I take a step out the
door, and my foot sinks about an inch into the grass. We’ve had night and day
rain for the past week, but a man’s still got to do chores— I can already hear
Bessie mooing. I pull my jacket tight around me and trudge around back to the
shed. Pulling open the tall red door, I grimace at the sight in front of me.
“Oh,
Bess, you’ve fallen down again,” I rush over to her, “now just stay still, and
we’ll have you right back up.” Bessie’s been a bit ill as of late, so I’ve
rigged up a jack with a sort of platform that helps me put her right whenever
she falls. She’s certainly a bit too heavy for me to lift on my own (though
she’s been losing weight as of late) so I just thank the Lord for simple
machines. I prop her against the side of
her stall, so she might have a bit of assistance for her weak legs. We used to
keep her outside before she got sick, but now I’ve outfitted a stall all nice
for her, hay and water and nice and warm. There’s a smell I can’t seem to do
anything about, but cows don’t mind smell much. It’s hardly worth trying, but I
pull out a milking stool and bucket next. As expected, Bess is bone-dry— she
hasn’t given milk for a long time. She’s an old cow, though, and certainly far
out of her heyday, so it’s no surprise to me. I pat her flank and smile. “Sorry
‘bout that, Bessie. Bye now.” I squelch my way over to the chicken coop, and
climb inside. We’re twelve chickens strong, and they’re all fast asleep this
morning. It’s funny, actually— I was sure I heard clucking, but perhaps one
woke up and then fell right back asleep. I carefully pick up the first hen to
check for eggs. Nothing. The next eleven hens sadly yield the same result. I
nuzzle each one as I pick them up— I’ve heard that that can help them lay, and
besides, I’m just much more sentimental than any self-respecting farmer ought
to be. I’m not sure they’ll ever lay again, though. Truth be told, I’m
beginning to suspect that whatever keeps Bess from producing is the same thing
that keeps the hens from laying. Even might be what effects that terrible
weakness in Fannie and the kids. Speaking of Fannie and the kids, I realize
suddenly that the sun’s rather high in the sky— I must’ve spent a bit too long
helping Bessie up this morning. I pull my hood over my head and slide through
the mud back to the house, making sure to wipe my feet before I walk in—
Fannie’d kill me if I tracked mud in.
I
pull off my work boots, and then head upstairs to wake Fannie first. She’s
beautiful when she sleeps. I stand for a second, watching her, and then walk
over and press my lips to her forehead.
“Mornin’
darling,” I whisper. I lightly brush her eyes open. Fannie and the kids, like I
mentioned, have been awful ill lately, and greatly weak. I have to do
practically everything for them.
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“Morning,
pumpkin,” she responds, and I feel just terribly sad for her— she’s so weak her
lips barely even move. I help her dress, and then I pick her up bridal style to
carry her down to the kitchen for breakfast. Her head falls against my chest
and her eyes drop shut. I laugh.
“C’mon,
now Fannie, you’ve got to wake up!” She doesn’t move, but instead softly sighs.
We reach the kitchen, and I carefully put lay her in a chair. She sags to one
side, and I dive to catch her before she falls and right her.
“Thanks,
hon,” she says quietly. Fannie’s always quiet, now, ever since she got sick.
It’s a wonder that I’m such a picture of health while they’re all so afflicted.
Though, I think it quite possible that the Lord left me be so I could care for
them. Which, of course reminds me I must be getting the kids up too now. Jack
greets me with “Morning, dad!”, and his voice so bright reminds me of when he
used to run around the farm with the other local boys. Fannie used to have to
holler for fifteen minutes at least to get him to come in for supper. It’s sad
to see him like this, even more than the others. I carry him down too, and set
him next to his ma, and leave them to talk while I wake Beth.
She just groans when
I wake her— sick or no, she’s a teenage girl. I carry her down, too, and then
set myself to making breakfast. It’s a shame, Fannie used to make eggs like
nobody else could, but her household duties fell to me when she fell sick.
Doesn’t matter, anyway— there’ve been no eggs from our hens, and the general
store’s been abandoned, so there’s no chance of eggs there. Luckily, no illness
could make the crops stop growing, so I start water boiling to boil some
potatoes. I carry on with Fanny for a couple minutes while the potatoes cook,
as she seems to think I should’ve sliced and fried them. Frying isn’t good
without butter, though, and even if Bessie was giving milk, I barely have time
for all I have to do without churning butter as well.
