Last week I received word that Frank had
died in a bar fight, his throat cut by another man. Frank wasn’t a friend, not for a long time
now, but when we were twelve years old, we had been best buddies. I was overdue to visit a few relatives, so
I came down for the funeral, and now, with the burial over, I decided to take a
walk down here, to the little hideaway we used to visit. When we were middle
school friends, this little patch had been a refuge, a place to play hooky,
sneak a little chewing tobacco, and play cards.
But that was before Frank murdered his kid brother Joe. It was this awful patch of ground that had
changed Frank.
I’m not going any closer. This is far enough. It smells rotten here, the air heavy and
putrid. I’m convinced now this is truly
an evil place. It’s really just an ugly
pimple of dirt and bushes, no bigger than the backyards I remember from
childhood. Frank’s death brought me back
here. I came because I needed to know if
my memories were false memories, or the real thing. Now I know, because I’m not twelve years old
anymore, but a highly functioning 25 year old, and this cesspool still feels
like a crypt of demons.
I remember Frank telling me he had a
“cool” place for us to hang out after school one day.
“Nobody knows about this spot,” said
Frank. “It’s behind the subdivision,
going towards the warehouses, where they keep all the rusty pipes. When the ground slopes down, the place is
invisible from all sides. A crazy
optical illusion, man.” And he was right, it was a private place, ignored by
most people. Happy, bright eyed, normal
people would no doubt just go around this place, without even thinking about
it, the way you step around dog poop, instead of stepping right into it.
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“But it stinks here,” I had said. “Smells like dead rats or dog crap.”
Yet, he was so proud of the hideaway that
I said okay, and we started going there to play hooky or just to hang out. One day it really reeked, and I walked up to
the spot gagging. But there was Frank, laying
on his side, reading a MAD magazine and eating a Snickers bar. It was then that I noticed the dead possum,
only about ten feet from Frank. It was
covered with buzzing green flies, the flies that only show up when something is
dead.
“Jesus, Frank!” I called, covering my
mouth and nose with my shirt collar.
“What the hell, man. It smells
horrible.”
“He looked up, continuing to chew his
Snickers bar, and started sniffing the air.
Sniffing! Like he was trying to
catch the subtle odor of distant wood smoke.
“I guess so,” he said skeptically, then
kept reading his magazine.
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That’s how it started. The place was a stinking, festering hole, but
Frank didn’t seem to notice, and slowly he began to change. Instead of shooting soda cans with his BB
gun, Frank began shooting birds. One day
he started torturing a large box turtle we had caught. I told him to stop and we argued, shoved each
other, and then he killed the turtle. I
left in disgust. His cesspool (a crazy
optical illusion man) seemed satisfied somehow.
It buzzed with flies and pukey little green shimmering beetles. Looking back, I think the diseased little
pimple of dirt and bushes infected Frank with something dark and ugly.
That summer between seventh and eighth
grade, I didn’t hang out much with Frank.
But sometimes I saw him walking back to his house from the old
hangout. I couldn’t understand why he
would go there alone, to that haunted, boil of a place. Two events convinced me that Frank killed
Little Joe that summer, although everyone else thought it was a terrible
accident. Joe was a 6 year old, snotty
nosed little brat, and I loved him.
Everyone loved Little Joe – everyone except his big brother. I visited Frank’s house the day before it
happened, because Frank had called me on the phone and invited me over to see
the new color television his dad had bought.
So I was there when Frank’s dad put the old TV up on the hallway shelf. I saw him
carefully tape the electrical cord into a coil and tuck it away. So how come the police and neighbors all said
that Little Joe had pulled the cord and caused the TV to fall on his sweet
little head. Everyone wondered how anyone wouldn’t know better than to
create such a safety hazard. There was a
lot of anger directed at Little Joe’s dad.
But I saw something else the morning it happened. I saw Frank climb out of his bedroom window
and run towards his cesspool of a hideaway.
Soon after, there had been frantic movement around the house, police
sirens, a fire rescue unit. Little Joe
was dead, his skull fractured by a falling Zenith television.
Why did Frank climb out the window? Why not use the door? And the look on his face as he started
running for the hideaway, it was the look of a thing that enjoyed death –
tongue sticking out from one corner, eyes too bright and lustful. I don’t know if Frank just unwound the
electrical cord and hung it so Little Joe could reach it (here little buddy,
want to play? Pull the pretty rope
Little Joe) or if he pulled down the TV himself. But I know he did it.
