The Wolf by Peter Cashorali

A large tree in the middle of green woodland. Large white text reads: The Wolf. Smaller text reads: Discussing disabled characters in fairy tales and folklore.

It wasn’t three pigs, it was one pig at different stages of life. He built a house from what he found, sweet grasses and wildflowers, which made a very pretty place to live. The wolf came and blew it down. The pig was upset by this. He went off and built another house, this time of deadfalls and tree limbs, a more substantial place to live. Even so the wolf came and blew it down. The pig had panic attacks. He traveled even further. For a long time he had nowhere to live. But at last he built another house. This time he made it from what you feel for someone you love and hate. From what’s inside and what’s outside go in opposite directions but always arrive together. From what you leave is what you approach. These materials were challenging to work with. The wolf came. He blew. The house—can we even call it a house?—inhaled, exhaled and stood. The wolf was satisfied. He moved in.

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About the author: 
Peter Cashorali is a neurodiverse pansy living at the intersection of rivers, farmland and civil war. He practices a contemplative life.