The best retelling of Little Red Riding Hood in the style of different writers
Little Red Riding Hood (French: Le Petit Chaperon rouge; German: Rotkäppchen) is a European folk tale with a story about a little girl who met a wolf. Literary edited by Charles Perrault, later recorded by the Grimm brothers.
The most exciting interpretations of the famous fairy tale in the style of famous writers.
Erich Maria Remarque
“Come to me,” said the Wolf.
Little Red Riding Hood poured two glasses of cognac and sat on the bed to him. They inhaled the familiar aroma of cognac. There was longing and fatigue in this cognac - longing and tiredness of the dying twilight. Cognac was life itself.
“Of course,” she said. “We have nothing to hope for.” I have no future. The wolf was silent. He agreed with her.
But she was the worthy daughter of her race; in her veins flowed strong blood of the white conquerors of the North. Therefore, without blinking an eye, she rushed at the wolf, dealt him a crushing blow and immediately reinforced him with one classic uppercut. The wolf ran in fear. She looked after him, smiling with her charming female smile.
Guy De Maupassant
The wolf met her. He examined her with the special look that an experienced Parisian lecher casts at the provincial coquette, which is still trying to pass itself off as innocent. But he believes in her innocence no more than she herself and as if she already sees how she undresses, how her skirts fall one after another and she remains only in a shirt, under which the sweet forms of her body are outlined.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Many years will pass, and the Wolf, standing against the wall awaiting execution, will remember that distant evening when Grandma ate as much arsenic with cake as would be enough to destroy a lot of rats. But she, as if nothing had happened, tormented the piano and sang until midnight. Two weeks later, the Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood tried to blow up the tent of an unbearable old woman. They watched with bated breath as a blue light crawled along the cord to the detonator. They both closed their ears, but in vain, because there was no rumble. When Little Red Riding Hood dared to go inside, hoping to find the dead Grandmother, she saw that there was more than enough life in her: the old woman in a shirt torn to shreds and a charred wig rushed back and forth, clogging the fire with a blanket.
When I woke up, Little Red Riding Hood was still asleep. I smoked seven cigarettes in a row and went to the kitchen, where I started cooking noodles. I always cook noodles very carefully, and I don’t like it when something distracts me from this process. Pink Floyd was broadcast on the radio. When I filled the noodles with sauce, the doorbell rang. I went to the door, glancing along the way to the room. Little Red Riding Hood was still asleep. I admired her ears, one ear was illuminated by the morning sun. I have never seen such ears in my life ... Opening the door, I saw the Wolf. Sheep immediately came to mind ...
If, comrade, you put on a hat, a little red hat with meat upstairs - boldly go: you’re already *** boldly go, don’t be afraid of anyone else, squeeze the pies for your grandmother, gnaw the wolf full of life!
- I'm a seagull! - said the Wolf.
“It's an illusion,” Little Red Riding Hood answered.
Under the wing with a wingspan of 10.17 Cessna-152 with a horizontal four-cylinder engine Lycoming O-235-L2C with a volume of 3.8 liters. and a power of 1 × 110 hp at 2550 rpm the blue tops of the magical forest swept through. The plane landed at the edge of the house, made of white stone.
- Do you see the house? Asked Little Red Riding Hood, smiling cunningly.
“We ourselves draw houses and grandmothers into our lives,” Wolf sighed.
Little Red Riding Hood trembled. She was alone. She was alone, like a needle in the desert, like a grain of sand among the stars, like a gladiator among poisonous snakes, like a somnambulist in the stove ...
Edgar Allan Poe
At the edge of the old, gloomy forest, wrapped in a mysteriously stiff veil of forest, above which dark clouds of ominous fumes were worn and a fatal sound of shackles was heard, Little Red Riding Hood lived in mystical horror.
To eat or not to eat, is that the question?
I get up. The color snowstorm of the dip program subsides. Around the yellow-gray, dull and wet autumn forest. In front of me there is only one bright spot - a red cap on the head of a little girl, about seven or eight years old. The girl looks at me in dismay. Asks:
- Are you a wolf?
“Well, it’s unlikely,” I answer, looking at myself, “have I turned into a wolf?” No, it doesn’t. An ordinary naked man covering a shame with a steamed birch broom. And what could I do when virtual Sanduns exploded from a stack overflow? Just group up and wait, where it will throw me ...
“I'm going to my grandmother,” the girl says. - I bring her pies.
It seems that I skidded on some kind of children's server.
- Are you a person or a program? I ask the girl.
“Grandma got sick,” the girl continues.
All clear. The program, and even the most primitive. I stop paying attention to the girl, look around. Where is the exit here?
- Why do you have such a long tail? - suddenly the girl asks.
“This is not a tail,” I answer and blush.
- Do not flatter yourself. I’m talking about watching programs that have sat on your channel, ”the girl kindly clarifies. Her voice is changing dramatically, now in front of me is a living person.
The smell of the Wolf was disgusting. It smelled like the tanner’s cabin, in which the corpses decomposed. From his dirty, gray skin came the indescribable smell of carrion, bittersweet, causing nausea and loathing.
Wolf himself did not feel this, he was completely focused, he admired Little Red Riding Hood. She smelled of violet at dawn, that indescribable smell that flowers only have a couple of minutes before dawn, when the bud had not yet fully opened.
Honore de Balzac
The wolf reached the grandmother's house and knocked on the door. This door was made in the middle of the 17th century by an unknown master. He carved it from a Canadian oak that was fashionable at that time, gave it a classic shape and hung it on iron loops, which, at one time, might have been nice, but they creaked terribly now. There were no ornaments and patterns on the door, only one scratch was visible in the lower right corner, which was said to have been made by Celestin de Chavard, spokeswoman of Marie Antoinette and cousin of her grandmother's grandfather, Little Red Riding Hood. Otherwise, the door was ordinary, and therefore we should not dwell on it in more detail.
- We're the same blood! - Little Red Riding Hood shouted after the wolf. - Good hunting!