(I had this prompt, rewrite a classic fairy tale as if it were in a different time, but I lost it soooooo. Yeah. This is it.)

She wore the hood like armor,

not for wolves,

but for stares on subway platforms,

for whistles like claws dragging behind her.

The forest was concrete now,

its paths split by neon signs

and alleys that didn’t ask questions.

Grandmother didn’t live in a cottage.

She lived in a tenth-floor apartment,

windows locked,

deadbolts stacked like prayers.

The wolf wore a smile instead of teeth.

He knew her name before she said it.

He leaned too close

and spoke too soft.

She knew better this time.

This version of her.

This century.

She didn’t run.

She didn’t wait for the huntsman.

She looked him in the eye

and said no.

And that was the end of the story.

Or maybe

the beginning.