Red Is The Colour is a short story I wrote in an attempt to modernise a classic fairy-tale. Can you guess which?
A full moon casts its light through the skeletal branches of the trees. A flash of red reveals a girl, lost and alone in the woods. Waites stares, following as she stumbles over thick tree roots. I am the crack of the branch, the rustle in the bush, the howl on the wind.
A full moon casts its light through the skeletal branches of the trees. A flash of red reveals a girl, lost and alone in the woods. Waites stares, following as she stumbles over thick tree roots. I am the crack of the branch, the rustle in the bush, the howl on the wind.
He breathes in her scent; the bitterness of sweat mixing with the sweetness of innocence and revels in its heady cocktail. Salivating, he can already taste flesh between his jaws.
He circles around, forcing the girl deeper into the woods. Deaf to the wind and the crunch underfoot, he only has ears for the little heart, pounding ahead of him.
Her perfume is too much to bear. Growling, he pounces. She is mine.
The crash of bins jerks Waites from his dreaming. Instinctively he snaps upright, wielding a knife. His sleep encrusted eye-lids flicker open. A cat, perched on a bin, stares at him and tilts its head to one side. Waites glares back and growls. The cat yawns, bored with the heap of rags, and saunters away.
Fucking cats.
He groans and flops back to the pavement. Rainwater trickles down gutters and into puddles; an orchestra to his ears. Yawning, he rises from the floor and, ignoring the complaints from his muscles, stretches; various joints clicking back in place. Gathering up his blankets, he shoves them into a tattered ruck-sack and stashes it in a disused bin. He unzips his jeans, urinating on the bin and surrounding area; steam rising in the cold air. Mine.
He shakes, zips up and steps out of the alley. A cold wind strikes him, awakening his groggy senses.
A grumble echoes from his stomach and a pang of hunger stabs him. Grimacing, he strokes his emaciated belly.
Soon.
The streetlights blink to life as the commuters commence their pilgrimage home. As his harmonica plays, Waites glances down at the accumulated coins in his cap and smiles. The white-collars must be feeling generous today. That or they’ve developed a good taste in music. Another coin clatters into his cap as a pair of red boots rush past.
He stops playing and stares after the boots as they click-clack down the street, breathing deeply of her odour.
Why is it always the ones in red?
Sifting through the reek of humans and noxious car fumes he finds the girl’s scent; chemical flowers and cat piss. He opens his eyes and glares after her. Perfumed. Disgusting. Pushing aside the odour he uncovers a subtle, more fascinating scent; earthy and natural with the tantalising sweetness of innocence.
His mouth waters and a hungry growl rises from his stomach, finding a way through clenched teeth. Basking in the scent, he closes his eyes and continues playing, music rising freely from the harmonica as his mind begins to wander.
Amy Campbell pulls on her red boots. Slamming each foot on the floor, she jimmies her heels into place and fastens the buckles. She glances at her watch. Ten to five! I’m gonna be late! Dashing into the bathroom, she sprays on some perfume and rushes into the kitchen.
Rod Stewart croons away on the radio and the warm aroma of baking cakes fills the small room. Dirty crockery and utensils are piled up in the sink with a single bowl set to one side. She walks over to it and wipes a finger around the inner rim. Her finger now heavy with cake mixture, she sucks it off with a quiet pop. “How do I look?”
Her mother, Helen, looks up from her crossword and over her glasses. “If your Dad could see you, he’d throw a fit over the length of that skirt. And do you really need to wear that much eye-liner?”
“I do and you can’t even see my legs - I’m wearing leggings, hello!” She runs a hand through her cropped red hair and scratches the back of her neck. “C’mon... How do I look?”
Helen takes up her pen, scribbles down a crossword answer and smiles. “Whoever he is, he’s a lucky – wait.” She sniffs at the air; the pen dropping to the table. Her eyes narrow, rounding on Amy. “Did you steal more of my perfume?! Christ Amy! That stuff costs a fortune!”
Giggling, Amy grabs her jacket and makes her getaway. “Bye, Mum!” She races down the tenement stairs and out into the street. A biting wind smothers her, gnawing the warmth from her bones. She shivers and puts on her striped woollen gloves and pulls the hood over her head.
Night draws in and the streetlights sputter to life. People swarm the pavement as car horns blare in complaint at the standstill ahead. With a glance at her watch she jogs down the street, dodging commuters and bystanders.
Turning a corner, she stops in her tracks. An anguished howl rises above the din of peak-hour. What is that? She ignores the droning traffic and follows the howl to an alleyway across the road. In the alley-mouth, a man sits cross-legged on some tattered blankets, hunched over a harmonica. She watches as he plays. The arching eyebrows accentuating each strained note, each breath sad and beautiful.
In the distance, a church tower chimes. Shaking her head she double-checks her watch, Mickey Mouse concurring with the tolling bells. Hurrying over she pulls a coin from her pocket and drops it into his cap, her red boots click by.
Sitting under the gaze of a streetlight, Amy glances at her watch. Half-past six... He’s late. With a groan, she hugs herself tightly, swaying gently back and forth as her clouded breath fades into the night sky.
Footsteps scuffle behind her. Smiling, she turns. Is that him? No, just a couple goin’ for a walk.
The sound of tinny music alarms her. Quickly realising it’s her phone, she grabs it and with her gloved fingers fumbles with the buttons. It’s him.
“Where the hell are you? I’ve been waiting here for over an hour! I tried ringing, I tried texting and nothing!” She rises from the bench, and leans on the railings overlooking the canal.
