Red Cape, By Lissa Sloan

I know what is out there
Out the door
Down the path
Into the wood

There are brambles
And thorns
And a moon-colored rose that only blooms in the dark
With a scent so dizzying you might just forget who you are
Or what you came for

There are ancient trees
Leaning overhead and whispering advice
Advice that would seem sensible
Until you are in too far
And the shadows are so black you cannot see to breathe

And all along the way
There are claws like razors
Teeth like knives
And fur so soft that none of the rest matters


Yes
I know what is out there
How can I send her down that path?
With nothing but my glimmering hope that she will find her way?

And one thing more
This fiery circle of protection I draw around her
Perhaps it is only a red cape
But it can enfold her when my arms cannot
And make her as brave as she is foolish


Will it be enough?
It was for me.

Lissa writes: "When not writing or illustrating, I love to read and garden.  I am half English, half American, and I would love to have my own personal wolf, preferably one who would not eat me."

Wolf Slayer, By John Wiswell

hen she knocked a third time, the lumberjack finally got up and answered the door. His pest was a gnarled old lady, half his height and a little greater than his width. He drew away, hand moving to the shut the door, but she moved to block it.

“You didn’t answer my letters,” she said.

“I don’t check the mail often.”



She squinted up at him in a way you could only do if it was your face and not somebody else’s. That relived him, even though there was reproach in her voice.

“Your mailbox was empty.”

He clucked his tongue. “You checked my mailbox?”

“The first time that you didn’t answer the door. I wondered if you’d been home recently. Sometimes lumberjacks spend several days in the woods.”

“I just got back in, and I’m very tired from the trip.”

“Did you read the letters, sir? If it’s a matter of money, I’ll pay you. I can sell my cow.”

He looked away. Her letters were on the end table, opened and stuffed back into their envelopes.

“Madame, I’m very tired. Come back another time.”

“I know your story, sir. I thought if I came….”

She trailed off at the hurt in his face.

“Sir, I understand that once upon a time you saved a little girl from a wolf.”

He shook his head. “I’m just a lumberjack.”

She said a name, then asked if it was his. He couldn’t deny that it was.

“I understand that the wolf killed that little girl’s grandmother, skinned her, then wore her as he waited for the girl.” When he didn’t deny that, she added, “That was no regular wolf. That was a monster.”

“Perhaps it was.”

“And you’re a hero to have saved her from it.”

“I’m done with wolf business, madame. I appreciate your attention, but would like--”

“My town is very nearby. I live with my grandson – orphaned at birth. He’s been seeing things, sir. Every day he goes up on the hill and guards the sheep alone. Every day he sees a lone wolf and cries his head off, but by the time the men arrive, the wolf is gone.”

The lumberjack drew in a slow breath. “He could be making it up. Boys play stupid games sometimes.”

“That’s what the local men think. But he’s not a bad boy, sir. I raised him. And you couldn’t make up the wolf he describes. It’s in his nightmares now. It’s huge, and smart enough to play him so that soon no one will come to save him anymore.”

The lumberjack moved towards her until their toes touched. Normally a person would back up in intimidation, but she saw his hand on the door and knew he’d close it if she budged. She didn’t.

“Fewer answer his cry every day, sir. Today, perhaps one man will come up and check on him. Tomorrow, none will come at all. Then it will be just him and that monster.” She reached up and grabbed at his tunic. “Please, sir. You’ve fought these things before to save a little girl. This is a little boy. My little grandson.”

“Excuse me a moment.”

The lumberjack brushed her hands off of him and retreated back into his cottage. He left the door open, and she stayed on the stoop.

He padded to the rear of his cottage. He washed his hands in the sink, then splashed a palm full of water into his face. When he looked up, he saw the wig dangling from the edge of the cupboard. The grandmother wig a wolf had once worn. No matter how many nightmares he had, he couldn’t throw it away.

He got his axe and returned to the door. The grandmother was still there, blocking the door from closing.

“You say your town is close?”


John has been published by Weird Tales, Flash Fiction Online and Untied Shoelaces. He writes daily at http://johnwiswell.blogspot.com

What Big Eyes, By Jude Tulli

What are we making for dinner, Grandma? When are you going to tell me? You know how I love surprises best at the very moment they turn into presents. How much longer?

You're trying my patience, you know. That's what Mommy says to me all the time, ha ha.

All right, I'm firing up the oven. Hotter? Hotter?

