Red ignores the enquiring honey-coated mouth beside her and
dashes into the trap.  It was hers, the dye for the cloak.
Cheeky little girls, well, yes, and Little Red had been the
cheekiest. So the wolf said, It will be dyed a new color, your
pretty white cloak.  Red was not always Red. Once, she was Red
only by name and not by design. Once, the cloak was white.  Too
bad Little Red was a cheeky little girl. Too bad the cloak
turned red. Too bad that the white disappeared with the
innocence.  As she suffocated in the red heat of the wolf's
stomach, she thought, Help me.  As she suffocated in the red
heat of the witch's stomach, she thought, Help yourself.  So we
progress, Red thinks, but is it progress? She's gone from damsel
in distress (And how she envies the princess for getting that
position!) to huntress, a woman who can take care of herself.
She wishes, sometimes, that she couldn't take care of herself.
That she could be sure that someone would always save her. That
the woodcutter would always be in the