Suddenly, I feel like a dumbass for coming here. What did it matter anyway? So what that my best friend had turned out to be a sadistic monster. Or more likely, it was just a freak accident, because that careless, screw-up of a dad put a busted television on a high shelf. Maybe if I see Frank’s and Little Joe’s screw up of a dad in town, I’ll bust his face before I leave. Yeah, I’m a dumbass for coming back here, just wasting time and money. I wasted my money on that flea bag of a motel where I rented a room. If that arrogant little punk of a clerk is on the desk when I get back, I think I’ll slam his head on the counter bell – just bounce his face up and down so the bell rings again and again and again!
Bryan has written short stories, now and then, during the past ten years, and is working on a longer story. His favorite book is “The Pickwick Papers”, but also enjoys mysteries, science fiction, and lots of horror stories. He lives near San Antonio, Texas.
So here is our last installment of our AI journey exploring the idea of Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad wolf being one and the same. All of these are based upon the AI generated art and prompts using NightCafe and then created as posters in Canva. Feel free to check out Part 1 and Part 2 of this exploration if you missed them.
A non sequitur I know, but I couldn’t resist. If you picked up where we left off you’ll get it.
Seriously?! Again with the cropped off head cop out…
Finally! That was a journey. And not even worth the result, in my opinion.
Anyway, here is a bonus montage I made out of a bunch of additional Red Riding Hood prompts for an article that never happened…
Prompts for Montage:
1.) What if Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf were one and the same being? 2.) Her wolf face peering out of her red cloak, fangs dripping with the blood of another victim, lost in the forest and never found. 3.) Little Red Riding Hood closes in for the kill, lunging from her red cloak, her wolf fangs dripping with blood. 4.) I am Little Red Riding Hood. I am the Big Bad Wolf. I am coming for you. 5.) Howling within, the rage sears forth from the red cloak, discarded in the deep woods. Red Riding Hood succumbs to the lycanthropy. 6.) Heaving breaths. Dripping blood. Red Riding Hood is not what she appears. She is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 7.) Her red cloak masks the fangs hidden below the surface. 8.) It starts with a long sighing breath. Waiting. The wolf within stirs. 9.) Red Riding Hood trembles. She succumbs to the lycanthropy. 10.) The wolf bursts forth from within. It takes over Little Red Riding Hood’s mind, her body, her being. 11.) Red Riding Hood howls. She is ravenous with hunger for blood. The wolf within has taken over. Mind, spirit, body. She feasts on the blood of the moon. 12.) Big Bad Wolf Red Riding Hood ravenous blood moon feast 13.) Blood moon beckons. I. Little Red Big Bad Riding Hood Wolf. Freedom howling night curse. 14.) Beware. Bewolf. BeRedRidingHood. Betwixt. Beyond. 15.) I pad quietly as the forest dissolves around me. Red Riding Hood and Wolf, one and the same. 16.) Wolf within howling dark recesses of the mind, Red Riding Hood lost 17.) Red Riding Hood HOWL wolf bane true existence polymorph within-and-without. 18.) Red howl Riding Wolf dark existence brooding within
Continuing our AI journey from last time exploring Little Red Riding Hood herself as the Big Bad Wolf… All of these are based upon the AI generated art and prompts using NightCafe and then created as posters in Canva.
How very… Phantom of the Opera predatory… this is definitely not what I had in mind. Maybe something more cutesy?
Ugh. Maybe not.
Wow, that seems like such a cop out, cropping off the head so you don’t have to depict it. And I don’t want to lose the Little Red Riding Hood reference completely.
So no surprise there, I knew that was too many references to work.
And as promised in Big Bad Poetry, we shall embark on our next AI journey, this time looking at Little Red Riding Hood. I had wanted to depict her as the Big Bad Wolf one and the same, although maybe not so big nor bad. But it just wasn’t happening quite as planned. All of these are based upon the AI generated art and prompts using NightCafe and then created as posters in Canva.
So I actually like this even better than my original vision, it is playful and even a bit serene (especially given the Sinister style). The wolf is just being a wolf. It’s quite lovely, really. But it wasn’t what I had in mind, so I revisited the idea later to see if I could get that result…