Red Riding Hood
One day, little Red Riding Hood’s mother told her to deliver a basket of food to her elder grandmother.
She told Red not to talk to any strangers and to stay on the path to old grandmother’s house.
Little Red concurred,
and left hastily.
Not long after her departure, she met a man
sitting under a tree.
He was skinny and twisted and evil
like a petrified tree she had once seen.
She still remembered it.
He lay there, sulking in the darkness,
contorting a caterpillar between his bony fingers,
who had been helplessly inching along.
It was a rather beautiful creature to Red.
He looked up at Red, eyes as black as heroin,
The clashing of dark and light had finally made its debut on this joyous earth.
Come here, he said.
Red replied,
But mother told me to stay on the path and not to talk to strangers.
He set the mangled caterpillar on the cold earth,
picked his gangly body up,
And extended his long curious hand in a rather excited manner.
She dubiously met her hand with his.
Chills ran across her body like soldiers charging in war.
The mood changed.
Suddenly...
Red cape, blonde hair, eyes as viridescent as ecstasy.
She runs from the wolf.
The wind dragging his sharp claws through her mangled hair.
Racing through patches of thistles
pricking the bottoms of her soft baby feet.
She falls.
Scratched.
The feeling of abandonment sets in as the shadows grow closer.
Red! Come to grandmother!
She hears a familiar voice in the near distance.
Grandmother! She calls
Grandmother hovers over her,
panting.
She picks Red up by her wrist and drags her across the ground.
The curious cherub notices:
why Grandmother, what big ears you have!
All the better to hear you with, my dear.
Why Grandmother, what big eyes you have!
All the better to see you with, my dear.
Why Grandmother, what big hands you have!
All the better to steal you with!
Grandmother rips off her gown and a petrified tree emerges from the shadows.
Red, submerged in the darkness, lets out one last cry.
A wise old huntsman approaches the path
that Red and her assailant are embarking on.
He hears the cry of the poor child.
He goes running towards the terror-stricken girl
in hopes of becoming a hero.
To his dismay, he finds the girl.
Her wrists bruised,
her hair matted with mud and leaves,
cape -- torn.
Consumed by the wolf, the girl lie there,
no more worries must she face.
There is no hero today, nor will there ever be.
Copyright © Morgan Houck | Year Posted 2016
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