One-Sentence Story: The Wolf at the Door

Hour Between Wolf and Dog by Marc Chagall

Even as I write these very words—possibly the last entry I will ever add to this, the record of my efforts to prepare for the coming apocalypse—the moment for which I have been readying myself all these years is at last at hand, for as I sit here so comfortably with my two brothers in the front parlor of my sturdy brick house, I can hear the heavy footsteps of the wolf approaching, and in his gruff, throaty voice he is growling out his threat to huff and puff and blow my house down, exactly as it was foretold, and I must confess that I am terribly afraid, because although I did my utmost in constructing this fortress of a house and in stocking the larder with baskets of corn, apples, and acorns, and bottles of strong dark ale, not to mention a Swiss Army knife, water decontamination tablets, antibiotic cream, and extra rolls of toilet paper, I cannot be completely sure that there was something I did not overlook, some tiny glitch in the program with the potential to crash the entire system, you might say, and now as the wolf is actually carrying through on his threat, and has begun the huffing, puffing, and blowing in earnest (what majestic strength—what a true force of nature—the power of a hurricane, a tidal wave, and an earthquake combined!), I hear the unmistakable scraping sound of a brick being slightly dislodged from its mortar—dear God, it is that brick in the center of the front wall, the one I was setting that summer afternoon when the bee landed on my snout and stung me, and that could very well mean the beginning of the end—for if that single brick comes loose, the entire house will begin to collapse—yet, wait, wait... that enormous, thundering sound—the huffing, puffing, and blowing—has suddenly ceased, and... could it be that the wolf has finally given up and I and my two brothers are to be spared... but, what is that... the wolf is speaking again, snarling at us, “I’ll be back, and I’ll get you one of these days, you little pigs—you can’t hide in there forever.”

by Nina Zolotow

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