Not Red

She'd thought she looked like Little Red Riding Hood, though older by a few years of course. And she wore a red hoodie, not a cloak. There hadn't been any hikers on the path, nobody to interrupt the hum of the cicadas or the rustle of the leaves. There had been silence, the silence of the forest holding it's breath, and she'd suspected something was about to happen. 
When he thundered down the path, the first in a line of riders with black and brown horses, she had been surprised. Not by his strange old-fashioned clothing, or his knowing smile, but by his beauty. 
He had not greeted her, and the conversation that occured as he came closer is a blur. She recalls bits and pieces, her confusion and the sleepy yet deadly light in his eyes. She had to correct him too, tell him her name wasn't Red. He'd thrown back his head and laughed, as though she'd told a funny joke. 
He was predatory, his movements fluid as he urged his horse toward her. He'd said they'd met before. He'd looked at her with his startlingly bright eyes and strange angular features. 
And when he told her he would take her away her brain had battled, flinging thoughts such as This isn't possible, and Take me away, please, that rattled in her cranium. 
And when he pulled her onto his horse and began to ride her through the forest she'd thought, But it's just a story, it's just a story. 


Art and text by Lucie MacAulay