NightIntent: So the story's really weird. I couldn't think of any other way to make a weird Little Red Riding Hood. n.n"
Disclaimer: I don't own the fairy tale.
George was always made fun of. "Little Red Riding Hood," they called him. He'd never figured out why. But it happened, every day, without fail. Maybe it had something to do with that one time….
"George!" George's mother called. "Come get the food to take to your grandmother! And don't forget to wear that jacket she made you!"
"But Mo-om!" he protested loudly. "I hate that jacket!"
"Get over it!" she yelled back. "It makes your grandmother feel nice."
Grumbling, George pulled the jacket on and grabbed the basket of food. "I'm going now!"
"See you when you get back!" his mother screeched.
George sighed. He was a pudgy boy, and not too pleasant to look at, even if he'd been fit. The two-mile walks to his grandmother's house every week didn't seem to help with that at all. The jacket that he hated so much was mostly a royal purple. The hood had red trimming, which was the thing he hated the most about it.
There was a rustle in the bushes next to the road. George blinked and stared as a big, gray dog slunk out of them. "Hello, dog," he said, trying not to back up. He was deathly afraid of dogs, but still knew enough to not show fear. "How're you today?"
The dog stared at him, then bared its teeth.
"What pretty teeth you have," George stammered. He was, oddly enough, reminded of that one fairy tale… Little Red Riding Hood, that was it. Wasn't there a girl that was eaten by a dog in that one? He was sure that had been it. A dog was a lot like a wolf, right? A nervous smile tugged at George's lips. "Want some food? Huh, dog?" He pulled out something from the basket and threw it at the dog. When the dog was occupied, George sprinted off.
He stopped a very short time later. Long weekly walks or not, he was still out of shape. George continued on his way to his grandmother's house.
The rest of the walk passed without any mishaps. George saw a few people he knew, but didn't wave to them. He wasn't a very friendly person.
"Grandma!" George called as he opened the door. "I've got food for you!"
"Come on in, boy!" she yelled. George walked in. His grandmother, a small, frail old woman, was sitting in a rocking chair near the door to the kitchen, petting a big, gray dog. The same one George had fed on the way there.
George backed away slowly. "What're you doing with a dog, Grandma?" he inquired.
"Dog? What dog?" his grandmother demanded. "This isn't a dog. This here's a wolf, boy. Learn the difference."
"Y-yes, ma'am," George stuttered. "Why is he in here, though?"
"Because he sounded so pitiful, whining and scratching at my door."
"Oh," George said. He as at a loss for words.
Grumbling about stupid boys, George's grandmother stood up and grabbed the basket of food from George. "Here you go, big boy," she said to the wolf, giving him a piece of bread. "Aww, good boy."
The wolf snatched the bread from her hand, gobbling it down. When he finished it, he looked up at he old woman, expecting more. She gave him some meat. After a while, the wolf just snatched the basket from her hand and shoved his nose into it, eating all the food.
"You bad boy!" George's grandmother exclaimed. "That's my food! Not yours!"
The wolf growled at her, momentarily lifting its head from the basket. Then it shoved its face back in and continued eating.
"Well! That's not very polite!" The woman grabbed the wolf by the scruff on his neck and heaved. She wasn't as frail as she looked, George noted once again.
The wolf growled and bit at her. "Stop that!" she snapped, smacking his muzzle lightly. "Be good!"
"Ow!" George's grandmother yelled as the wolf scored a bite. The wolf continued to bite, drawing blood.
George ran to the fridge, opened it, and grabbed the first thing there. He opened the back door in the kitchen and called the wolf, "Hey, dog! Over here! I've got food for you!" When he was sure he had the wolf's attention, George threw the food, whatever it was, out into the yard. The wolf shot after it, and George slammed the door shut behind it, throwing the deadbolt into place.
"Grandma! Are you okay?" he asked, running back to his grandmother.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," she assured him. "You did very well."
George blushed. "Thanks."
His grandmother rolled her eyes. "Like a girl," she muttered under her breath.
The next day, she told her friends all about the incident. From that day on, everyone called George "Little Red Riding Hood," for the red trim on the jacket he'd been wearing. No one actually believe the story. But they called him that anyway.
NightIntent: Like I said, weird. Hopefully, the next one, whichever that is, turns out better. Please review!