Old Wolf
Something bad may also be sad. A fresh look at an old fairytale.
The old wolf stopped, sniffed the air, and then waited behind an ancient oak tree. The beast licked its lips in anticipation of the meal to come, and five minutes later it did; a young girl in green, carrying a basket in one hand. The wolf grinned, and slunk out from his hiding place. ‘Why hello little one,’ he said coming to a halt, ‘And who are you?’
The girl stopped. ‘Emma . . . and you?’
‘Me? Well little one, my name is Mr. Wolf. And-’
‘Yes, you’re a wolf. And a talking one . . . I didn’t know wolves could talk.’
The wolf frowned. ‘Well, I mean-why yes we can! All the time in fact.’
The girl smiled. ‘Oh no, wolves can’t talk . . . except for a certain type.’
The wolf stared. ‘Really? And what type is that little one?’
‘Why, werewolves of course. Like you.’
The wolf bared teeth. ‘And what else do you know about us?’
The girl smiled again and, from her basket, raised a old-fashioned pistol. ‘That they hate silver bullets. Is that true?’
The wolf’s grin died. ‘Possibly,’ he said skulking back, ‘But now you don’t want to shoot poor old me, do you? Such a nice sweet little-’
‘Try me beast.’
The girl took aim, and the wolf shot away; a grey streak that vanished over a nearby hill. Emma snorted, and returned her weapon to the basket. ‘Calling GR,’ she said, taking out a walkie-talkie. ‘Come in GR. Over.’
The device crackled at first. ‘This is GR, all okay? Over.’
Emma nodded. ‘Yes, I just ran into that flipskin you told me about. But scared the bastard off. Over.’
‘Language young lady . . . and my goodness, he must be ancient by now. Over.’
‘Well, you said they live longer than us, and he looked it. Pathetic. Over.’
The walkie-talkie was silent for a moment. ‘Don’t be so quick to judge young one,” it said finally, ‘True, I did escape him once. But I also feel sorry for the beast . . . alone in those woods, all this time, and to be even shunned by true wolves. You will be old someday yourself child . . . and hopefully have someone like you to look after you. And not be all alone, like the beast. Now hurry along with my supper dear. Over.’
‘Yes. Yes, okay Grandma Red. Over.’
Emma put the walkie-talkie away, and then she continued on . . . with the old wolf slinking out from the hilltop. Watching his former prey disappear, the beast then lowered his head, and wept; as only a werewolf could.
This started out as something else, then developed into the finished story. And the original Little Red Riding Hood is a werewolf tale anyway; for what type of wolf can converse in a human voice, let alone do drag, and pretend to be someone’s grandmother? Thanks for reading.
