During my Creative Writing on Thursday, we listened to an audio version of the short story "Snow, Glass, Apples" by Neil Gaiman. I have heard a lot about Neil Gaiman (he was on an episode of "Ask Me Another", and he's married to Amanda Palmer of the Dresden Dolls) and I have heard great things about many of his books, including "Coraline" which was turned into a movie, but I have not read any of them (nor have I seen the movie). So I was excited that our professor had us listen to one of Gaiman's works, and it was quite enjoyable, dark and disturbing, but fascinating, and ultimately delightful.
"Snow, Glass, Apples" is the story of Snow White from the perspective of the Evil Queen. I have always delighted in stories that tell a new perspective of other popular stories (called a "revisionist" story), especially ones where the villain is given a backstory. I remember the first one of these I ever read was when I was a kid. The True Story of the Three Little Pigs by Jon Scieszka told the story of the Three Little Pigs from the perspective of the big, bad wolf, and I absolutely loved it. Arguably, Jesus Christ Superstar is a revisionist tale of the bible, from the perspective of Judas. And of course, one of my favorites is Wicked by Gregory Maguire, a story from the perspective of the Wicked Witch of the West (though to be perfectly honest, I only got half way through the book because I thought the musical was WAY better). Maguire has practically made his entire career about sharing new perspective of old stories- he's also written Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister (Cinderella), Mirror, Mirror (Snow White), and After Alice (Alice in Wonderland).
After listening to the story, we were each given a fairy tale to rewrite from a new perspective. Mine was Hansel and Gretel. We were given 30 minutes to write, and then we shared what we had. None of us finished, so we were all invited to write more during the week to finish and then share with the class. It was a delightful exercise, and I am excited about finishing what I started, telling the tale of Hansel and Gretel from the point of view of the witch. Here is what I shared with the class (I'll share the finished version on my writing blog once completed!)
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A New Perspective of Hansel and Gretel (1st Draft)
by Jamie Green Klopotoski
I am not a witch.
I am just an old woman who wanted to be left alone. Why is that so wrong? I do not like people, never have, at least not since the night that my childhood, my future, everything I knew and loved, was taken away from me. I wanted to live in the woods, self-sufficiently. I wasn’t bothering anyone. And I didn’t want anyone to bother me.
Looking back, maybe choosing to build my home from sweets was a little too enticing.
Many moons ago, I built my little cottage from scratch, literally. I baked day and night for years to make enough gingerbread for the walls, cakes for the windows and doors, and candy for the knobs and locks. I slaved over the stove for hours getting the consistency of the sugar icing just right.
The work reminded me of better days, when I was a child, baking with my mother, designing gingerbread houses for our family-run bakery. She always let me use the brand new pastry bags and I could choose whatever decorative tips I wanted to adorn the houses with intricate designs. I looked forward to the day when I would take over the bakery. I dreamed of living in the tiny apartment above it, that always smelled of sugar and flour, all on my own, or maybe with my very own family, 2 kids, a boy and a girl, and a doting husband who would carry the heaviest sacks of ingredients to the supply room for me, living happily ever after.
But then there was the fire, set by an angry mob in town who didn’t like my mother because she was part of the resistance (it was well known that she gave bread to the poor starving children of the rebel families, which arguably kept them not only alive but also fighting). The bakery burned to the ground, with my mother trapped inside. I managed to escape to the woods. I knew nothing but baking. So I created a humble wood stove out of stones I collected, and I took everything I learned from my mother and put it into making my very own home, where I vowed to live, by myself, on my own, for the rest of my life.
Until those pesky kids showed. 2 of them, a boy and a girl. I was sitting in my peppermint rocking chair, next to the fireplace, happily kneading some dough, when I heard the nibbling. Occasionally a squirrel or other animal would come along and eat away at the roof until I shooed it away. I grabbed my broom and ran outside, ready to brush away the nuisance, when I saw them. Dirty, tired faces, torn disheveled clothes, chowing down on my shutters like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. I felt sorry for them, my heart ached, and I called out, “Oh, dear children, please do not eat my house. Come inside and I’ll fix you a nice warm meal.” But I must have frightened them, for they scurried away. I decided to put together some food, pancakes, milk, apples, nuts; I set it all up on a picnic table outside, in hopes that if they came back, they would eat this food instead of my house. And then I went to bed. I checked the plates the next morning, and the food had vanished, every last crumb. So I prepared another meal, and another the next day, and another the next. Each morning, the food was gone, plates licked clean. Finally, on the seventh day, I decided not to leave out food, and in the morning, the children were sitting at the picnic table, waiting, hopeful for their meal.
“Good morning children, please come inside. I have warm toast and blueberry jam for you, and big glasses of cold milk.” They looked at me, glanced at each other, smile wearily, then hesitantly followed me inside. After the meal, they seemed to warm up to me. I drew a bath for them, washed their clothes, and invited them to nap in my soft sourdough bed. It felt nice taking care of someone, two someones. I wanted to learn more about them. After their nap, I prepared them a nice lunch, sat them down, and began to probe into their lives.
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