What do you think about my version of a classic fairytale?

ok, firstly, an explanation. I was told to re-write a famous morality tale, a fairy tale with moral. I chose “the boy who cried wolf”. so here it is:

The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

Once upon a time, in the days of yore, a small child laid, his mind, at bay. For within the blankets, I liar lay, who’s ideas swam, and all truth, he did forsake. And as he woke, new thoughts did strike, and he paraded, into the receding night. For within the fields, restlessness struck hold, as many a rumor solidly told; for within the forest which edged the fields, great danger dwelled, and anger kneeled.

Clad in cold rags, he stuttered along, plodding, trampling, the plants smothered him. But from a man, soon came a change, his body swelled, and his hair grew. His skin grew thick, his breath, thicker. And teeth grew sharp; eyes grew dark, and in place of a boy sit a wolf. Dark fur and rounded paws, teeth and claws, but his voice, remained the same, and his will; his own. He cried to the knight “a wolf, a wolf!” and many a man hurried, with shovels and wood. They say the wolf, as it ran away, and waited to see, as a boy staggered away.

The villagers gasped, and screamed as he walked. With his own fur, clutched into his chest, he went to his father, his brother, his mother, and simple said “I killed the wolf”. The men and women all rejoiced, a new found victor, with the tiniest voice. With wine and bread, while they all thought the wolf lay dead, the boy trampled out, escaping the crowd. And once more, his body did change, and from a child’s smile, lay the ragged, mean snarl. As a wolf, he had power, as a boy, he abused it. He howled to the night, and ran to the bushes.

Once more a human, clutching more hair, he screamed out once more, “A wolf! A wolf!” He ran to the houses, but against his will, he changed to a wolf, and horribly, was slain, with fire and steel, he lay rather still, and slumped in the mud, his eyes once more pale. The villagers still. And with his life gone, his body returned, a small village boy, lay still in the grass. His father approached him, his eyes a weeping, as he mourned his son, who lay in the scrubs.

For be the boy a liar, a scoundrel, his father still loved him, his father still mourned him, and his father still cared. For from the heart, only tenderness bared. Bitterness gone, no resentment on sight, he carried his son, out into the night. Out past the fields, the mountains and trails, into the caves, he laid down his dead. And surrounded by stones, he made a small shrine, and buried his son, in cold stone and sate. And down the trails, the mountains, to fields, he returned to his family, tear swept and feared. The village was quite, the “wolf” not seen, and the families gleamed. For with their loss, they had also gained, and peace and quiet now remained.

And as with all storied, we draw to a close, an end to their suffering, they returned to their lives.

The End.

By Sebastian Szukalski