What’s up Ollie?

Not much, just enjoying these mashed potatoes. How’s water polo going?

The season ended like a month ago dumbass.

I didn’t know that!

What, do you think we’re going to keep swimming when the weather’s like this?

Ok well it’s an indoor pool you don’t exactly have to brave the elements. I thought polo was supposed to be about horses and shit anyways. Your main activity is a spinoff of a horse sport, let that sink in.

Whatever man. How’s school?

Not too bad. I just declared English the other day, so I’m gonna have a blast working construction the rest of my life.

Can’t you become a lawyer with an English degree though?

Yeah but that’s not really something I want to do.

So what, you just want to write?

Pretty much. Creative writing is the only thing in school I ever really loved doing, so I may as well pursue it.

Fair enough. Can you pass the cranberry sauce?

The bog wasn’t happy that night, not that the Florida marsh was exactly hospitable in the first place. Three point turns of would-be visitors could be seen immortalized in the muddy roads leading to the swamp, the untraversable pathways consequence of a government which had long since forgotten about the area. These paths led to a nameless town full of nameless folks built on the marsh littered with nameless graves. Gold was a more popular substance than enamel in the local’s mouths, and a less than steady diet of bugs and carrion kept the residents at a constant state of emaciation. Not even the seagulls flew there anymore. 

The only thing the few dozen criminals and junkies who called the swamp a home had to look forward to in their lives was the gator hunt. At the end of each month every ne’er-do-well in the bog would grab their rusted knives, old guns, and as many chemicals as they could shove into their bodies and try to crawl their way to the top of the wetlands food chain. Cackles of excitement and hunger emanating from the decrepit place were mute to the rest of the world, with the settlement’s remoteness assuring nobody else had to endure their screams. As the sun set the hunters departed beginning the chase.

One of the gator hunters was a thirteen year old boy named Clorox. Clorox wasn’t the youngest hunter but he was by far the smallest, his obvious ribs and black eye evidence of lifelong malnutrition and bullying. He hoped futilely that killing a gator would earn him some respect in the community that had raised him. Clorox unfortunately was severely unequipped for the task at hand, and despite the compass his peers swore worked, he quickly found himself lost. As the vastness of the woodsy marsh he grew up in put just how insignificant he was into perspective, Clorox heard voices. He looked to his left and saw a hunting party skulking about and, fearing harassment, decided to stay hidden for the time being. Clorox’s decision quickly rewarded his ears with a scream and his face with a warm hunk of viscera. He began to feel nauseous as more wails filled his mind, and with a silent dry-heave he fainted.

When Clorox awoke, it was the brink of dawn. His daze quickly ended when he saw the harsh reality caked all over him, as well as the destruction that lay in front of him. What horrified him most wasn’t his half eaten neighbors, but the newly fallen trees that would lead him directly to his home.

In my opinion, this poster does a better job than any other art I have seen depicting the story of Little Red Riding Hood. It puts into perspective how vast the gap in agency is between the Wolf and Red, depicting the Wolf as a sort of unstoppable force of nature. Red however sticks out like a sore thumb over the grey background, showing how terribly out of place she is in this setting. There is a certain carefree attitude she is portrayed as having here, as if this is soon to be nightmare is just another walk to grandmas house. I also love how the wolf looks totally unnatural, like an unfathomable eldritch horror waiting for weaker beings like Red to stumble under its terrible umbra.