Content warning
This story may contain sensitive material or discuss topics that some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised. The views and opinions expressed in this story are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Vocal.
The Little Matchstick Girl
Retelling for L.C.'s Unofficial Fairytale Challenge!
The little girl, pale, frail with dirty tresses of blonde hair, stood in the dark and the cold, selling matchsticks. They were all she had, aside from the rags on her back, from home. Not that the cottage where she once lived could ever be really called a home.
Her mum tried her best with little more than nothing, but her father was a cruel and violent man, and the little girl was his favourite punchbag.
When he lost his job, she faced a disgusting prospect. She could remain in the loveless home and "entertain" the most loathsome and repugnant townsfolk, or she run away and make a life of her own.
So, at 11, she ran away from her deplorable father and his enabler wife in the dark and the cold. Still, she had hope and tried to fight the smog of despair.
She sold her matchsticks to the rich, ruthless and rotten of the city. Only occasionally would she receive something like gratitude or worthiness. When they looked at her, she could feel their disgust burn through her.
No-one asked her name. No-one cared. Why should they? She was not their responsibility. They got their matchsticks, lit their poisoned tobacco rods and went into the warm tavern where they gorged their bellies on ale, vodka, bread and hearty stews. While she tried desperately to survive.
One night when it was especially cold, she perished. Unexpectedly, there was no commotion or upheaval, no sleep was lost. She was, after all, just one poor little homeless girl.
This is normally where the tale ends. Which is fitting as it spotlights your own morality as you read it. However, there is more to the tale.
As she lay there motionless in the snow, her lifeless body convulsed and jolted as electricity burnt through her flesh. Her eyes were afire, and she rose. Driven by an unknowable force, she entered the tavern, despite attempts of the locals to throw her out. One by one, as they looked at her with disgust, they felt the fire from her eyes burn through their flesh as they screamed in horror. She stood there in silence, motionless and emotionless as they perished.
*
Thanks for reading!
Author's Notes: Word Count - 366 bang on the dot. I have always despaired at the original horrible story and while I do not think we should shield from the harsh realities of life especially when it comes to things like class and wealth divides, I wanted the little girl to get some kind of revenge.
This is for L.C. Schäfer's wonderful little unofficial challenge, you can find more details about it here:
As ever, here are a few other choice cuts from recently published pieces you can devour, if you choose to:
About the Creator
Paul Stewart
Scottish-Italian poet/writer from Glasgow.
Overflowing in English language torture and word abuse.
"Every man has a sane spot somewhere" R.L Stevenson
The Accidental Poet - Poetry Collection is now available!
https://paulspoeticprints.etsy.com
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Paul Stewart and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The Warrior's Call
We took from them, without reason, rhyme or care. We butchered their offspring and burnt and poisoned the ground on which they stood. They had stood for millennium, without obstruction. Our interference left them choking for air, and yet we continued to purge their kin. It was only a matter of time before their resilience, their mercy, turned to bitter revenge.
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Fiction
Silence
I don’t remember the day the world ended. But I do remember the day I noticed. That photo was it, but I did not know what it meant until I sat in my darkened bathroom, staring at the newly developed film. The street was neither empty, nor abandoned. It was dead. The colours of the flowers wrapped in that red ribbon caught my eye, and as I crouched to take that photo, I could hear only the lonely silence of a graveyard after dark.
By Alexander McEvoy6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (10)
Powerful thing you've observed, that we expect the story to end with an ending, aka death. Absolutely love that her power continued and even increased after death. Love that!
The Matchstick girl always broke me, too Paul. I love your version, though :)
Cool challenge. I’ve never heard of the original, but enjoyed this atmospheric revenge piece! ☺️👏
Yay! The underdog wins!!! Great job, Paul!
Heheheheeeheheheh so happy she got revenge! Loved your story!
Good, damnit! Let them fry.
Most fairy tales have enablers in them. But until now, none of them were labeled accordingly. I think it’s fun and appropriate that you label and judge them in your story with more than the usual wicked descriptor. Well done, Paul, for keeping it real.
Fantastic fantasy story!!! Loved it!!!
Good, glad to see her get some revenge!!
That story broke my heart when my teacher read it to our class when I was a little kid. It hurts to think that a child cold and alone wouldn't even be invited in to sleep on the welcome mat inside a warm home, sheltered from the cold. She wouldn't expect any generosity, but at least some common decency, at least some place she could lay her head, that in her hypothermia desperation she hallucinated seeing and feeling warmth in the matches, only for the cold to sink its teeth into her. Jack Frost may have had her in her clutches, but I don't think he ever meant to hurt such an innocent being as the cold does not discriminate. Your take, though, reminds me of Melisandre from "A Song Of Ice and Fire." It's as if for their unforgiving cruelty, her corpse became haunted and burned all of the people that had the opportunity to help her but looked upon her disdain and disgust, as she set them ablaze from the inside, like what Melisandre did to Varamyr Sixskins's scouting eagle.