I had Thanksgiving with a witch, a witch named Baba Yaga. She said, don’t fear, the children are here! Baba Yaga dropped them out, of her sack. The kids screamed ATTACK! And hit her shins with their hands, but the witch quickly threw them in pans. I asked, “what’s your plan? I brought turkey and ham, jerky and clams, even the head of a great big roast beast, I believe we could cook up as a delicious treat!” And Baba Yaga, said she was going to eat the kids. I said “what?” and she repeated, “I am cooking the children.”
Dancing on my toes, I spun more lyrical prose, as I realized the situation grew dire. Don’t call me a liar, I knew not of her desire, I merely thought the house was a delightfully whimsical sight. So bringing a light, I asked for a seat at hertable, to delight with a fable, of the monsters that come out at night. I thought we’d trade tales of woe, born of the cold cold snow, of Russia and Alaska, two states of wintery delight. Yet now in this abode, a situation unfolds, of tiny little tots being prepped for the fire.
So using all of my wit, I chopped the pleasantries to bits, and called a hail mary of fire. I asked Baba Yaga, have you heard the tale of the păl-raí-yûk? The man eating monster of Matanuska? Of course not, said the witch, “I only hear the conniving calls of careless cruel children, creeping coolly outside of their cribs”. Well, I remarked, the păl-raí-yûk is the foe of great woe. It has three stomachs and six legs, spines on its back and short fur all around. The beast can be as big as a musk ox, or as small as a muskrat, and it hides low under logs and bogs. It’s said that hodags and gruffalos know, to keep their head on a swivel, or the păl-raí-yûk will come take them out like a missile!
Baba Yaga paused long enough to stop seasoning the kids with beans of gonzaga, and thought for a second of my truly artful saga. She then said, “oh BAH! My house will protect me!” And to that I said, oh I hope, but the truth is we were at the end of our rope… Quickly I dove over the fire and to the kids, I stuffed them all back in the sack from which they came. Baba Yaga came cursing, throwing plates and dates, cakes, and snakes, flakes and baked shapes, but like jack (my cousin, nimble of the candlestick) I dove this way and that, and up the chimney like nick (of the north pole, 20 minutes from my hometown, he was a big role model). And out of the house the kids and I flew. As we popped out the floo, I yelled, oh boo hoo, because the house was being eaten so quick, by the monster, who knew not a stick, the păl-raí-yûk, bigger than the witch. In one stomach, the chicken legs, in the second stomach, the chicken house, in the third stomach, the witch, unhappy as a mink ever stowed.
