Article: Little Red Riding Hood
Little Red Riding Hood's origins trace back to the first century C.E. in the Middle East, evolving from a tale about naive goats to the medieval Grandmother's Tale. This early version included disturbing elements like Red consuming her grandmother's flesh and blood, echoing both Christian communion and ancient rites of knowledge transfer from Crone to Maiden. A judgmental Pussy Cat, once the Goddess's familiar, hints at older mythologies. The story involves Red's naive disrobing and a narrow escape from the Wolf. Over time, the tale transformed from depicting a goddess-like Maiden – brave and cunning – to a cautionary story about a naive girl in dangerous woods she once ruled. This collection attempts to restore the story to its empowering roots.
Thrice upon a time, in a land not so far away, the land inhabited by wild forests and lavender fields. Where the Magdalene took refuge and told stories by the fire. There lived a maiden, a mother, and a crone. The maiden, a curly haired girl, with locks of red, and curves as voluptuous as the mountains in which she lived. They called her Red, because of her fiery hair and the red cape she adored herself with. Her Grandmother, the crone, sewed Red’s cape, and embroidered it with sacred symbols of protection. Each stitch was a prayer from her Grandmother, every thread connected to the arteries of the wise crone's heart. Passed down from lemniscate to lemniscate, this kinky haired maiden came from a long line of qadistus. And like her Mother and Grandmother, she intuitively knew the secrets of the moon.
Her Mother, high priestess of the town, was the essence of femininity. Bald, round, and jiggly, sexy, smart and fierce. One morning, the Mother asked Red to go take her Grandmother some food and wine, for the wise crone had taken ill after a long night of ecstatic dancing. Red grabbed her red cloak, and bounced her way towards her Grandmother’s house, in the deep dark forest.
Her bounce came to a halt when she spotted some wild roses not too far from the path. The secret of the rose was one her Grandmother knew well, so Red collected some to give to her Grandmother. But, a rose can not be plucked without a drop of blood being drawn, so red suckled on her wounded finger, when out of nowhere, she smelled not a rose, but something wet, musky, leathery. She felt a gaze upon her, she looked over her shoulder to see the most dapper wolf she had ever seen. Their muscular thighs were accentuated by their tight leather shorts, their pussy bow blouse was one that only a poet or trickster could wear, she wondered which one the Wolf was? Their hair was long and lustrous, forming snake-like coils that reminded Red of her Grandmother. Their eyes met, Red’s freckles became hot, Red turned red. When the Wolf spoke, their voice was like a howl dripped in honey. Red did not hesitate to take a bite of the big red apple that the big bad Wolf offered her. In fact, she ate all the apples, and when her belly was full and she felt satisfied, Red fell asleep.
She woke to the honey howl voice saying goodbye, and Red pleasantly continued her journey, bouncing her way to her Grandmother’s house. Upon arrival, Red sensed something had changed within. Was it the house, or was it her? Before she had a chance to ponder it more, she inhaled a whiff of the pungent leather.
“Come in my dear, let me see your beautiful, freckled face,” said the wise crone. Red walked into the Grandmother’s room, only to see the dapper Wolf curled up next to her Grandmother. The wise crone was stroking the Wolf’s double helix hair, the locks that mirrored her own. Red felt a sense of envy come over her, for she wanted to tame that big bad Wolf. But, Red new, the maiden, the mother and the crone, where one in the same, just aspects of the same beautiful moon, and who howled at the moon, but the honey tongued Wolf. A knock at the door interrupted Red’s philosophical qualms.
A knock at the door interrupted Red’s philosophical qualms. She opened the door, and standing in front of her was a God dressed in animal skin, holding a staff, there to get the big bad Wolf. This was not just any God, but the hunter and huntress, guardian of the crossroads, walker between the realms, tamer of the wolves, triple facets of the moon. Red thought, this must be the God that bequeathed her Grandmother’s frenzied dance. Was it Artemis or Hermes? Hecate or Papa Legba. Whomever it was, divinity was close, and Red was ready.