The sun light filters through the canopy of brooding firs, the sound of silver-clear laughter breaking the silence.
Dark of hair is she, her hazel eyes sharp and shrewd in a face that is meek with a practiced meekness.
Skin like cream, she is delicate with iris-like delicacy.
Lips, cheeks, and cloak like the color of blood.
Little Red.
She is anything but little, this tall and slender maiden.
But red she is.
Cloaked in blood, flushed with blood, words of blood.
The whispery breeze lifts the cloak and its rich folds billow around her like a crimson storm-cloud.
The cheeks grown redder and hotter.
The perfectly plump red mouth opens to form a song from the Golden Age.
She fills her sash with lilies of the valley and violets, her basket of bread and cheese and wine overflow with them.
She stops dead as she hears the rustling in the bushes.
She drops her basket and scatters her flora on the forest floor.
Her shrewd and sharp eyes dart furtively and the pink tongue nervously moistens red lips.
"Who is there?" asks she, no timidity in her voice, the silver-clear voice that breaks the silence.
She sees the flash of amber eyes and she backs away.
Little Red screams as she falls into a clump of bracken, cutting through her blood-red cloak, now redder with the blood from her back.
The wolf, powerful and massive, skillfully deceptive, nears the entangled mistress.
Hot electricity snaps through the air, something seductively tangible.
The body of silver fur with the tip of white on the tail, the amber eyes, and throaty growl.
White goes the face of Little Red, and fear flashes through her eyes and blurs her sweet scent.
The blood from her back fills the air and the wolf sniffs in utter appreciation.
She pulls and tugs at her rented cloak, grunting in frustration, tears of fear pouring down her cheeks.
Finally she wrenches free the vile cloak, torn and rent, dirty and dusty.
Her own eyes meet those of the wolf, the color returns to her cheek.
Fear is gone...all that is left is the pleasant feeling of being hunted.
"Who are you?" asks the damsel with rollicking laughter fore and aft.
The wolf stares at her but does not answer.
Insulted, the little mistress throws her hair behind her back and departs, with a sashaying of her hips.
Unconscious is she of the wolf as he trails behind her.
Once again she gathers a spray of flowers from the earth.
She stops and picks sweet berries and savors the tangy flavor.
All is good in the world.
She skips to grandmother's cottage, the little wooden cottage with the tall brick chimney.
Unconscious is she of the wolf as he trails behind her.
She raps smartly on the door, and enters with a practiced mildness of manner.
Grandmother, the old woman with the triangular little face and puffs of snow white hair.
Unconscious is she of the wolf as he trails behind her. Unconscious is she of the danger yet to come.