My, my, what kind of roast will this be?

Still hotter?! Something big and juicy, I bet. And it's not even my birthday! I love coming to visit you, Grandma! 

Aww, you feel extra fluffy when I hug you today! What's next?

Eggs! Oh boy, I love cracking open eggs. Watch, Mommy taught me how to do it with just a knife. More? See, I don't even get a bit of shell in there. Watch, Grandma. Watch! Well, that one turned out bad but the next one I'll get it. Master chef, that's me. Watch!

What do we need next? More eggs?! Wow, this is going to be a big turkey! Oh that's right, it's not a turkey, it's a. . .

Ha ha ha ha ha I thought I could trick you into telling me what it is! Didn't work, you're too sharp Grandma! Sharp as those new teeth you grew in last year while I was away. I don't know where you got a chicken big enough to need all these eggs, though.

Not a chicken, either. Hmm. . . Hey! Why'd you dump the eggs all over the floor?! Mommy would kill me if I ever--

You want me to what? Roll around in the eggs and then go play in that sandbox filled with corn meal?

Grandma, you're getting loopy in your old age, you know that?

I can too repeat after you, I learned how to do that when I was a baby and now I'm a big girl: "A master chef must know what it feels like to be the meal she is preparing in order to execute it properly."

No, I've never heard that before in my life! What's execute mean again? I used to know I just forgotted.

Oh, that kind of makes sense, I suppose, in a strange sort of way like having to wash your hands even when they don't look dirty.

If it'll make you happy, Grandma, I'll roll around in the eggs. Like this? Or should I spin around the other way?

Ew, they're all in my hair! Yucky! When do I get to wash up?

All right, I'm playing in the sandbox now. It's a little less gross to be covered with eggs and cornmeal than just eggs. But not much.

Is this what my meal is going to feel like? I don't know if I want to put any poor animal through this.

What's over there now? The oven's already fired up, Grandma, don't you remember?

Test it?

All right, I'll see if it's hot enough. No I've never stepped inside a lit oven before. Mommy wouldn't stand for it.

You sure that's the best way? I've never heard of that. Yes, I know Mommy doesn't exactly keep up with the times, but--

We're having lamb?! Really?! Lamb?!

Ooh, I love lamb! You must love it too, I can tell cause you're drooling an awful lot.

Wait a second! Is it already dead, because I don't like being around when they--

Oh, whew! Grandma, you know me so well!

I'm stepping into the oven now. Ow! It's burning through my shoes!

Take them off? You have gone mad, haven't you!

Stretching out will cool me off? There's not nearly enough room for that, Grandma, I've grown!

It's definitely hot enough but the door being open is drawing out the heat.

I DIDN'T MEAN FOR YOU TO CLOSE IT!

WHY IS IT LOCKED?! OPEN THE DOOR, GRANDMA! IT'S TOO HOT IN HERE!

OPEN THE DOOR! STOP SHAKING YOUR HEAD LIKE THAT! WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S BROKEN?!

LOOK HERE, IN MY EYES, GRANDMA! OPEN! THE! DOOR!

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, "WHAT BIG EYES I HAVE?" OF COURSE I'VE GOT BIG EYES, MOMMY SAYS I GOT THEM FROM YOU!

NOW OPEN THE DAMN DOOR, I'M DYING IN HERE!

What's gotten into you, Grandma? Why did you leave me in there so long? It's hot enough for any lamb I've ever met, I could have told you that when the door was open!

You're not my Grandma?

Grandma was heading off to visit Mommy while I was on my way here and you--wait a minute I'm still catching my breath. You--you're that wolf I met in the forest?

Oh.

Sorry I said a bad word.

I suppose there is no lamb, is there?

I don't think I like surprises anymore.

Thank you for changing your mind, at least.

Now get the hell out of Grandma's house.

Jude Tulli loves and writes short and novel-length fairy tales.  He was honored to be included in the "Little Mermaid" edition of Enchanted Conversation.  He lives in the Sonoran Desert with his beloved wife Trish and a small pride of housecats.

Red is for Ritual, By Gerri Leen

The red coat rustles, whispers secrets
as our grandmother passes
Once she was the maiden, then the mother
Now she serves as crone for the last time
She smells of clove and all spice
Apples and balsam
She has bathed in the sacred waters
Her gray hair is tied up with vines
The red leaves of the maple give it color again.


