The Bull

Writing has always been a cathartic experience for me. My issue is simply that I have never attempted it in a public forum. I always used to have journals and notebooks full to bursting with angst-driven, slightly pathetic attempts at poetry and short stories... so this venue is a little different for me. Please forgive infrequent posting. Also, I hope you enjoy the new layout.

Today I thought I would share a bedtime story that was a favorite of my grandmother's. Most children went to sleep listening to such classics as "Little Red Riding Hood" or "The Three Little Pigs".

Not this child.

My grandmother is a very kind, very southern woman. She is also extremely religious, so most of her stories have a very deep, religious or southern backing. The moral of the following story is pretty clear. Bulls will murder you. I can see no other meaning. At any rate, let's get right into it.

The Bull

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who would never listen to the warnings of her parents. They would constantly warn her to stay away from the neighboring yard, because its owner was a large, mean bull, yet she refused to heed their advice. 

One day, the little girl was throwing her ball, and it rolled across the creek dividing the two pieces of property. Without even thinking, the foolish girl skipped across the creek bed and lingered in the yard of the bull to play. After a few minutes of play, the bull emerged from his home, and confronted her.

He threatened to kill her with his sharp horns if she did not listen to him. He had seen her on his property many times, and upon seeing her this day, had had enough. He told her that she would be his slave until she learned her lesson about listening to those who knew much better than she. Terrified, the little girl reluctantly walked into the Bull's massive home.

There was no way out. The little girl knew that if she did not do exactly as she was told, she would surely die. The Bull told her that she would clean his  home, wait on him hand and hoof, and under no circumstance enter the room with the red door. The little girl was too afraid to object, and went about with her duties as she was instructed.

After years in slavery to the Bull, the little girl was very close to her freedom. She had gained his trust, so instead of chaining her up when he went to market, he left her free to wander the house and finish her duties. 

Although she was afraid, she was also too curious to pass up the allure of the room with the red door. She waited until the Bull was out of the house and well on his way to the market before venturing to the forbidden room and slowly turning the door knob to see what was inside.

Thanks, Grandma, now I really want to close my eyes.

Upon opening the door, a hand fell out onto her clean, crisp white sock. It was covered in blood. The room was full of the bodies of little girls that the Bull had impaled on his sharp, black horns. The door had been stained in their foolish blood, and now her sock followed suit. Terrified, the little girl stuffed the bodies of the fallen girls back into the room and slammed the door shut. Her hands were wet with blood, and she quickly rinsed them off, but the blood would not come out of her sock.

Frantic, the little girl looked for a way to remove the evidence of her betrayal. She soon came across a mouse which had accompanied her in her chores over the years. She begged for her small friend to use his rough tongue to lick the blood from her sock before the Bull arrived. He reluctantly agreed, and after several minutes of working at the spot, it began to fade. 

When the blood was almost clean, the little girl heard the front door creak open, and the thunderous clap of the Bull's hooves on the wooden floor. The mouse panicked, and quickly retreated to his home in the walls. The Bull saw that something was amiss, but could not quite figure out what was wrong. After checking to make sure the red door was still shut and that there was no blood on the little girl, the Bull conceded and let her go. She then lived happily ever after.

What nightmares are made of.

Of course, after this story, there was no sleep for me. My grandmother, however, went right to sleep with no apparent problems. But then again, why would I have had normal bedtimes stories?

Until next time, and as always, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this look into my odd life.