Little Red Riding Hood - A Retelling

By Ayisha Saniya Ambalavan

Somewhere, perhaps in another universe

Where, little red riding hood isn’t as little anymore,

And the big bad wolf is but an infamous curse

This story takes place in the noxious forest of the famed folklore, 

Let us start there, near the very edge

Of an old English town.

Our protagonist hangs by the chapel’s ledge

Basket in hand, her red hood up exposing a frown.

Years ago, a monster spread, orphaned her.

Killing anything living, they called it a curse,

Left her an ailing grandmother to look after

And as the years passed it only got worse.

You’d argue, what of the forest? lush therein

In which lies our antagonist, a dangerous beast

Few brave and foolish enough dare to venture in

Only to become the perfect meal for it to feast

When red riding hood was young, just ten years old

The forest beckoned, and so she followed,

She was warned of curses and myths, deadly creatures she was told

But little as she was, curiosity burned as her stomach hollowed

Deeper as she wandered in, trees thickening until,

She found a spot, wherein wild berries lied

Placed in a hollow branch, upon a small hill

And as she gobbled, behind a bush, gray eyes spied.

Years later she walks back in, now a dreadful routine 

the curiosity lost, her stomach just as hollow

she trudges through, bow in hand arrow in-between

searching the traps for hunt, her prey to follow

Nothing! of course, her misfortune isn’t anything new

Well, she’ll have to scrounge for wild berries then

Winter leaves the trees bare, except for a sparse few

So deeper as she moves to her spot, hope blooms all over again

“hrshrsh”, she hears the leaves rustle, sharp and silent

She turns then bow nocked, eyes wide

Praying to anyone who’d listen for anything nonviolent,

Just as her breath quickens; her lips having dried.

Death was an old visitor, luck never her way

She watched the curse, the myth, the beast.

It stared back, eyes vaguely familiar gray

The wolf had come at last, to feast.

She watches red drip down its mouth, as it opens wide

Her hand moving before she can think, her arrow flies

It strikes true, the beast staggers falling to the side

It wrangles out a moan, her eyes never stray watching as it dies.

The berries spill from its mouth, its eyes hard 

Her gaze transfixed as the wolf transforms, fur dissipating -

Into wrinkled skin, body frail and scarred

She blinks, and then blinks some more, realization transpiring.

As she stares at the wolf old woman, eyes gray

A face she’d seen every day since she was ten

In a crumpled heap her grandmother lay

And perhaps it all began to make sense then.

By Ayisha Saniya Ambalavan