She is beautiful


The wolf sits on his throne, his eyes closed
He sniffs the air, his fingers clench
They feed him grapes and dried venison
Give him drink of herbs and flowers
His eyes dilate as he looks
on her, his mate
He lifts his face to the moon
Howls in the fashion of wolves everywhere
The people, the crone, and I howl back


He is magnificent


I finger my red coat, much brighter than hers
I worked on it for weeks
My blood soaking in where the needle stabbed me
I have never been handy that way
But I was not chosen for my skill
I am the maiden
I have been bathed and perfumed
My dark hair tied up with vines
The red leaves of the maple give it light


I am innocent


I wait the prescribed time, then walk through woods
grown darker than before
The moon is hiding behind a cloud but I know the way
It is in my blood, in my soul
I see grandmother leaving out the back
as I open the door
The wolf lies in bed, he smiles
As I drop my robe and stand naked
I see what big teeth he has


He is terrible


He holds out his hand and I climb into bed
We dance the sacred dance
The sheets slide over our skin, white on white
"My goddess," the wolf says.
"My consort," I answer back
We finish, loudly
The door flies open
The priest is there, his axe held high
The woodsman kills the wolf


It is the way of things


The god dies every winter, another chosen in spring
To take his place by the Mother's side
Rule as the summer God, the horned one
Until the night of the wolf
Until the night of the sacrifice
Until he dies
His blood draining, blessing the land anew
I take the hand of the priest
He lays the axe next to my lover


We leave the wolf to bleed


BIO: In addition to having several stories and poems published by Enchanted Conversation, Gerri Leen is celebrating the release of her first collection of short stories, Life Without Crows, published by Hadley Rille Books. See what else she's been up to at her website: http://www.gerrileen.com.

Red Grown, By James Tolan

He doesn’t recognize her

without her cloak and blush,

though she will not forget

who first treated her like food.

His smile, when she takes him

to her cottage in the woods,

perhaps he wishes it

were tender, hopes she

will be a taste of heaven

in the flesh, a spring lamb

born to slaughter, but as soon

as he paws her ruddy belt

she will carve across his gullet

a smile more sincere

then roll him from her bed,

his furry carcass, limp

and fat as a belly full

of undigested grandmother.

James Tolan is author of the chapbooks: Red Walls (Dos Madres Press) and Whiskey and the Rake of Mourning (Deadly Chaps).  He lives in Brooklyn and is an associate professor at the City University of New York.

Untruths About the Desirability of Wolves, By Megan Engelhardt

People like to think there was something sexy

about the wolf. 

There wasn't. 

It was a wolf and I was nine

and wouldn't have known what to do with a sexy wolf

anyway. 

The sexiest thing in the woods that day

was Grandma,

who sometimes still goes dancing

with the widower cobbler from the village,

now that those elves do all the work.

Even if he was a smoldering pillar of manhood

(or wolfhood)

how would that have helped?

It's not like he seduced us into his stomach. 

Not like he batted his eyes

and showed some chest

and told us how beautiful we were

as we crawled into his belly. 

Sexy wolf?  Ridiculous. 

Here's the truth:

He was a wolf, big with big full eyes

and big ears and big sharp teeth. 

His paws were big enough to knock you senseless

with one blow,

his appetite and his jaws big enough

to swallow you whole. 

His stomach was big enough to fit two people. 

Being eaten was fast and it was hot and it was wet

and it was over before I even knew what was happening. 

Being pulled out by the woodsman was like being born,

like fireworks and waves on the beach

and a gasp of air when you've been holding your breath. 

What's sexy about that?

And if I have grown up to become a wolf hunter,

a leather- and wolf skin-wearing hellion,

it seemed only natural,

and what I do with my wolves

is my business.

Megan writes: "I have always wanted a red riding hood of my own, even though I never go riding and capes aren't currently in fashion.  I have previously been published in Silver Blade and the Silver Boomer books anthology From the Porch Swing."

The Little Red Tarot, By Alexandra Seidel

The Seven of Wolves

Something that awaits beyond a turn in the road,

something that you can't quite see yet and therefore

something dark.

"Where to, on this twilight road? Most souls

you will encounter here, are like dead trees

in a wood of dead trees. Why don't you come with me?"

Three of Roads

A path that takes you to your destination

in a roundabout fashion;

a road that ends.

"Come, girl, let me show you where the butterflies are. Leave the flowers

for another day."

Ace of Grapes

A thing that is full turns empty,

a thing that is ripe stains;

conquests are not always glorious.

