Highly Commended: Youth, Anna Worthington
Red Hood by Annie Worthing
A discordant violence in the dark. Orchestral brutality; the sound of murder. Boom. Whoomph. Rumble. Incendiary bombs ravage the landscape.
They spill from the sky. Fragments of debris, catapulting towards burning ground. Embers, swirling, turn cartwheels through the haze before they flicker out and disappear.
Streaks of grey in the woods. Wolves. They are silent, swift, fluid. There are no pursuers; who is left to hunt them? The falling bombs have left the land uninhabited, uninhabitable. Yet they flee, decisive, away from the hollow remains that were their home.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
The roaring wind whips through the forest, keening. Icicles hang precariously from the trees, poised to pierce the icy ground in the blink of an eye. The wolves crouch, flattened by the frosty gale, the cold clinging to their pelts like a damp shadow. There is no respite, no relief. The shaggy branches of the forest encircle the wolves, draw them in. Shrouded by snow, they wait. Night falls, and there is no change.
Moonlight reflects off the ice, and the wolves are hungry. They have not eaten for days - the woods have been emptied of prey by the faraway explosions that still plaster the night sky with red debris. The last they had was a week ago, the half-rotten remains of a deer - its carcass did not stretch far amongst five wolves. Here, this emptied land holds nothing.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
Each and every night, the townspeople close themselves into the cosy warmth of their houses. They aren’t fearful of the creatures outside - for they know that all creatures have fled - rather, they fear winter and the insidious way its icy fingers can stifle the life from a body. They are a people hardened by life in ferocious cold. Of late however, they have grown comfortable in the absence of predators. Life has become too easy, and the townspeople are forgetting what real, tangible fear tastes like. They forget the quickening of the pulse, the constriction of the throat, the clouding of the mind. And so they light their fires, they keep warm and stay alive, but they do not shield its glow from unwanted eyes.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
An orange warmth spills onto the white snow. It glows, glints for a heartbeat, disappears. The faint crackle of fire hangs in the air. Sizzle. Snap. Pop. The wolves are on their feet, drawn to the heat like moths to a flame. Magnetic; magnetized.
Snow chafes underfoot; shuff shuff. And then the pack staggers.
Dizzying. Intoxicating, heady. Instantly the promise of flame is forgotten; the scent saturates the air, clings to the branches like a second skin. To the ravenous wolves, it is breathtaking - raw, warm, alive. Blood pulsing through the veins of their prey. Rhythmic; mesmerising.
It isn’t far. A collection of stone formations, nestled against the fringe of the woods, each hut leaking scarlet light. The warm scent of prey balances delicately in the air.
Carnage in the dark; quick, painless. It will be simple. Instinctual.
Nosing towards the closest stone building. The scent like a trail of breadcrumbs, leading them to the place where light pools against the snow, where warmth exudes from a gap in the ragged stone. The door has not been bolted.
They are predators; the sleeping shapes in the flickering hut their prey.
It happens instantly. A scream rips open the darkness; blood arcs. For a heavenly moment, their hunger is sated, their thirst quenched.
And then explosions rip through the air. The townspeople aim to kill, and they do. Two wolves are left, broken bodies leaking blood, silver bullets buried deep.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
The child is of an age where the harsh reality of life jars with the fragility of childhood naivety. She cannot understand the rage, the fury, emanating from her people. The death - although gruesome - does not concern her. She takes no heed of the hurried, urgent words that fire like bullets from the mouths of her neighbours. Instead, she dwells on the plight of the wolves.
She has seen them, discovered their hiding-place. The three that remain haunt the woods by night, but by day are swallowed up by branches of the forest. She guesses that they are hunting, a futile effort to survive the cold. Their desperate beauty weighs on her mind, saddens her.
Slowly, carefully, she hatches a plan. She cradles it gently, cups it in her hands; it is delicate, brittle. She nurses it with the most tender of care, and gently it comes to fruition.
