It didn’t seem that late
on Halloween eve—the frothy, mossy stink of recently-scooped pumpkin still
permeated the air—but only the goth kids remained outside, bleeding themselves
silly in the cemetery. I’d been hoping that a few pretend-witches might clutter
my un-welcome mat. Their warts a’bubble,
moles stuck with hair, I didn’t know if they were paying homage or
mocking; either way, I planned to stick photocopies of my best Hex Stew recipe
in their buckets (along with the prerequisite chocolate bat bar, of course).
But instead, at the very stroke of midnight, a skeleton dude knocked on my door.
He was tall, lithe, a sight for lonesome eyes. And since I still had a
bucketful of black licorice left, I opened the door. Wide.
“Trick or treat.” His voice
sounded like it came from somewhere deeper than the dirt.
“Great costume,” I said,
dizzying; the space between his bones seemed to go on forever.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. “Can
I come in?” It had been months since I’d had a real visitor, years since anyone
had crossed my threshold. And since ground-up boy-bones are an integral
ingredient in most love-spell-banishing brews, I ushered him in. He was all
black and bone; a pure, unadulterated nothingness. I forgot myself and gawked.
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“You’re the prettiest witch
I’ve seen all night,” he said, reaching out and touching my cheek. “People
always talk about how ugly you are, but they’re wrong.”
“People are idiots,” I
whispered. Pulled into the galaxies of his eye sockets, hooked by the emptiness
of his hips, I moved closer.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked,
reading my mind.
It had been years since I’d been kissed, decades
since a little slap-&-tickle, so I closed my eyes and leaned forward. I’m tempting fate, I thought. Nothing good’s ever come
from my kind kissing his kind… But I dove in anyway.
His lips were webbed with sugar and
he tasted better than anything I’d ever licked. I
generally find it tacky to indulge in foodstuffs that fairytale-witches use to
lure innocent kiddies; besides, things like frog’s breath and will-o’-the-wisp
blood keep me clear-headed and adept at the intricacies of the darkest arts.
But as I pushed my tongue into his mouth, I found little nubs of gummy stuck
between his molars. Reaching down his throat, I discovered Fun Dip still
fizzing his epiglottis. Suddenly, more pig than witch, drooling for his
sweetmeats, I hocus-pocused myself into a wee thing and slipped deep inside of
him.
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Dissolving candy hearts peppered his
esophagus while sour worms conglomerated in his tum.
A hunk of cotton-spun sugar was wedged in his intestines—still-stiffish, hot pink,
and out-of-this-world. I ate him up. I couldn’t help myself. I was risking it
all, but I kept on swallowing.
Until, uh-oh!I caved into a candy-coma
on his prickly pelvic floor.
“You alright?” he
thundered.
“Ughghllgh” I guttered.
xxx
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I’m not sure how long I
slept, but I awoke with an achey start. “Hey,” I squeaked, “I’m kinda stuck in
here. Mind helping me out?” I’d only meant our interaction to be a quick romp—an
hour at most—but I’d gone and slept inside the guy. Stupid witch.
“Sid Da Kid’s gonna flip
when he hears about this,” he said, chuckling. “He bet me fifty that I couldn’t
even get a kiss. Wonder how much he’ll cough up now.”
Wait, what? I was a dare?
A measly fifty bucks? “If you don’t let me out
this minute, you will regret it forever,” I threatened, feeling my temper
quickly rise.
“Oooh, a firecracker, huh?
Me likey.” He laughed. “You got yourself in there, why can’t you get yourself
out?”
I didn’t want to admit that his
sugars had sapped my powers. That by acting the part of a spoiled, mortal girl,
I’d risked everything. “I will fucking destroy you and everything you love,” I
promised.
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“I’ll help you out if you
just admit how much you liked it.”
“I’d rather eat a razor
blade sandwich,” I hissed.
“I bet it’s been years
since you’ve been properly boned. You should be thanking me.”
Properly boned? Thanking him? Fury filled me up fast.
Expanding, ballooning, in only moments I was back to my normal size; his
easy-peasy weak sternum strained against the force of my flesh.
Almost instantly, there was a sharp crack and I hit the floor like
a seed. Sticky and sick, I threw up in my hair. It was me or him…him or
me, I reminded myself. But slumped against my baseboard, he didn’t
look so tough. A walnut shell, a spent cicada skin, a mortal boy that messed
with the wrong witch.
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“What’s Sid Da stupid Kid
gonna say about this? I should be the one getting paid,” I spit, summoning my
energy for one last abracadabra.
xxx
Bone Boy’s ashes still sit
on my shelf, tucked up next to a bottle of nightshade. Someday soon I’ll
sprinkle him into a brew and offer a cup to my black-and-blue-eyed neighbor. Or
her sister with the pantyhose runs and lipstick on her teeth. Maybe even that
convenience store clerk, the one who never lifts her eyes; the punk girl at the
bus stop with brass knuckles tattooed over the deep scar on her wrist.
Because their stories are my story
are their stories are my story—held firm in hardened
hearts, silent against a world full of witch-shaming flames, mother-in-law’s tongues, those lovers of racks
and screws. We may keep quiet, but we stay vigilant, ever-summoning the powers
of Hecate as we build our graham-cracker fortresses, the mortar a mash of our own spit
and knucklebone.
The End.
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Tiffany Promise was awarded an MFA in creative writing from CalArts in 2010, and an MA in psychology from California Institute of Integral Studies in 2013. Her stories have appeared in Black Clock, Gingerbread House, Blanket Sea, High Shelf, and the Salt River Review. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize twice, in 2015 and 2019. Having attended Tin House and Sirenland, she’s had the privilege of working with both Eileen Myles and Anthony Doerr on various projects. She spent 2017 polishing her first novel with Francesca Lia Block in Los Angeles, but recently relocated to Victoria, B.C. As a mother, she is particularly interested in exploring mother-child dynamics and the feminization of madness.
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…
John Combo
January 26, 2020 at 11:14 pm
This was a great story by Tiffany Promise. The imagery was amazing.