"Sweet as wine! Sweet

as pomegranate stains!

Sweet as melting warm cake on your tongue;

I said I'd show you butterflies, and so I did.

Moths is what the butterflies of the moon are called."

The Circling Staircase

Inevitability and hidden choices, the places

in which we hide our choices

to conjure a sense of inevitability; fear.

"I am tired now, want to find sleep in your arms.

I am so tired, but at least in your arms,

I can sleep."

The Well, Reversed

Chance encounters, chances that come

like the flip of a coin;

meeting old friends and faces from the past.

"My girl, finally you're home! Your mother said

she'd sent you to me. Do not take roundabout roads

and what are you babbling, dear,

my face isn't his, my face isn't his...?"

Five of Stones

Something that is resolved

with the stitching together

of two frayed edges; a weight.

"There you are, don't leave me

asleep in the wake of twilight; all the trees

are dead in this forest, there is nothing

in this place for you to return to.

I don't know much but I believe

that the greatest love is like hunger.

Come to me, I'll starve no more."

Alexandra Seidel's writing can be found at Strange Horizons, Stone Telling, Mythic Delirium and elsewhere. She edits poetry for Niteblade and Fantastique Unfettered and really tries updating her blog once or twice a month: www.tigerinthematchstickbox.blogspot.com

The Witch of the Wolfwoods, By Amanda C. Davis

They sent a girl, a pretty pup.
I wonder if they dared to tell her,
While they filled her basket up,
Who is Granny, what befell her?


Does she know it took full thirty
Men to chain my wolfish wrath?
Ten to hunt me, ten to hurt me,
Ten to drag me down the path?


Cowards: as they fear to kill me
So they fear to let me die.
Now they send me bread to fill me.
I'd rather starve. But I'm still sly.


The chains have loosened from my feet.
This time, they have sent me meat.


Amanda C. Davis enjoys the occasional basket of sweets. Learn more about her and her work at http://www.amandacdavis.com.

Alive in the Wolf's Belly, By Sarah Hans

eing eaten alive by the wolf was the best thing that ever happened to me. It was also the worst. 

The story goes that when he knocked on my front door I was so myopic or senile that I thought he was Jenny, my granddaughter. But my eyesight, and my mind, have never been keener. 

That’s the scandalous truth: I knew all along that I was letting the wolf into my parlor. 

There was a moment, after he knocked, when I shuffled to the door and heard his heavy breathing on the other side, that I remember well: A moment of decision. The porch creaked under his weight. The scent of his musky fur wafted in through the cracked window. I looked through the peephole and saw his huge, black eyes, peering back at me. 

I thought about my life. I thought about the endless afghan I was crocheting, the tea steeping on the stove that I made each day in the hopes of a visit from children or grandchildren who rarely bothered, the loneliness since my husband had died six years before. 

And then I opened the door. 

The wolf was bigger than I could have imagined. He flowed into the room and filled it with his bulk. He brought with him the scent of the forest, and the mysteries of the shadows were close on his heels. He was a creature older and greater than I could comprehend. 

His eyes as he regarded me were not full of malice, as you might think. They were wise, intelligent eyes...but they were hungry. 

He opened his mouth and I smelled the sickly-sweet scent of fresh blood and chewed meat.  His great jaw touched the floor, and I climbed into his mouth, as one would mount the steps of a carriage, using his fangs as hand-holds. Once I was comfortable on his tongue, his jaws snapped shut, and I was swallowed whole. 

Encased in darkness, I was squeezed into the creature’s gullet, and from there his stomach, where I rested in a pool of acid. It was painful and horrible and wonderful all at once. It reminded me of birthing my daughters, when the pain was so intense that it seemed to consume the world, and my focus became a needle-sharp point. All the loneliness and sadness and bitterness was swept away in a wash of pain. 

And then the creature roared, and I was jostled, and then a great split appeared, spilling light into the tight darkness of the beast’s stomach. Two pairs of hands reached in and pulled me out, into the light. 

Jenny and the huntsman poured water over me and scrubbed the acid from my skin. I trembled and wept. They wrapped me in Jenny’s red cloak and put me in bed with a cup of tea steaming on the nightstand. 

The next morning I found that the wolf’s carcass had been taken away, all except the head. The huntsman wanted to take that too, but I told him I wanted it. He gave me an odd look, but as so often happens, I got my way, because it’s excusable to be a bit eccentric when you’re my age. 

