Von J. Constantin
My name is Red. In bygone days they called me Red Riding Hood. But that wasn’t my original name. In the very early days, in the days of the Franconian kings, they called me White Riding Hood, because my cape was as white as snow.
It became red from all the blood of the werewolves I killed. Those days were the glorious days. I loved the fights, the hunts, the killing. I was a prestigious fighter. I used to love my sword.
But those days have passed. When Konrad II was king in Germany – I can’t remember the year; most of my memory of that time is slightly blurred – Vollmond, the werewolf king, slaughtered my whole family.
He even ripped the head off the shoulders of my two-year-old son. He slashed the bodies so badly that I couldn’t identify my husband. But I knew it was he; he still wore the necklace I gave to him when we got married. I couldn’t save my own family. I was too late. I was too busy saving the lives of others. I went on a killing spree. I slew every werewolf I could find. Later, as my mind got clearer, my riding hood wasn’t white any more: it was red. But I didn’t kill Vollmond. He vanished. I have been looking for him for decades. On my manhunt – or better say wolfhunt – I met Snow White.
Ende der Leseprobe. Die ganze Kurzgeschichte findet ihr in deutscher Übersetzung in meiner neuen Anthologie.