She is careful not to be caught. It takes her days of cautious deceit; she hoards only the smallest amount possible. The barest minimum.
Eventually she can wait no longer. The wolves have ceased to disappear during the day; they huddle, shrunken, waiting for the end. Her heart breaks to see such absolute hopelessness.
Night falls; the fires are lit; each door carefully barricaded. The townsfolk close their eyes to the cold, and drop deeply into slumber. Hours pass, but the child refuses to succumb to the temptation of sleep.
Ever so slowly, the moon begins to inch from the sky. The darkness lightens by a shade, and does not seem quite so forbidding. Time.
She needs only two things. Her red hood - for it is deathly cold - and her basket. There is no sound as the door swings shut; only a gentle crush crush of snow underfoot as she tiptoes to the edge of the woods.
Three sets of amber eyes blinking at her in the night. The wolves pose no danger - they are weak, dazed. Their pelts are ragged, matted with dried blood. They watch the child through a hazy film of fear and pain.
She lowers the basket to the snow, removes the lid, slowly backs away.
Scraps of meat; raw, bloodied. The wolves are too famished to think twice; huge gasping bites - within seconds they have devoured it. The child is transfixed; fascinated; terrified.
Although the wolves are intrinsically dangerous, the girl does not believe they will harm her. Cradled safely in this belief, the child is right - it is not the wolves that will cause her pain.
Instead, harm befalls her by the very hands of her people.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
Unbeknownst to the child, the townspeople are hatching a plan of their own. It is not delicate, nor is it gently cradled. This plan is rigid, unyielding, red-hot with fury. It swells. And then it is ready.
Full moon. The wind keens through the forest, hurtling violently. The men track across the snow in the lightening dark, armed with heavy guns. Shots fired in the night, through the trees; red spills onto the snow. But it is not yet the red of blood; it is fabric. Red hood, fanning out across the broken body of the child. Silver bullet buried deep.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
Discordant violence; orchestral brutality. Streaks of grey in the woods - wolves. They run as though they will never stop.
Silent.
Swift.
Fluid.
They spill from the sky. Fragments of debris, catapulting towards burning ground. Embers, swirling, turn cartwheels through the haze before they flicker out and disappear.
Streaks of grey in the woods. Wolves. They are silent, swift, fluid. There are no pursuers; who is left to hunt them? The falling bombs have left the land uninhabited, uninhabitable. Yet they flee, decisive, away from the hollow remains that were their home.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
The roaring wind whips through the forest, keening. Icicles hang precariously from the trees, poised to pierce the icy ground in the blink of an eye. The wolves crouch, flattened by the frosty gale, the cold clinging to their pelts like a damp shadow. There is no respite, no relief. The shaggy branches of the forest encircle the wolves, draw them in. Shrouded by snow, they wait. Night falls, and there is no change.
Moonlight reflects off the ice, and the wolves are hungry. They have not eaten for days - the woods have been emptied of prey by the faraway explosions that still plaster the night sky with red debris. The last they had was a week ago, the half-rotten remains of a deer - its carcass did not stretch far amongst five wolves. Here, this emptied land holds nothing.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
Each and every night, the townspeople close themselves into the cosy warmth of their houses. They aren’t fearful of the creatures outside - for they know that all creatures have fled - rather, they fear winter and the insidious way its icy fingers can stifle the life from a body. They are a people hardened by life in ferocious cold. Of late however, they have grown comfortable in the absence of predators. Life has become too easy, and the townspeople are forgetting what real, tangible fear tastes like. They forget the quickening of the pulse, the constriction of the throat, the clouding of the mind. And so they light their fires, they keep warm and stay alive, but they do not shield its glow from unwanted eyes.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
An orange warmth spills onto the white snow. It glows, glints for a heartbeat, disappears. The faint crackle of fire hangs in the air. Sizzle. Snap. Pop. The wolves are on their feet, drawn to the heat like moths to a flame. Magnetic; magnetized.
