Riff On Opening Lines

Little House in the Big Woods

Laura Ingalls Wilder

Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little grey house made of logs. That was my grandmother. She died a few summers back. I still live in the cabin, or at least what is left of it. When I think about my grandma’s life, it sounds like the tale of a children’s novel. But alas, my grandmother was not really one to talk about her childhood, so there was never a book made of it.

Even in my grandmother’s day, living in a log cabin was considered “rustic.” Now, in the year 2073, it is unheard of. I mean that literally. From what I have heard from the few travelers that pass through these woods, mine is the only house for miles. Everyone else has fled to the far coasts: New York, California, and what is left of Florida. I, however, prefer the solitude of my cabin. It is just me now, unless you count the cat that comes around every so often to be fed. The damn animal eats as much as a small child. It doesn’t really matter though; I have learned to hunt fairly well and my father was an expert trapper and taught me a few of his tricks.

I have no clue where my parents are now. My mother died when I was young leaving my father behind to raise me and take care of my grandmother. When she got sick, my father went out in search of a healer. A trip he never returned from. My grandmother died a few weeks after that, leaving me alone in the cabin.

There is a small door in the front of the house that is so short my father used to have to duck his head to walk through. The few times someone knocks there, I always have the slight hope that it is him, finally returning. This time is no different.

This knock isn’t like the ones that have come before it. It is less of a knock and more of a pounding; a strong hand, punching the hard wood with authority. Only 5 people have knocked on that door since my grandmother died and none of them sounded anything like that.

I slipped my hunting knife in the back of my trousers. The cold metal against my skin combined with the fear I had about who or what stood behind that door caused goose bumps to cover my flesh. Slowly, hesitantly, I walked towards the door. Another five thuds, each louder than the previous, elicited a gasp out of me. The door handle began shaking. I never got to watch horror movies; TV had been labeled dangerous by the government and had been banned from use before I was born. It was a thing of the past anyway. From the stories my grandmother used to tell though, I was experiencing one.

“5867?” the voice behind the door yelled. The voice was gruff and its owner was definitely angry. “Open the door 5867!”

The name did not belong to me, but rather my father. I lifted the bar across the door and pulled the handle, peeking my head out of the crevasse it created.

“5867 is dead.” My voice cracked with the last word. “He’s been gone for over 3 years now.”

“Who are you then?” the voice belonged to a middle aged man. He wore a uniform that signified he worked for the military; the dirt that caked him entirely indicated his journey had not been easy. The two younger men behind him stood straight, looking past me as if I was not even there.

“I am his daughter, 75601.” I replied. A long time ago, in my grandmother’s day, people were given names with different combinations of letters and sounds, but there were many problems with that system. It was not long before my father was born that they switched to numbers to keep everyone in order. This would make my father the 5,867^th person born after this system was developed.

“And you live here all alone, girl?”

“I am plenty capable of taking care of myself, sir.” I defended myself. “What do you want with my father?” I demanded.

“I will explain everything, but first may I come in? It is colder than hell is hot out here and I am starting to lose the feeling in my fingers.” He offered up his hands to show me and indeed they were turning an alarming shade of white. I opened up the door to allow the three of them in and offered them a place on my couch. If I were living out a horror movie, this would be the point in the plot where I am slowly tortured until I am begging for my life to be spared, even though both parties know it is a futile action because I am going to die anyway. Fortunately, none of that happened.

Instead, the man informed me of my father’s past. According to this stranger, my father was a wanted man. He had run away from his position in the military a few years before I was born and his whereabouts after that were unknown until very recently. He was apparently wanted for treason and this man was here to bring him in. This story began to get monotonous, so I tuned out and just started watching him. The way his mouth moved reminded me so much of someone, but I couldn't put my finger on it. The more the man talked the more familiar he looked.

“Hold on,” I interjected, cutting him off midsentence. “Who are you?”

“75601, I feel as though we have already discussed this. I am here to find your father. I am with the military.” He spoke in simple sentences as if I did not understand English.

“Yes, but what is your name?” I demanded. We both sat in silence for what seemed like hours but was probably only a minute or two. The man across from me looked down and opened his mouth to speak.

“I am 5868.” He answered, his voice fading with the number.

“Woah! That would make you the person born directly after my father.” I noted.

“Well, considering we’re twins that would make sense now wouldn’t it?”