seaomelette

United Arab Emirates

Heyo! I’m Lauren, a high school sophomore who loves reading too many fantasy novel series, listening to music, and eating a probably unhealthy amount of ice cream.

Message to Readers

Is there anything I can further revise or improve? I'm feeling a bit unsure about the "Questionable Moral" thing at the end, so please let me know if I can fix that, or anything else. I really appreciate it! ^-^

The Evil Hood and Her Unfortunate (Or Perhaps Fortunate) Demise

August 2, 2020

FREE WRITING

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The Evil Hood stalks through the deep, dark woods. There’s an evil, twisted smile on her face, and something that looks like blood trickling by the right side of her mouth. Or perhaps that’s just poorly applied lipstick.

She’s armed with a picnic basket. It’s one’s ordinary, run-of-the-mill picnic basket—cheaply made of glossed wood and providing certain risk of splinters to unfortunate fingers. Its contents, however, are practically wafting with toxic fumes. A complete feast of bleach-marinated cucumber sandwiches, arsenic-dusted strawberry parfait, and mercury-stirred lemonade.

The feast is somewhat reduced. Reduced because the Evil Hood has just murdered an entire village with her extraordinarily convincing, contrived kindliness, and a good handful of her poisoned parfait. Contrary to expectations, the Evil Hood’s wicked ways stretch far beyond than simply killing an entire village. Oh, no, she is far more evil than that, far truer to her name. She is hungry for death, particularly that of her grandmother.

There’s a certain appalling image floating in her twisted brain at the moment. It’s of her poor, old grandmother foaming pink through her eyes, gasping agonizingly as she slowly chokes to death.

Her twisted smile grows a little gnarlier, and she stalks a little faster through the undergrowth.

As for the poor, innocent grandmother, she’s frolicking in her cottage garden with her pet wolf, Pete. Most people would be aghast at the thought of a pet wolf, but Pete is the friendliest creature you’d ever meet. He has never lapped anything stronger than water, and never consumed anything meatier than thinly sliced chicken.

And right now, Pete’s playing ball with the grandmother, who happens to be very fond of knitting, fancy tea doilies, and pound cakes. The grandmother is also very fond of her granddaughter—the Evil Hood—who unfortunately, doesn’t return her adorations.

Why, then, would the Evil Hood abhor her grandmother so? To answer that question, one must travel back in time to the Evil Hood’s childhood.

The Evil Hood was once, shockingly, a pleasant little girl. Her heart not yet polluted with the dripping shards of malice, she would run laughing down the village streets, strewing them with smiles and bits of flower petals. Rabbits, deer, and other wood animals would hop and leap helter-skelter behind her, and birdsong trailed in her wake. But alas, disaster befell her. On one fateful family outing to the neighboring woods, the little Scarlet Riding Hood watched her father slip on a carelessly discarded banana peel and fall to his death at the bottom of a small ravine, closely followed by her mother, who slipped on the same peel and collapsed on her husband’s broken, bashed body in a gruesome, bloody embrace. In those horrifying five seconds, little Scarlet Riding Hood became an orphan, sobbing despondently at the edge of the ravine, tearing the dratted banana peel with her nails. Her fragile heart could not handle such abuse, and it froze and shattered into a million black pieces, as she turned suddenly and twisted the neck of the first rabbit loping behind her.

The blood rained down in a bloody downpour. Little Scarlet Riding Hood was dead. There was nothing left of her but an empty shell—the Evil Hood.  

And so, the young Evil Hood came to live with her grandmother, who knew nothing of the little Hood’s wrathful tendencies, concealed behind the rosy girl’s sweet eyes and smile. By day, the Evil Hood would learn her ABCs, embroider tea doilies, tend the garden, and help bake pound cakes. But by night, she prowled the woods, finding the most poisonous mushrooms, setting traps for hapless creatures, and scaring the occasional woodsman (often to death).
To the Evil Hood, her grandmother was made of stupid fluff and stuff, and being so nauseatingly nice, she never understood the Hood’s awesomely evil schemes. And most despicably, her grandmother loved bananas—the very yellow-skinned fruit that had brought about her parents’ deaths. To say that the Evil Hood loathed her grandmother would be a severe understatement. As soon as she was of age, she whisked herself away from the cottage and moved to her present dwelling, a miserable, black turret. The Evil Hood visited infrequently at best, but now, at the culmination of her evil plans, why should she not see dear Granny again, for the last time?

Alright, back to the story. After all the tedium of walking, the Evil Hood herself has reached the gate of her grandmother’s quaint cottage. With a mildly clean corner of her suspiciously red cloak, she mops up her messy lipstick and fluffs her unkempt hair.

              “Oh, Granny, dear!” she calls, in a sickeningly sweet voice.

              “Scarlet! Oh, how nice of you to drop by! I was just having tea with Pete!!” exclaims the grandmother,                 pleasantly surprised. “Do take a seat, darling.”

The Evil Hood lets herself in through the gate, plops herself in the proffered chair, and arranges her blood-steeped cloak politely.

                “As a matter of fact, Granny,” she continues, saccharinely so, “I’ve brought you some scrumptious cucumber                 sandwiches and refreshing strawberry parfait! Oh, and some fresh lemonade, of course. How could I forget                 that?”

She sets the picnic basket on the grass beside the table and lifts the lid. But WAIT! Perhaps poor Granny’s fate is not so dismal, for an old woodsman is hurrying as best he can through the woods.

