Spinning red lights adorned the tops of the ambulance which constrasted so sharply with the colors of the autumn trees. The police had been informed too, or at least, a police. His car, like the ambulance, had been parked lazily in front of the old cottage at the edge of the forest. Currently, the officer was talking to a heavyset man hefting an axe.
Hoodie sat quietly on the steps leading up to the porch of the cottage, hugging herself with her arms rested on her knees. She was dazed and frightened from what had just happened, and she tried her best not to think about it. Yet no matter how hard she tried to push that memory away, the more it fought back to occupy all the space in her mind.
She laid a hand on the longbow resting on the step beside her.
The wolf, feeling angry and peckish, and acting on some vague memory that stood alone in its head, and also its sense of smell, it made its way through the forest until it came to an old cottage, near the edge of the forest. Its acute sense of smell picked up a scent. It smelled... food. Inside. It needed to get inside. Clearing the steps in one leap, it reached the front door. It pushed against the door. The door didn't move. It scratched the door in an effort to burrow through, but the door was made of wood. The wolf, excited into a frenzy, continued to scratch furiously at the door, but to no avail. Finally, the wolf drew its head back, and with powerful blow, smashed the door with such a force that its latch was ripped from the doorframe. The wolf entered through the broken-in door. Blood was trickling from its forehead, but it shook it off. Of course it felt a sharp pain from the blow, but currently it was not concious of itself or anything around it, aside from the scent of live meat.
Following its nose, it passed the kitchen without really noticing and procceeded to the bedroom.
Grandma was knitting peacefully in her bedroom, expecting a visit from little Hoodie at any minute, when suddenly a snarling wolf pounced on her and knocked her to the ground. It began to rip and tear at her flesh, but she managed to fight it off for long enough to get up and run into the cupboard, but not before sustaining some terrible gashes to her face and arms. Quite some time later, Hoodie had entered the bedroom to find a bleeding wolf clawing at Grandma's cupboard.
Hoodie could not hold back her scream at the sight of the wolf, blood trickling from its forehead. The wolf heard her and turned to face her. Its previous target had now hidden itself in a safe place, but now here was another human, just as good as the other. It snarled and pounced at Hoodie.
Hoodie panicked, and all of a sudden she found herself reacting on impulse. She lifted an arrow from the quiver, notched it to the bow, drew the string back, and fired. The arrow flew straight and true, and hit the wolf square in the chest, where it fell to the ground.
The wolf died on the spot. Hoodie found Grandma in the cupboard, passed out from loss of blood. Calling for help, she was able to attract the attention of a nearby woodcutter, to whom Hoodie explained everything. He promptly called an ambulance. The police came too, and that brings us to where we are now.
Hoodie was puzzled by pretty much everything that had just happened. She knew that wolves were not in the habit of attacking people, but she had seen with her own eyes a wolf leap at her with intent to kill. The kind policeman had told Hoodie that her Grandma would be okay, so that was fine. But she couldn't rest well until she found out what was wrong with the wolves of the forest.
An that is the story of how the little girl with the red hood, also known as Hunting Hood, began her adventure, armed with the old longbow that belonged to Grandma's grandfather.
Forsi altri cantera con miglior plettro.
So the story of Hunting Hood is over. It didn't end very well, I must admit. I won't say that I'm forced to admit it, since I'll do it of my own free will.
What's with all those funny words at the end? That, good reader, would be a Latin verse, I picked out of don Quixote. It means, "perhaps one will sing with a better pick." In other words, I'm sick and tired of this story and how it turned out, so I'll leave the remainder of Hunting Hood's story for anyone else to complete.
You must excuse me, good reader, for my strange hobby. Writing is something that I have taken a fancy to, and that's why I do it. I realise that I'm not very good at it, but a certain part of me hopes I'll get better at it. I'm like that little nephew who continuously tries to play the tuba, but fails miserably and realises this, and yet, he keeps practising, in the hopes that one day he'll compete with the masters. Just humor my little hobby for now.
After finishing Don Quixote, I went ahead and read another book, the fourth part of the "Hitch-hiker series", So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish, by Douglas Adams. I finished it in two sittings. Also, aside from this fourth part, I have only also read the first part. But it was still a good book, even though I have not much clue about what happened between Arthur Dent leaving earth and his returning to it eight years later.
Anyway, that amount of binge-reading has caused me to feel slightly diminished in my own writing, and that's why I wanted to finish the story as soon as possible. To get it off my shoulders. Even though I really had no mood for writing. But hey, one will sing with a better pick. Feel free to completely revise any part of the story to your liking, if you like writing.
That's more than enough story time for the rest of the year, which isn't much, so its back to my random thoughts for a while. For instance, I think I've identified my misunderstandings of the concept of writing. More of that as soon as I can, because in a few hours I'm going to Penang Island. No, you won't get massive everyday updates after that, because its only today and tomorrow. Be more patient!