Li’l Red Writer in Da Hood

My story ain’t what you thinkin’. It’s about me an’ my big, red hoodie and the most powerful pen you’ve seen. Ever. An’ it’s about a huge, snarling wolf.

 

That’s right. It ain’t what you thinkin’, so just shut you trap an’ listen.

 

I met up wid de wolf in de woods. He were big an’ he were ugly and he got bad breath and don’t wear no deodorant. Prob’ly dat’s why he hungry, ‘cuz all dem critters he’d normally eat was able to smell him comin’. Any smart wolf’d’ve steered clear of me by a long shot, me bein’ famous in dese parts for slaying ‘em by de word o’ my mouth. Don’t you be getting’ dat wise look. No matter what you hearin’, I ain’t no cutesy little kid in a red diaper.

 

“Yo,’ says dat wolf, grinnin’ his big, ugly smile and showin’ teeth that prob’ly ain’t been brushed since his Mum weaned ‘im. “Where you goin’?”

 

It ain’t the business of any lone wolf where I goin’, nor your’n either, so I ain’t sayin’ then or now. I just stick my hands in the pocket o’ my hoodie and saunter on past dat spike haired bit o’ trash.

 

“Yo,” says dat wolf again. “Don’ you know I ain’t just some nice boy on da playgroun’ you can ignore? I ain’t even some big, bad bully on da playgroun’ you can ignore. I ain’t even some big gangsta you can ignore! You better stop right dere and talk wid me.”

 

Now, lemme tell you a thing or two, before you hide your smile and think you got it figured out. A writer, she don’t gotta talk. Nobody gonna make her say nuffin’ she don’t wanna say. Her power am in her pen. An’ I got my pen in the pocket o’ my hoodie, red as a sunburnt white boy.

 

Dat wolf, he waltz out in front o’ me like he think he da boss an’ he grab the front o’ my hoodie and pick me up off da groun’. “Squirt,” he says. “Squirt, I’m talkin’ to you.” He made like he was big, an’ bad and dangerous.

 

I just fish out my pen, whip off the cap an’ roll up my sleeves. You know ‘bout red pens? You been to school? What dat teacher use red pens for? For editin’. For revisin’. For correctin’.

 

“Ain’t you big?” I says, then I mark it out, like so. “No, you ain’t.”

 

Dat wolf, he shrink down into his hair coat a little.

 

“Ain’t you bad?” I says, then I mark it out, like so. “No, you ain’t.”

 

Dat wolf suck in his drool and shivers a little.

 

“Ain’t you dangerous?” I says, then I mark it out, like so. “No, you ain’t.”

 

Dat wolf, his eyes get all soft and teary and his tail hang down between his legs.

 

“In fact,” I says, drawing a carrot and beginnin’ to rewrite. An’ I wrote him right into it. “This is what you is: big, bad, dangerous, wolf, ^shrimpy, whimpy, whiny, dung beetle. An’,” I added, “You got bad breath.”

 

Dere dat wolf stood before me, a shrimpy, whimpy, whiny dung beetle, sniveling and snuffling. He thought he wrote himself up mighty good, but I just took that red pen to ‘im and did a bit o’ revisin’. Den you know what I done? I stepped on ‘im. Den I put dat lid back on my pen, put dat pen back in my pocket, an’ I continued on my merry way to do what I were doin’. Which ain’t none o’ you business.