Snow chafes underfoot; shuff shuff. And then the pack staggers.
Dizzying. Intoxicating, heady. Instantly the promise of flame is forgotten; the scent saturates the air, clings to the branches like a second skin. To the ravenous wolves, it is breathtaking - raw, warm, alive. Blood pulsing through the veins of their prey. Rhythmic; mesmerising.
It isn’t far. A collection of stone formations, nestled against the fringe of the woods, each hut leaking scarlet light. The warm scent of prey balances delicately in the air.
Carnage in the dark; quick, painless. It will be simple. Instinctual.
Nosing towards the closest stone building. The scent like a trail of breadcrumbs, leading them to the place where light pools against the snow, where warmth exudes from a gap in the ragged stone. The door has not been bolted.
They are predators; the sleeping shapes in the flickering hut their prey.
It happens instantly. A scream rips open the darkness; blood arcs. For a heavenly moment, their hunger is sated, their thirst quenched.
And then explosions rip through the air. The townspeople aim to kill, and they do. Two wolves are left, broken bodies leaking blood, silver bullets buried deep.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
The child is of an age where the harsh reality of life jars with the fragility of childhood naivety. She cannot understand the rage, the fury, emanating from her people. The death - although gruesome - does not concern her. She takes no heed of the hurried, urgent words that fire like bullets from the mouths of her neighbours. Instead, she dwells on the plight of the wolves.
She has seen them, discovered their hiding-place. The three that remain haunt the woods by night, but by day are swallowed up by branches of the forest. She guesses that they are hunting, a futile effort to survive the cold. Their desperate beauty weighs on her mind, saddens her.
Slowly, carefully, she hatches a plan. She cradles it gently, cups it in her hands; it is delicate, brittle. She nurses it with the most tender of care, and gently it comes to fruition.
She is careful not to be caught. It takes her days of cautious deceit; she hoards only the smallest amount possible. The barest minimum.
Eventually she can wait no longer. The wolves have ceased to disappear during the day; they huddle, shrunken, waiting for the end. Her heart breaks to see such absolute hopelessness.
Night falls; the fires are lit; each door carefully barricaded. The townsfolk close their eyes to the cold, and drop deeply into slumber. Hours pass, but the child refuses to succumb to the temptation of sleep.
Ever so slowly, the moon begins to inch from the sky. The darkness lightens by a shade, and does not seem quite so forbidding. Time.
She needs only two things. Her red hood - for it is deathly cold - and her basket. There is no sound as the door swings shut; only a gentle crush crush of snow underfoot as she tiptoes to the edge of the woods.
Three sets of amber eyes blinking at her in the night. The wolves pose no danger - they are weak, dazed. Their pelts are ragged, matted with dried blood. They watch the child through a hazy film of fear and pain.
She lowers the basket to the snow, removes the lid, slowly backs away.
Scraps of meat; raw, bloodied. The wolves are too famished to think twice; huge gasping bites - within seconds they have devoured it. The child is transfixed; fascinated; terrified.
Although the wolves are intrinsically dangerous, the girl does not believe they will harm her. Cradled safely in this belief, the child is right - it is not the wolves that will cause her pain.
Instead, harm befalls her by the very hands of her people.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
Unbeknownst to the child, the townspeople are hatching a plan of their own. It is not delicate, nor is it gently cradled. This plan is rigid, unyielding, red-hot with fury. It swells. And then it is ready.
Full moon. The wind keens through the forest, hurtling violently. The men track across the snow in the lightening dark, armed with heavy guns. Shots fired in the night, through the trees; red spills onto the snow. But it is not yet the red of blood; it is fabric. Red hood, fanning out across the broken body of the child. Silver bullet buried deep.
⋯⋯⋯⋯
Discordant violence; orchestral brutality. Streaks of grey in the woods - wolves. They run as though they will never stop.
Silent.
Swift.
Fluid.
