Who is Hans Pagan Andersen? Nobody knows exactly where or when Hans Pagan Andersen was born.  The details of his early life are vague at best.  Most scholars agree that his storytelling skills were shaped by the encouragement and criticism he received from dozens of childhood friends.  Sadly, these were all imaginary friends and the extent of their influence is impossible to judge. As a young man, Hans Pagan Andersen traveled all over the world, and even spent a few months in outer space.  When he returned home (where exactly 'home' was we cannot say with any certainty) he immediately began to consider a career in the literary arts.  Fifty years later, he deemed it a satisfactory vocation and began writing.  A prolific writer, we have yet to locate all but a handful of his works.  His stories and poems will appear on this site as they become known.

The Boy Who Would Not Dance

Many years ago in a distant land, there was a village filled with the joy of dancing.  Every man, woman, and child had a dance of their own.  Every conversation, every cause for celebration, every daily chore was accompanied by a unique and special dance.  The people danced every minute between the instant they awoke and their next nightly slumber.  And even in their dreams, they danced.

One day there was a boy who would not dance, and they shot him.
 
 

The Ugly Drunkling

It was a lovely spring morning in the park, down by the pond under the sycamore trees.  A duck was sitting on her nest, tending her newly hatched ducklings and waiting for one last egg to hatch.  It was certainly a large egg, about four feet tall and at least five in girth.  Odd-looking, too; the shell was shiny and black and inscribed with the word "GLAD."

At last the shell split asunder with a loud ripping sound, sending the duck and her young flying off in all directions.  When the mother got to her feet and turned to look upon her baby, she gasped in horror.  The duckling was covered with foul, soiled rags.  He had a grease-stained beard, crusty yellow eyes, and a bulbous red nose.  "Aright, whish one a you puh me in tha bag?" he said to his mother and siblings.

The duck hung her head in shame, for she was now the mother of what must have truly been the ugliest duckling ever hatched.  She felt she had no choice but to gather her beautiful, unblemished ducklings under her wing and flee from the monstrosity.  And so she did, leaving the ugly duckling alone at the edge of the pond, where he began to cry.  "Ah shoot, I shcared them all away.  I'm sho ugly.  Ain't nobody wansto be my friend."

During a lull in his sobbing, the ugly duckling heard some voices coming from a grove of trees over and behind the hill.  "Les drink all his whiskey before he wasekup!" one of the voices exclaimed.  The duckling stumbled up the hill to see what all the commotion was about.

Huddled by one of the trees, three familiar-looking men were passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth.  One of them saw the duckling and elbowed the others, whispering something the duckling couldn't hear.  "Wheredja go?" asked the one with the dirtiest beard.  "We protectioned yer bottle a whishkey while you were gone.  Some guys came and tried a drink it but we would'n let em.  Here, have some."

The ugly duckling shed tears to hear this, but they were tears of joy.  At last he belonged, at last he had a family.  He sat down by the tree and drank with them until the bottle was empty.  And as he passed the empty bottle to the man with the dirtiest beard, he asked, "Will you be my mommy?"