wiggle Your Big Toe

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