The breakfast is as
good as any, although you wouldn’t think it from the potatoes left on the rest
of their plates. Beth has always been picky, and lately she’s just been a bit
too good for boiled vegetables. Fannie’s told me she’s much too frail to eat,
although I think she just doesn’t much like my cooking. Jack, I’ve no explanation
for except the affliction. It’s terrible sad to see a boy so weak. When I was
his age, I ate no less than four eggs for breakfast each morning, and he can’t
even stomach a bit of a potato. It’s no worse than normal, though, so I set
them each in their typical spots.
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I carefully lift
Fannie and take her to her favorite chair. It faces a window, so she can look
out and see Jack play. She loves to watch out of windows. She’s always been
quiet-like. Part of why I love her. I set her down gently, and then pick up
Beth the same way and set her next to her mother. They’re thick as thieves–
like to gossip about the other villagefolk and gad on and such. I pull out an
embroidery hoop for each of them and carefully place them in their hands. Well,
least, I’m careful with Fannie. Perhaps Beth is feeling a bit more frail today,
or mayhaps I was a bit too harsh with her, because as I bend her wrist to give
her her embroidery, her wrist snaps clean, and I’m left with three hands and
her with one. She shrieks, and I go to get our medical kit.
Pulling out bandages,
I reposition her wrist and pull a needle and thread from the kit. She squeals
as I begin to stitch, but I steadily continue and soon the job’s done. Her
blood’s dry from affliction, so it’s fairly clean. I’ve been getting better
with stitches. Beth always shrieks and squirms when I have to sew her up– but
then, she’s been calling me to kill spiders since she was six, so I s’pose a
bit of squeamishness isn’t surprising. I wrap it with bandages to prevent
infection, and then kiss her forehead and let her be.
I’ve been improving
my mending. The first day of the ailment, I was terrible. I was down in the
storm cellar, putting away some cured meats for the winter, when I heard a
horrible commotion upstairs. I ran up, but I’d locked myself in by accident. By
the time I was up, it was all quiet. I came up to the house almost levelled. I
believe a whirlwind must’ve stormed through while I was down there. And there
they were, all so sick. Fannie was in the kitchen, lying as if dead. Peaceful
like, but a big gash on her forehead that slowly dripped red. I mended her up
first. Frantically. I knew I couldn’t lose her. I dug through rubble for the
medical kit. Pulling up beams, I found Beth, probably the sickest of them all.
She was just red, red, red, too red to see where the injuries were. I scooped
her up too, and set her by her mother, and then I stitched, big uneven stitches
straight into Fannie’s forehead. The bleeding stopped, but she was sick for
good. Then Beth. I ran to get water, to try and wash her off, and there was
Jack. He was pinned down by a big wooden beam that’d fallen from the house. He
almost looked asleep, but he was the first one to talk to me. I saw him, and I
called out his name. I can still hear it, crystal clear.
“Pa! Come help!” I
reckoned he’d been running in to tell his ma about the tornado when it hit the
house, from the way he was facing. I lugged the beam off him, hauled some
water, and then brought him in. It took hours to fix them up. I wasn’t much
handy at it at first, and they were badly sick then. I put them back together,
though.
I’m thinking about
all of this as I pick up Jack. I always take him out to his spot last. He likes
to sit on the front stoop and whittle. I always sit a couple minutes with him
and whittle. I’ve rebuilt our whole home from the ground up, and I made sure to
put in a good stoop for sitting and whittling. I gather knives for us both, and
find two sturdy bits of wood, and start carving a whistle. He just looks at his
wood. Sometimes, he tells me, he’s a bit of trouble starting a carving.
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Sometimes, we talk while we sit. Other times, we just sit like this, quiet. Today’s a quiet day. I look out on rolling fields, the road that leads to a town decimated then abandoned. I look at my son. A mop of blonde, lazy blue eyes, and a wound stretching ear to forehead looking as fresh as the day he got it. It hurt him, surely, but I like it. It reminds me of the family I reconstructed from the brink of death. The blacksmith couldn’t save his family from the affliction, and neither could the cooper. But here I sit, whittling with my son, alive and well.
Hello! My name is Emma Parrella. I’m a senior in high school and I’m submitting a short story I’ve written for publishing. I’m from New Jersey, I like to read and knit, and I also like writing. I typically write fantasy and some horror, specifically short stories. I’m also not sure what else goes in a biographical statement. I hope you like my story!
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…