Editor’s Note: From Inside the Wolf’s Belly

wolfbelly3You. You are a girl, and where there is a girl there is a story. A story about a girl.

Your mother will give you a bag. Maybe a fine leather satchel, or maybe a rough sack.

It will be much heavier than it appears.

*

Your mother cannot speak, so she cross-stitches her warning to you. Her thimbled finger pushes the needle that pulls the thread. She spells it out so you see her words framed by pine above your pillow. Each day you wake to them, and each night you bed down beneath them:

Do not go into the deep dark woods alone.

You hear the story of your mother from the women of the village, so often that you know it by heart. The old wives tell their tale. Your ears grow heavy to carry. Sometimes the women are raccoons chittering, sometimes birds wide-beaked and screeching grief. You want quiet. You want dark. You want to be alone.

You set off carrying your mother’s bag.

From inside the wolf’s belly, you don’t hear the old wives at all.

Still. You know their story, by heart.

Your mother lost her voice to the jaws of a wolf. She went into the deep dark woods alone, with her basket in hand. She was plucking mushrooms from the good rot when the wolf came upon her. He caught her by the neck. At the last moment, a hunter saved her. He drove his knife through the beast’s belly. Soon you grew in hers. The hunter built your house. The hunter brought meat. But the hunter did too break your mother’s bones.

From inside the wolf’s belly, you can hear the hunters swarm for rescue. You stay very quiet.

*

They will leave, with their knives and axes and arrows. You will begin to chew.

You are a girl, and where there is a girl there is a story. A story about a girl.

The old wives will tell this story of you:

The girl went into the deep dark woods alone, chasing her shadow. The wolf had pale yellow eyes and a black smile. He gulped her down whole. But the girl ate the wolf from inside his own belly. She ripped and chewed and swallowed until the beast was inside her belly instead, every last sharp tooth of him. She belched. She howled and barked at the moon.

*

You. You will whisper to the wolf inside you:

You ought not have gone into the deep dark woods alone.


This Editor’s Note was written by Tiny Donkey Editor Anna Lea Jancewicz

Kid Cages

by Wren Awry

In Reserve, New Mexico, kids wait for the school bus inside of wood and wire mesh cages. They were built after Mexican grey wolves were re-introduced to the area in 1998 because, some say, the wolves were following children home from school. [1] Mexican wolves seldom attack humans, and there are no recorded deaths at their paws. [2] So, where does the fear come from? Environmentalists blame rancher propaganda and ranchers blame the wolves. I also blame wolves. Not the real, flesh-and fur-kind. I blame “stranger danger” wolves made of celluloid and sentences.

I imagine parents have stopped reading “Little Red Riding Hood” to children; they skip the scene where Belle is surrounded by snarling, yellow-eyed monsters in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. They tell their children to look out for upright canines with deep tenors, who will urge them to “pick a few flowers for granny.” Wolves, we all know, blow houses down, so when the wind comes, kid, please assume wolf-hiding position. Lycanthropy is not funny here.

But there are other kinds of wolves, and other kinds of fears, in the European fairy-tale canon.

“What should happen to a mother who throws her sons to the wolves?” a prince asks his wife in “The Wolves,” a Bavarian tale. The princess mentions red-hot iron shoes, and is duly punished.

Before death, did the princess recall the two wolves that shaped her fate? The one snarling back at her, in the mirror, during a fit of jealousy; and the one she sent her seven newborn sons to, in hopes that the canis lupus would eat them (“Multiple births,” she had, unfortunately, just told her husband, “Is a sure sign of adultery”).

She does not know—will never know, though she might guess—that the prince ran in to the midwife bringing the infants to the wolf. That the prince intercepted, saved his sons, had them raised by a loyal subject. Perhaps he re-routed. But in my mind, he followed the same path. The wolf the princess hoped would eat her sons raised them instead. When they returned to the court eighteen years later, the boys were long-haired and lupine. [3]

In the kid cages of Reserve, do students peer through the wire mesh to look for wolves in the piñion and juniper? And, if yes: out of fright, or desire? Some must spin daydreams out of their mothers’ worst fears; must long to join up with the wolves out there in the wild world.


Wren Awry studies Creative Writing at the University of Arizona. Their creative nonfiction has been published in Loom Art Zine, and they occasionally write criticism for the Anarcho-Geek Review.


[1] “Miller, Joshua Rhett. “Are ‘kid Cages’ Protecting N.M. Children, or a Case of Ranchers Crying Wolf?” Fox News. FOX News Network, 29 Oct. 2013. Web. 20 Mar. 2015. <http://www.foxnews.com/us/2013/10/29/are-kid-cages-protecting-nm-children-or-case-ranchers-crying-wolf/?intcmp=trending>.

[2] “Mexican Gray Wolf.” Arizona Game and Fish Department. AZGFD, n.d. Web. 20 Mar. 2015. <http://www.azgfd.gov/pdfs/w_c/wolf/WEB_Mexican_Wolf_details.pdf>.

[3] Eichenseer, Erika, Engelbert Suss, and Maria Tatar. “The Wolves.” The Turnip Princess & Other Newly Discovered Fairy Tales. By Francis Xavier Von Schonwerth. New York: Penguin Classics, 2015. N. pag. Print. Penguin Classics.