This woodsman, a retired wizard, had been returning to the village after an intense meditation session with the wood creatures. That village also happened to be the very village exterminated by the Evil Hood’s machinations. The woodsman had arrived just in time, to watch his friends and family keel over and gasp their last gasps.
Alarmed (of course, who wouldn’t be), the woodsman had been hurrying to the best of his aged ability through the woods, to warn the poor grandmother before she met her demise. Being an ex-wizard, he had scoured his brain for a long unused speed and agility spell, but unfortunately, owing to his increasingly faulty memory and increasing state of panic, he had forgotten it completely. Due to that unlucky development, he was now limping all in a tizzy straight to the grandmother’s cottage.

Of course, limping doesn’t get anyone to their intended destinations very quickly, so that meant that when the woodsman finally reached the grandmother’s cottage, she and Pete were already consuming the last of the sandwiches and parfait.

Stumbling up to the gate, the woodsman panted incoherently.

              “M-M-Margaret!! T-The gasp s-sa gasp sandwiches gasp!!”

To which the grandmother, still hearty and hale, replied,

            “Fred! So nice of you to stop by, do take a seat with me, Pete, and Scarlet, and do try one of her sandwiches—               they’re awfully delicious.”

However, the poor grandmother was soon to find out how awful they were.

Mid-sentence, she choked, turned bright green, and fell to the grass, near camouflaging within its stalks. Pete, near simultaneously, convulsed and flipped on his back, emitting loud, high-pitched whines. Near instantaneously, the Evil Hood raised an affectedly shocked hand to her affectedly smeared lip makeup and gasped artificially.

              “Granny! Pete!” she sobbed, capping her artful performance.

The woodsman, as we well know, was not the least convinced. Having regained his breath, and some fraction of his former repertoire of spells, he advanced forward, steely determination in his wrinkled face.

               “You poisoned them, Scarlet, as you did my friends and family,” he said, glaring his best menacing expression.

                “Oops, wrong name, Mister Fred. I’m the Evil Hood now,” the Hood frowned slightly, peering at her glossy red                 talons.

                “You murdered them,” repeated the woodsman, gritting his teeth.

                “So what if I did?” The Evil Hood laughed cruelly. “I might as well get rid of you too, Fred.”\

                “Not.” The woodsman ground each word out. “On. My. Watch.”

                 “What a shame,” sighed the Hood. “You are awfully fun to frighten.”

With a tinge of nostalgia, she thought of the days she dropped monkshood-perfumed stink bombs on the heads of passing woodsmen. Most times they died, which was always a delight, but sometimes, they didn’t. Fred had been one such woodsman, and had survived only by raising a shield spell at the last second. The Hood had been unhappy at that, as killing such a dear friend of her grandmother would have been fantastically wonderful. Nevertheless, it also meant she could torment him again, which she did—countless times, without ever being suspected. And after she grew up and left the cottage, she hadn’t seen him in years. The Hood peered at her talons again.

                        “It is most unfortunate that you insist on dying in this pusillanimous manner,” she said disappointedly,                            “But at least I’ll have some more fun before you do.”

Behind his brave face, Fred was much saddened by the disastrous turn of events. He remembered the Evil Hood as a sweet girl with pigtails and smiles and pound cakes. Now, he wondered how much of that front was real. Fred thought of his lost friends and family. He thought of Maggie and Pete, sprawled on the lawn, and he steeled himself for the worst.

              “That is, unless you die first,” retorted Fred, mentally preparing his best reviving spell.

               “I’d like to see you try,” giggled the Evil Hood, picking up an old axe stuck in the garden stump and swinging it                 dangerously by the handle.

“Bring it on, Evil Hood,” hissed the woodsman, as he flung the silvery reviving spell at the prone bodies of Pete and the grandmother, who promptly stirred and revived, which was the exact point of the spell.

The Evil Hood snarled violently. All her grand evil plans had just been thwarted by a stupid old wizard, and she was now very, very angry. Practically enraged, if you must say. Out of her lipstick-stained mouth came an ear-piercing, fear-inspiring, awe-increasing, explosive battle yell. And then she charged, full force, at the woodsman, who had now been joined by an infuriated Pete and grandmother.

Pete, all ruffled up, charged at the Evil Hood’s legs, while the grandmother, also ruffled up, pulled out her trusty, super pointy knitting needles and flourished them at the Evil Hood’s eyeballs. The woodsman, in the meantime, hoisted up a telekinesis spell and yanked the rusty axe from the Evil Hood’s sticky fingers, not before bonking her on the head with its handle.

To which the Evil Hood, not looking very evil, crumpled to the lawn with barely a squeal. The triumphant three rushed up, raised the axe, and brought it, wind screaming, down on her thick neck, which was immediately twain in two and separated from her shoulders. The Evil Hood was dead.

Fred mopped his forehead with a sleeve and exhaled a sigh of relief.

              “It’s all over, Maggie,” he said, embracing the grandmother tightly.

And so, they buried Scarlet in the swamp behind her turret. Back at the village, Fred revived his friends and family, who, in all actuality, were not dead, but in an easily-reversible, poison-induced coma. The grandmother went back to frolicking with Pete and knitting sweaters for the village children, and Fred went back to meditating with the forest animals and holding magical therapy sessions for past victims of the Evil Hood. And they lived happily ever after.

A questionable moral of the story: Sometimes betrayal hits closer to home, so it’s always great to distance yourself from any suspiciously odd people you have some trust in. Of course, it isn’t easy to spot betrayal before it comes, or to reverse one’s conceptions of such a person. Thus, we are condemned to live blindly beneath an ever-swinging sword of death.
Woo, what a ride. This all sprung out of me running out of writing ideas and deciding to drastically rewrite a classic fairy tale. And then rewriting the first draft again. \o/

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