A Different Tale to Tell

Someone we know has a story for us

Red Riding Hood—whose name was actually Penny, and who actually detested the nickname she had been given—slouched along the path "in a right hump," as Grandfather Wellington use to say. She was "in a brown study," as Grandmother Quince still said, because, although she wore her riding hood, she had not been allowed to actually ride! Mother said it was "too dangerous."

Penny had ridden plenty of times through the forest, and she thought perhaps mother was just ensuring Penny would be away long enough to "entertain" Prince Scharmeng. They had met when the prince had deigned to drop by The Spotted Jay, where Mother was performing a silly amateur singalong game. Penny had heard her mother sing, and her voice certainly fit the name of the pub. Penny was surprised that noise could attract anyone, especially a prince.

Penny wasn't blind; the arrogant prince, whom she loathed, would probably be her stepfather within the year. If only I had the means to go out on my own before that can happen...

It also didn't help her mood that she was not fond of Grandmother Quince at all; nor was Grandmother fond of her and took no pains to hide the fact. Yet here she was, plodding along a rutted, filthy trail, carrying a basket of baked goods that would be stale by the time she reached Grandmother's house.

When she arrived, she was horrified: the house was a scene of gore and death. Grandmother Quince had been ravaged, it was obvious, by the huge wild wolf that had been reported prowling through the forest.

Penny, of the red riding hood, was aghast at the scene, but more ashamed of herself for her immediate self-serving thought: I wonder if her will left me any gold to get away?

NOTES: ▼

Word Count: 300
Submitted for "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt: Use the words basket, ride, and gold