Something experimental I want to start trying out, but that I've had a ton of fun doing is narration and story telling. This is a rhyming form of the three little pigs story that I wrote whilst bored as hell on a night shift, and figured it'd be the perfect test read for some more chill SFW content.

So snuggle up, lean back, and let the big storybook 'bax read you a tale. A touch sad, but perhaps there will be a follow up...

This is the MP3 form, here's the full quality WAV: https://mega.nz/file/UNsmzCpJ#qMuhk.....7E0Wzh8QVpcAkY
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

There once was a story, a tale of three pigs.
And word of a wolf who was mighty, and big.
Scarce were materials, of a house they might build.
So thus each pig parted, too proud and strong-willed.

The first pig, the youngest, began with his straw.
And in little time his small house became tall.
Unsettled and thin, it creaked in the wind;
But do for the time it would and thus, he grinned.

The second pig, much smarter, looked down to the straw,
And scoffed, remarking ‘no that won’t do at all’!
Gathered and stacked a grand hut made of sticks.
And despite it’s slight lean, in pride he would sit.

The third pig, the oldest, snuck away to his pit.
A secret place where he had stored all his bricks.
Told not the brothers the safety he’d crafted,
And knew deep, deep down, it’d be he that lasted.

Along came the wolf, as big as they’d claimed.
But naught but a ribcage and glare to his name.
He sniffed out the first pig, alone in his hut,
And growled out aloud, in one concerned huff:

“Do your walls not bring frigid air, through to the fire?
The great storm is coming, your home appears dire.
Just let me in quickly and I can lend aid:
My thick fur will surely add warmth to your place.”

The young pig just scoffed, and said with a grin,
“Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin.”
A silence grew quickly, a gulp quicker still.
Yet the sound of footsteps disappearing, did fill.
This wolf, once when young, had grown from a runt.
He'd ne'er been allowed with the pack, on the hunt.
Lonely and longing, he dreamed of a home;
To not spend his years wandering and alone.

Alas, not the time, for the big bad sad beast,
To wallow on the fact that he was liked the least.
One day soon, he’d show all the folk of the land,
That a kind heart resided in a form fierce and grand.

A short walk away, in due time he did find,
A piggy, the second, preserving his hide.
“Be not scared, young pig, I am here with kind will,
But your hut made of sticks won’t withstand the air’s chill”



Now of course, as is natural, the pig squealed aloud,
Startled and scrambled to the hut’s wooden shroud.
“I care not for the blizzard, I laugh at the wind,
Begone, by the hairs on my chinny chin chin!”

The wolf might have sighed, his eyes may have strained,
But all that he knew in this world was the same.
An offer of aid, of advice, of a smile,
Always looked upon with disdain, and reviled.
And so, as things go, the wolf carried on,
Leaving the pig to believe he had won.
Looking to the skies, the clouds thus did loom,
A sign that the weak huts were to become tombs.

Upon the horizon stood the house made of bricks,
It’s construction so rushed that it made the wolf sick.
Hurried and running, concern in his tone,
He called out to the third pig about the state of his home.

“What have you done here? Do you not hear the sounds?
One blow from the typhoon will blow your house down!”
Alas from within, there was not a concern,
But the smug laugh of someone, much too proud to learn.

“Nice try, big wolfie; begone with your lies,
I hope the winds take you, do try not to die!”
The wolf stepped back hurt, how incredibly mean;
But the space had allowed him to notice the lean.

“Get out of the house, or your life becomes shorter!
You can’t built a house with just bricks and no mortar!”
He howled to the wind as it bit up his back,
His eyes swelling wide as he heard a sharp CRACK.

Their time, thus, was up;
The die had been cast.
Our three pigs had moved here from present to past.
No warm thick black fur,
No powerful frame,
No strong cave to hide in, uncomfy yet safe.

The wolf sat there, quietly, observing the storm,
Huddled there in safety, alone as was the norm.
No more the piggies, their huts, or their hate;
Yet in their place hollowness, that tugs like a weight.

One day soon, this wolf would emerge,
And love without boundary, sadness he would purge.
For now, though, he waited; until Spring’s golden glow,
To see if you listening would greet a wolf in your home.