Time is against me, children! We must ship Little Red Riding Hood off to her newfound Chicago hell and be done with it!
Title: All Grown Up
Character: Little Red Riding Hood
Word Count: 300
Over the freeway and under the underpass, to Grandmother’s Grove she goes…
What a name for a neighborhood. Red Riding Hood’s Chevy is red, down to its long, angular hood. Chicago was looming tonight, its million incandescent eyes looking everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Red runs a red light. That colour’s her calling card now, after all. What right does it have to slow her down? The package, the ‘basket’ bounces in the passenger seat. Red strapped it in and patted it for good luck before she left home. If the goddamn woodsmen were out, with their peaked caps and spit-shined copper badges, she’d have to call off the deal. And The Wolf, God what a stuck-up kind of nickname, Red bet his real name was something lame like Renaldo, would go find another dealer.
Red should probably stop running those red lights if she wanted to remain unseen. She pulled up the hood around her face. It was starting to rain; the rain was heavy and cold, like icy teeth. Hopefully that glutton didn’t mind getting his disgusting fur (he should really shave already) a little wet.
A single streetlamp flickers over the entrance to Grandmother’s Grove.
A man in a hoodie, walking like he’s on broken stilts, comes from the shadows. He’s twitching and sniffing, his body dancing for its fix.
“You weren’t followed?” he asked.
“I’ve been at this for a long time,” Red said. “I’m not the little girl I used to be.”
Red opens the basket and shows it off like a coveted trophy. Or plutonium.
The rich chocolate from the cookies cuts the frigid smoggy air. Nobody bakes like Red. And those junk foodies do love baking. The edge of the Wolf’s fingers are stained. Stained with dark brown melted magic chocolate.
I actually had to ask my mom if Red Riding Hood carried cookies in her basket. I just assumed but I’d hate to be shot down by the Grimm’s police. As often as it would be to see whatever the hell they look like busting down my door with axes and petrified werewolf corpses.
Good luck, you brave writer folk!