Little Red,
Motherless babe,
Taught to be self-sufficient
And brave at a young age.
She gathered fruit,
Hunted squirrel, trained herself
To be a sharpshooter
With the wooden crossbow she made.
Werewolves in the forest,
The local rumors howled.
Little Red was unperturbed.
She had no fear at all.
She’d fought off snakes,
Outrun grizzlies,
Shot alligators
While spearing fishes.
“But this is new,” her ill Gran said,
“This is a cross between a wolf and a man.
He’s wily, wicked, and dangerous too.
I worry he might outsmart you.â€
“Fear not, dear Gran,” Little Red said.
“I’ll fetch the doctor. Go back to bed.
My aim is true. If he causes trouble,
I’ll take care of it.â€
Through the woods she walked,
Eyes ever watchful,
This fragile little girl,
Cloaked in a velvet red hood.
Predators stayed away,
Fearful of Little Red’s spear.
Only the new ones in the wood
Dared to venture near.
A soft woosh betrayed his presence.
Little Red sent two shots his way.
A yowl of pain from the south.
Little Red sent four more that way.
Out leapt the werewolf,
Dripping blood like bread crumbs.
That furry crazy-eyed wolf thing,
At Little Red he lunged.
She stepped artfully aside,
Shot him another two times:
Once in the head,
Once in his eye.
Another two for posterity,
And he was down
Splayed and drunk
Like a sheep skin rug.
Little Red rushed home,
Doc in tow.
Gran was sitting up,
Unnaturally flushed.
Her smile revealed
Stalactites in the snow.
She tore the good Doc in two
Without so much as a hello.
Little Red stared in dismay.
For the first time, she could not aim.
Scarecrow-still, she watched
Gran turn, face elongating,
Arms sprouting fur, like
Seedlings in slow-motion.
Gran’s nails and teeth
Grew like rabid weeds.
In her eyes,
A familiar crazed expression but
None of the love nor recognition
Little Red used to see inside.
She swung her new talons
At Little Red’s head, unfroze her
With the knowledge
That this was no longer Gran.
Gran would never
Raise her hand
At her beloved granddaughter.
This was truly some other monster.
Twin head shots
Dispatched that alien thing.
Little Red wept with sadness and rage
As she carried Gran’s body for burying.
Now marked
A new era for Little Red.
It was time to grow up;
Time to hunt predators instead.
Illustration is “Red Riding Hood Meets Old Father Wolf”, Gustave Dore, 1864
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