By Ali Wilkinson

My friend recently shared a Facebook post that proclaimed every work of literature is better if you follow the opening line with: “And then the murders began.”

My head, being as it is firmly in the ages three to six reading level, immediately jumped to children’s books to test out the theory. And oh yes, it is true. So wonderfully, diabolically true. 

“In the great green room, there was a telephone, and a red balloon, and a picture of a cow jumping over the moon. And then the murders began.” Was it that sneaky mouse, hiding irritatingly in the top left corner on the clothing line of this ridiculously spacious children’s room? Is it the old woman, quietly whispering “hush” as she suffocates the mouse in the bowl full of mush? To die by mush! Imagine.

“Once there was a tree… and she loved a little boy. And then the murders began.” A branch falls, “what terrible luck,” the townspeople say, gathered round at the funeral, talking in hushed tones. The boy wonders. The tree lists silently in the wind. The tree will never tell. The tree lies in wait. “No one will hurt that little boy. No one,” it vows.

“The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind, and another, his mother called him ‘Wild thing!’ And Max said ‘I’ll eat you up,’ so he was sent to bed without eating anything. And then… the murders began.” Was it Max, with his fork festooned menacingly over the terrified dog? His mother, fed up with the wolf suit and how perfectly it embodied her savage son? Or the yet-unintroduced Wild Things? Max, perhaps, not quite so able to tame them with his magic trick of looking into all their yellow eyes without blinking once. Did he slip? Ill-timed dust in his eyes, did he blink?

“‘Where’s Papa going with that ax?’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast. And then the murders began.” Where. Where indeed, Papa. Where are you going with that ax.

“I am Sam. Sam I am. And then… the murders began.” Oh, Sam. Do you even know how many enemies you’ve made? How many are disgusted by the appalling breakfast stuffs you force upon them? Or are you, Sam, the murderer? Ready to shove that tainted ham down the next person’s unsuspecting throat? You had so much promise, Sam. So sure of yourself, of your identity. It’s a shame it comes to this.

“A told B and B told C, ‘I’ll meet you at the top of the coconut tree.’ And then the murders began.” C. Lovely, rounded, unsuspecting C has no idea. No idea. A, all full of pomp and pride for being not only a vowel but also at the very beginning of the alphabet. B, a poor second, always doing A’s bidding. What did C ever do to them? Do they even know that they need C to join them in spelling “back” or “abacus” or, tragically, “cabernet”? The very tree that will be the death of C, the coconut tree, a C word. The irony. The sad, sad irony.

“Here are Paul and Judy. They can do many things. You can do many things too. And then… the murders… began.” Who this time? Who? Judy, concocting a poison from those eerily ever-fragrant flowers? Paul, smashing the mirror into deadly shards? Father, tired of his scratchy face being pawed over? Or is it us, the reader? How many things can we do? How many things really? 

Go ahead. Try it. And let’s hear your favorites.

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About the Author

Ali lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and three children. She blogs at Run Knit Love.