Comparing Cinderella's The Three Little Pigs And The Three Bears

No one knows exactly how the fire started, but they do know how the silence of the library was interrupted by the heat of a distant smoke. They do know how the library erupted with desperate shouts exclaiming the oncoming chaos. They do know how they grabbed their belongings and ran out, leaving the most important people behind. They left the characters, locked away behind the bars of language and the starch white pages of their stories. They left Dorothy and her band of misfits to never make it to the Emerald City. They left Harry Potter to never vanquish Lord Voldemort. They left Romeo dead and Juliet to mourn him for all eternity. They left the stories to be unfinished and cease to exist, for the harsh heat ate the books as if

Cinderella hated talking with her stepsisters and found herself talking with Little Red Riding Hood, who avoided the Big Bad Wolf, who didn’t associate himself with any of them. The seven dwarves were friends with the Three Little Pigs and the Three Bears. The princes were with their princesses. But for the most part, outside of their fairy tales, they were nice to one another. They shared the book equally. They simply lived and once the book was opened, they’d take position and move like a marionette, the reader whispering the language, telling them what to do and how to

Little Red stood a few feet away, watching the flames with wide, glittering eyes. “Maybe everything will be ok,” she whispered. She tried to tune out the sounds of the characters’ desperate bawling. That’s when she heard the sound of a distant siren. It wailed loud and clear, cutting off the sob fest. What was the siren? Was it signaling the arrival of some saviors to put out the fire? “Everyone, look!” Little Red cried. They turned around from each other to look past the pages at a dark figure walking through the fire. The figure held some long nozzle in his hands. Suddenly, the nozzle erupted to life, spraying everything in torrents of cold water. But the fire kept spreading. Closer to the storybook. Closer to the characters who found hope in that figure. Death was approaching fast. The heat licked the edges of the pages. They all screamed in horror as their page started to burst into flames. Their stories were burning into ash--for the most part. Miraculously, half of the thick storybook did not burn. None of the characters were the same however, as half of their stories were taken as casualties. Cinderella never made it to the ball. Little Red didn’t make it to her grandmother’s house. The Big Bad Wolf never huffed and puffed and blew the house