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Presented by State Library Victoria

Here is something I wrote...

In English, we had to write a fractured fairy tale based on a fairy tale like little red riding hood and the three little pigs. Only, with a twist of: surprise characters and a messed up version of the plot. Enjoy!

 

 

Fractured fairy tale-The Little Match Girl

I awoke to a freezing draft sneaking its frozen fingers upon my silky down. I peered through the frosted pane, fluffing my coat, attempting to bring warmth upon my frozen body, thawing my heart. When I took a glance at the frozen scene outside I abruptly burst into mixed emotions of sorrow, pain and anger. It broke my heart to see this.

Across the snow-laden street, in the cramped apartment building of one room, dwelled a middle-aged couple with their sons and daughter. They were shockingly and painfully poor, selling matches and small kindling for life, barely feeding themselves. Sadly, the grandmother and mother had died many years ago, so they were poorer still. I saw the silhouettes of the father giving a lecture to the only remaining female of the home- their most youthful child, the daughter. I creaked open the window, straining to pick up the shouted conversation of their dwellings.

“You shall sell these matches for tuppence each, prior to returning, girl!”

“but father, I shall freeze…”

“Oh, if you fail to follow these simple commands, you shall be beaten for every remaining match, especially if you have not gained tuppence for each!” He shouted sternly at her. I could visualise tears as big and fast as rivulets flowing steadily down her sweet face, as she was kicked onto the street, like an unwanted creature… like- me.

I felt rather faint from the shock of reality. I considered assisting her however held myself back due to the consequences of severe punishment. My head was spinning when I rested upon the window’s hard, brittle, frozen heart. When I came back into consciousness once again, I was tumbling through the frozen atmosphere upon the crisp, sparkling landscape, a few feet from the girl.

She was shaking silent tears and I grieved for the pain and suffering that she was going through.  I thought of Snow White, with her inner and external beauty which lasted well past her death, from that poisoned fruit the Queen had given to her in hatred. In this instance, her father was the Queen. The girl suddenly tripped upon my beak, exclaiming in the pain of her sprained ankle.

“Oh look out,” I cried, just seconds too late.

“Ducky!” She cried as she caught a glimpse of my crisp white, snowy down and golden beak, like the sunshine upon the dawn of spring.

“Sorry, miss…”

“Oh excuse me, sir it was my fault” she statedly interrupted trying to seem curt, “I shan’t ever do that again,” She continued trying to be solemn, yet giggling as she read my expression. Abruptly, she burst into tears.

“Whatever is the matter dear?”

“Why, you can talk!” I stared at her with a blank expression. I had already accidently let out ten words. The village clock struck twelve. “Why, I am so sorry, I must be on my way!” She sounded like Cinderella at the Royal Ball.

“For Heaven’s sake child, where are you off to with phosphorous coated lucifers in hand?”

“My father-”

“Ah, he sent you on an errand, right?” I spoke, in understanding.

“Indeed, I must sell them each for tuppence or I shan’t live peaceably with my father.”

“What do you mean?”

“He shall beat me until I meet dear Grandmother again; with his heirloom stockwhip.”

She began to sob, her eyes of diamond glazing over with tears. She struck a match against the hard, frozen face of stone. A flame pounced and caught the lucifer match like a cat with a mouse. She turned her head to gaze at my glowing down, as she propped the match against the stone wall. Her face glowed like the mid-morning sun.

I must have been mad, for I believe that this small flame of gold created a vision that the wall disappeared it its joyful glow. It formed a great, smouldering Aga filled to the brim with red, hot coals of warmth. She extended her boots of tatters to the Aga’s great mouth, yet alas, the flame had burned into the snow losing its beautiful appearance. Yet again, it was just a small splinter of oak.

As I gazed towards the Little Match Girl, I recalled my dreaded past of despondent days, left out- for my appearance did not match the standards. For I was not like those of the rest of the family. I was never truly ugly, for it was just an horrendous shell that had captured me in its grasp. Thus, now, for I have been resilient, I was renewed to become gloriously charming in every way. Of course, I was always special in my heart. That’s what really matters.

She lit a second match, yet again to reveal a glorious vision that only we two saw. This time, upon a lace dining setting, was a turkey, stuffed to overflowing with thick, warm rice, herbs and roast vegetables, lying on the most exquisite platter, surrounded with silky potato mash like clouds of pure white, which were saturated in spices of bronze and bay. This elegant dish was set in the centre of a circular, elaborately carved table of oak, with a touch of lace and a decoration of floral dishes. Impulsively, the turkey came back to life, waddling onto a craftily knitted mat of faint blue. Sadly, this tasty looking dish was taken away by darkness, leaving the girl, her mouth pouring with saliva.

She struck yet another match against the wall and it burst into a golden waterfall of sparks, rising to the cloudless expanse of velvet. This time, there lay a young child, perceptibly belonging to a wealthy family, encased in a deep slumber of warmth and joy. An old lady of wealth and wrinkles almost floated into the room for she had such gracefulness within her step. She blew out the candle upon her bedside and the flame faded into the lightshow of silver above.

The Little Match Girl pointed towards a star which was soaring gracefully to the earth below. “Somebody is dying,” she told me, explaining a saying of her deceased grandmother.  “Grandmother died when I was very young” she explained, “Now she is up there.” With a calm grin, she struck every match that remained in her small bundle upon the stone. She was becoming rather cold, due to near frostbite.

Standing there, her face a fire of joy, was her Grandmother. She was whispering a sweet melody as she cuddled the girl. “Take me with you, please grandmother,” she whispered, clutching me quite firmly. I gazed towards the great expanse above, which was beginning to give its first rays of morning. Floating away to the stars were the souls of three. The Little Match Girl, her Grandmother and one of which I could not decipher its identity.

As I took my last breath of life, I wrote a name on that soul. That soul was mine- the Ugly Duckling’s. My last words are, “Treat those whom are less fortune with greater care, as you would like to be treated.”

-LOZZA!!!!

 

PS: Feel free to edit my work by telling me what paragraph, sentence and word/words I should change. <3

2 comments

inky State Library Victoria

My favourite fairy tale as a child was always The Little Match Girl. So tragic. Love this mash-up and the twist!

25th Jul, 19
lozza

Thank you!

25th Jul, 19