AI Retold: Little Red Riding Hood

[[ This is the first in a series of exploratory short stories where I've just asked an AI (Copilot, in this case) to retell a classic fairy tale, both out of curiosity and interest to see what tropes and details it retains and what it changes. Further works will possibly include analysis sections where I genuinely compare and contrast the AI-generated versus the original, but this one in particular was just a trial run to see how it would turn out. Not bad, overall, but we'll see in the future how it handles more complex stories and what results. ]]

The Prompt Used: "Rewrite the story of Little Red Riding Hood as it may have originally appeared in the Brothers Grimm fairy tale collection. Go into explicit detail and make the content suitable for anyone over the age of 16. Use as many words or length as necessary to try to recreate the entire story."

The Result:

Once upon a time, in a village nestled at the edge of a vast forest, there lived a little girl known to everyone as Little Red Riding Hood. She earned her name from the scarlet cloak and hood her grandmother had sewn for her, a gift so bright it gleamed like a flame among the forest shadows. One morning, her mother called to her from the hearth:

“Your grandmother is ill,” she said, placing a basket of bread and sweet butter into Red’s small hands. “Take this to her cottage beyond the woods, and stay upon the path. No dawdling among the flowers, and speak only to no one you meet.”

Red Riding Hood promised dutifully and set off. The dew still clung to the ferns, and shafts of sunlight danced through the trees. Birds called overhead, and everything felt alive with the promise of spring—yet, beneath its beauty, the forest harbored cunning dangers.

As Red walked, her eyes swept the ground for wildflowers, and though she remembered her mother’s warning, a small voice whispered that a single blossom—no one would notice. She knelt to pick a star-shaped harebell and then another, her basket forgotten at her feet. The sun climbed higher, and the shadows grew long. It was then a great gray wolf stepped from among the ferns, his eyes gleaming with hunger and guile.

“Good day, little girl,” he rumbled, his voice smooth as silk. “Where are you going so early?”

Red rose and curtsied. “To my grandmother’s house, sir. She’s ill, and I must bring her these treats.”

The wolf’s jaws curved into a knowing smile. “Your grandmother lives beyond the brook, does she not? A sweet old soul. But tell me, child, have you ever admired the lilies by the stream?” He pointed one paw toward a hidden glade. “They bloom but once each year.”

Red hesitated—then remembered her mother’s scolding. Yet the idea of fresh lilies set her heart fluttering. “Yes, I have,” she said at last. “I would love to see them.”

“Then go,” the wolf encouraged, “and gather a handful. I will take the path here that is quicker. We shall see whose basket fills first.”

Without another thought, Red trotted off the path, into the cool shade of the trees. The wolf watched her disappear, then padded silently to the cottage door. He knocked with a claw and mimicked Red’s voice:

“Grandmother, it is I, Red Riding Hood, bringing you bread and butter to make you well.”

The old woman, frail and shivering, called “Come in!” before she could think. The wolf burst through the door, leaped upon her, and swallowed her whole, bones and all, in a single gulp. Then he donned her nightcap and ruffled her shawl before slipping into her bed where he lay back—great belly rising and falling.

By the time Red Riding Hood arrived, with her arms full of lilies, the afternoon had waned. She sensed something amiss the moment the door creaked open. The room was dark, and an odd odor—like damp fur—hung in the air. Yet she advanced, calling softly, “Grandmother?”

There, under the covers, lay the creature in her grandmother’s caps and glasses. His eyes glowed. His teeth, sharp as needles, peeked from beneath the bedclothes.

“My, grandmother,” Red said, edging closer. “What big ears you have.”

“All the better to hear you with, my dear,” growled the wolf.

“And what big eyes you have.”

“All the better to see you with.”

“And what big hands you have.”

“All the better to hug you with.”

Red’s innocence tricked her into the bed beside him—until he sprang up, casting aside the covers, and revealed his full, savage form. With one swift bound he seized her, and in that terrifying instant, he swallowed her whole, too, packing her into his belly alongside her grandmother.

Silence fell. The sun slipped below the treetops. But fate had not abandoned them. A huntsman, passing by, thought to rest his weary legs. He heard the low snores and sensed the room’s foul air. Drawing his blade, he slit open the wolf’s side. Out tumbled Red, crying but unharmed, and then the grandmother, dusting herself off.

Before them lay the bloated beast, barely clinging to life. Together they filled his belly with heavy stones. When the wolf awoke, he staggered to flee, but the stones dragged him down. With a final gurgling groan, he collapsed beneath the floorboards.

Red Riding Hood embraced her grandmother and vowed never again to stray from the path or speak to strangers. From that day forward, she walked straight through the forest, her red cloak as bright as ever, but her eyes wiser to the world’s hidden peril.

And so ends the tale: heed your elders’ words, do not tarry among the blossoms, and beware the hungry eyes that glitter in the woods.