The wolf’s head is mounted on my wall. I wish I had his skin, so I could wrap myself in it, but I make due. The floors are still stained red with his blood, and on those lonely nights when no one visits me, and the acid burns on my legs itch, I curl naked on the floor beneath his massive jaws and remember what it was like to be alive. 


Brief bio: Sarah Hans was once a morbid child obsessed with vampires, ghosts, and werewolves. Now she's a morbid adult whose horror stories appear in anthologies such as The Crimson Pactand Candle in the Attic Window. You can follow her adventures at http://sarahhans.com/

Inside, By Lorraine Schein

hen I came to, I lay curled on a slick, coiled surface. Still alive! I remembered that face looming closer, jaws widening, teeth gleaming white and sharp as the moon in the forest, then a terrible grinding sound, and—only darkness. I remember thinking I would die, but instead it seemed I had gone to the sunless depths of hell.

  

Inside the wolf, it was darker than the Black Forest, but after a while my eyes grew used to the gloom. I could make out the rounded walls of glistening pink flesh, pulsing with layered veins of blood that looked like my mother’s cross-stitched embroidery.

  

The only light was from a constellation of tiny sparks fluttering around me—I looked more closely, and saw they were a cluster of fireflies the wolf had swallowed. They gave just enough light to see by.

  

Large stones were scattered about, and I was not the only one here. A piglet sat on a flat boulder squealing sadly, clutching a sheaf of straw. Behind him, a sea of eyes blinked in the darkness. Two of them belonged to a croaking frog who wore a tiny, battered golden crown. A duck waddled and quacked loudly next to him.

  

I saw a brighter glowing and thought it a concentration of fireflies, but when I bent down to look more closely, I saw a tiny lady with sheer, violet wings, dancing in her own shimmering light.

  

A jumble of ripped cloth from a red patchwork skirt and some fortune-telling cards lay scattered nearby. Next to the cards was a mangled hand, chewed off at the wrist, still wearing a tangle of shiny bangle bracelets. Poor Romany woman. It had swallowed a gypsy! I had often seen their caravan in the forest and once had my fortune told.

  

Then I saw my grandmother in her nightgown, huddled in a bend, wrapped in a shredded blanket. “Grandmamma, are you alright?” I asked. She only gave me a faint smile in response, and looked too weak to talk.

  

How could I save her? The gypsy hand held a card, but I couldn’t make it out, except for the image of the moon. My grandmother knew the cards though and gasped when she saw it.

  

Beside her was a frayed wooden basket spilling half-eaten oat cakes, the bedraggled bouquet of wildflowers that had distracted me on my journey, and a gleaming, broken bottle of wine from my basket. The jagged wine bottle was half empty, as if the wolf had tried to drink from it first, then swallowed it all in haste. 

  

Would anyone know we were here, alive, and save us? I called out for my mother, but no one came. I heard the sound of crying in the distance, and crawled slowly towards the sound on the slick surface of the tunnel ahead, but did not get far. It was lighter here—I saw a flame from a candle someone had placed in a notch of flesh, as if on a mantelpiece.

  

A shadowy figure loomed up before me. I could make out a boy about my age, limping on his bitten, bleeding foot.  “It’s no use,” he said wearily. “We’ve already tried that.” He bent down to look at me. “Who are you?” he said, glaring.

I started to answer, but he interrupted. “You look familiar,” he said putting his face too close to mine. “I tried to warn them, but they wouldn’t listen. Were you the one who turned them against me?” he said with a growl.

 He picked up the broken bottle, a mad look twisting his face. I tried to back away, but slipped on the oozing surface. He bent over me, brandishing a sharp point of glass, slicing near my throat.

Suddenly, my feet felt wet. I heard a rushing noise, followed by an awful stench. An undulating wave of brown liquid stung my ankles, and started to fill the tunnel. Screams,  yelps, squeals and quacks echoed around me. So my death would come by drowning.

 A nick of light appeared overhead, widened, became a slit. The metal edge of hacking shears glinted above. Blood spattered upon us like rain.

Then the huntsman’s strong arms pulled me out, and closed about me. I stepped back into the belly of the world to tell my tale.

Lorraine Schein is a New York poet and writer whose work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Sagewoman, New Letters and Alice Redux, an anthology about Alice in Wonderland. Her poetry book, The Futurist’s Mistress, is available from mayapplepress.com.