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She was told to come back from Grandma’s before dark, for in the old fable, the wolf lurked in the night. Basket in hand, shoes wearing out, she wandered the dusty, dimming lands in hopes to reach her haven before night began to fall again.


Come morning, she had not made it home; yet the sweet  girl had not been consumed by a big, bad wolf. Drying, browning blood bloomed out from the back of her head when her skull cracked against the hard ground after the bomb went off. The desert sands were as unforgiving as the people who killed her, the people who thought they were saving a war-ridden country with more bloodshed.


Her name is lost in the wind, a grave unhonored. Hundreds of children like her were consumed by that big, bad wolf. With a hood stained red, a title of Little Red Riding Hood was the only name whispered as her body was wrapped in a red, white, and blue flag.

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