“I’m really sorry but something’s come up. I’m not gonna be able to make it.”
“What, you couldn’t have told me this an hour ago? You know, when I WASN’T frozen to a bench?!”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. My phone’s been playing up -”
“That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard! If you’re gonna lie to me, you might as well make it amusing!” With a beep she hangs up and throws the phone on the grassy floor; it lands with a thump. Frustrated, she sinks to the floor. Why does he always do this? Why?
Taking a gulp of breath Amy wipes her face and rises from
the floor. Grabbing her phone and its dislodged battery, she checks it over. As the welcome tone plays, she allows herself a brief smile. “You’ll live. Let’s go home.”
the floor. Grabbing her phone and its dislodged battery, she checks it over. As the welcome tone plays, she allows herself a brief smile. “You’ll live. Let’s go home.”
Behind a quilt of clouds, a full moon shines. Fur gradually sprouts all over his body. Feeble limbs slowly regain their strength.
Tonight’s the night.
Shoulders hunched and fists clenched, he resists the moon’s effect. Not yet.
Waites breathes in; her odour lingers on the air and he bites his bottom lip. She was here.
Tracking the scent, he passes closed shop-fronts and a grungy pub. A karaoke night is underway as the murdered chorus of Suspicious Minds howls out from the doorway. Focused only on his prey, he steps out into the road.
A car horn blares and tyres screech to a halt. With a muted hum, the car window winds down. “Oi, Dickhead! Watch where the fuck you’re goin’! This car’s brand new!”
Extending his hands to the car window frame, Waites leans through the open window; his face barely an inch from the driver’s. He tilts his head to one side, glaring at the driver. He sniffs the air around him. Hair gel, cologne, soaps. Pathetic. His claw-like nails cut deeply into the door trim.
“Fuck off.”
The driver trembling in his car, Waites continues across the road. Turning the corner he sees her, a flash of red in a grey world. She disappears into the mouth of an alleyway.
He weaves through a gaggle of middle-aged women as they cluck about, looking for the next bar. He gags at the combined smell of alcohol and perfumes and jogs over to the alley. Pausing on the corner he stares as the girl moves further into the shadows. Running a tongue over his sharp teeth, he creeps after her.
Amy keeps her head down as she passes a group of male students. Ahead, a hen-party screams out a song from their youth; something about Club Tropicana... where apparently, the drinks are free. Avoiding the middle-aged rabble, she takes a shortcut through an alley-way.
Tall buildings plunge the alleyway into darkness. A stuttering streetlight fills the alley with dancing shadows. Her phone rings. “Leave. Me. Alone. I’ve got nothing to say to you!” She hangs up, switching it off.
She manoeuvres around rubbish piles and puddles of what she thinks, hopes is rainwater. Her heels scrape and catch on the pavement, echoing off the rain stained walls. A train rattles overhead, reminding her of her mother’s favourite song. “Will I see you tonight, on a downtown train?” Quietly singing the song, she smiles and continues through the alley.
Away from the blinding streetlights, Waites’ eyes bathe in the alleyway gloom. He steps into the shadows and crouches, taking cover behind a large wheelie-bin.
He peers around the bin and gazes ahead. The girl wades through the throat of the alley, the scratching of her boot-heels filling his ears. He smiles.
All alone. All mine.
With a lungful of scent-coated air, he slinks out of his hiding place and stalks through the shadows. With each silent footfall, he draws closer to his prey. His heart beats faster, the adrenaline rushing through his body. Hot breath grinds through clenched teeth as saliva oozes from the corners of his mouth. A guttural growl escapes his throat.
Amy stops dead in her tracks. She holds her breath. What was that? Heart pounding, the hairs tingle on the back of her neck. She listens for it again.
Nothing.
Slowly, she turns around. Peering into the shadows, Amy glimpses a silhouette moving against the gloom. Her breath quickens. Stepping forward, she edges closer to the darkened outline. “Hello? Is someone there?”
Time slowed as she stopped. Panic filling his senses. Waites surveys the alley. Two options: Behind the bin or the alcove...
Squeezing himself into the narrow alcove, he pushes his back hard against the cold bricks and inhales deeply. Time trickles by. He can sense her little heart beating faster; hear her breathe becoming more erratic. Resisting the urge to peek, he glances skyward.
The moon peers out from the clouds; his resolve weakening. Fur now completely covers his face, his nose elongated; the tip now moist and black. Grinding his sharpened teeth his lungs start to ache; heartbeats pound in his ears.
Heels start clicking toward him. He slowly exhales.
Calm. Be still.
And there she is. Those enchanting red boots. That beacon of red hair. His muscles tense and he bares his teeth.
She peers into the dark alcove and gasps.
With a snarl, Waites pounces.
An early morning breeze blows through the alley as he places the red boots reverently into his rucksack. A satisfied smile spreads across his face as he catalogues his treasures; a torn crimson dress, threadbare burgundy gloves and now, these blood-stained red boots. Content, he zips up the bag.
Pulling the rucksack over his shoulder and a baseball cap on his head, he steps out of the alleyway. The sun warms him as he strolls down the street and taking the scuffed harmonica from his pocket, begins to play a merry jig.
As he plays, an aroma drifts over him; sultry and alluring. Ahead, a school-girl in a scarlet uniform with matching ribbons in her hair waits at bus-stop. He grins.
Why is it always the ones in red?
