Springtime promises hang in the air. And Red wants her happy ending—no matter what her mother might have said.

No matter what the cost. 

A darkly optimistic sequel to the Little Red Riding Hood tale, for people who want to believe in hope.

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Happily, Red

Occasionally, it is possible to have a happy ending. It’s in the bees buzzing officiously around their daisies, the wild lace flowers strewing grass so lush it’s thigh-high and crisp, the fresh pinch of early morning air that pinks the cheeks while the glorious golden sunlight promises a warm day; and in the feel of your warm arms around mine.

This doesn’t have to be an ending of course. It’s also a beginning. Also a middle. Perspective is everything, see. 

It would easy to describe the mud stains in the yard, the dead, dull branches on the trees infected with barkbug, the feel of the empty bed beside me when you’re gone for days at a time. It would be easy for my mother’s words to ring true, to fester in my heart until I was sorry I said yes, until I regretted your smiles and wiles, days spent hand in hand, picnics with scones and clotted cream and fresh-crushed raspberries with sugar.

No. I could never regret those things. Not even on the nights when it feels like you have been gone for a month and I fear you may never return. You know the woods well, and as you saved me once I know that you will save yourself a hundred times—and one day, perhaps, I will save you, though you say I already have. It is possible to make a happy ending.