Upper arm tattoo of a girl in a red hooded cloak walking a woodland path beside tall trees and reeds, in grey shading with red accents.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Little Red Riding Hood on a forest path

Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A girl in a red hooded cloak walks along a path between tall tree trunks, with reeds and wildflowers in the foreground. The linework is fine and sketched, with soft grey shading on the trunks, ground and dress, and the red cloak is the only strong colour. The figure sits in the centre of the design, with the path leading down the arm and the foliage framing the edges.

Upper arm Girl Cloak Tree Path Wildflower Forest

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the lot of you, and mind the nettles by the gate; they came up overnight and they bite. Now. You all know the story of the girl in the red hood, and you all know the wolf. Nobody ever asks what happened on the path afterwards, so I'll tell you that part, because I walked it myself the summer I was your age, between the old ash trees that leaned over the lane like men at a funeral.

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Her mother had packed a basket of seed cake and a jar of blackcurrant syrup, and the rules were plain. Keep to the path. Don't pick the foxgloves. Don't stop at the ditch where the reeds grow, because reeds will tell you things if you let them. She kept to the path. She left the foxgloves standing. But the reeds were clicking that morning like knitting needles, and she stopped anyway, and crouched, and listened.

What they said was that her grandmother had never once walked the short way to the cottage. The reeds said the old woman had been sending the girl the long way round on purpose, so she would have time to think. Think about what? The reeds did not say. The wind moved through them and the ash trunks creaked, and when she stood up the path behind her had grown over with clover, and the way ahead was lined with wildflowers she did not remember planting. Her shadow had stretched long across the ground, and it was walking on its own.

She went on. The cottage door stood open, and inside, her grandmother sat by the grate with her spectacles on her nose and a grey head resting on her knee like a dog. 'You're late,' the old woman said, 'and you've brought the cake with the wrong sugar.' The girl hung her red cloak on the peg by the door, and the cloak stayed there, glowing like the only lit window on the lane. So if you go walking the long way tomorrow, take the cake, leave the foxgloves, and don't believe everything the reeds tell you.