For school, we all had to write a “Fractured Fairytale”. All we had to do was choose our favourite fairytale and rewrite from a different character’s perspective. For mine, I did Jack and the beanstalk written in the Giant’s perspective and I’ve decide to post it on my blog. Here it is, Enjoy!
The Little Weed and the Trespassing Englishman
By Johnny the Giant
One day, I was just minding my own business, trying to write a new rap song. My career had taken a downturn and I needed a hit song to shoot back up the charts. I couldn’t concentrate–all I could hear were shouts coming from down below. “How could you be so stupid, Jack!” and “That cow was all we had!” was all I could hear. Then, the best idea popped into my head:
Lights, camera, action, scenes,
Why did you buy those magic beans?
Mee, Mi, Mo, Mow,
Mum’s so mad, she’s having a cow!
“Yes, that’s it!” I exclaimed to my magic, pet goose, G-Honk. “One more song and I’ll have a full album. Enough to get me to the top again. All that noise was not so bad after all.” G-Honk laid a golden egg in approval.
Out of nowhere, my wife sprung into our study. “Johnny! Something strange has just happened. I was gardening and a bright green weed emerged from the grass. It’s like it grew overnight! What shall I do?” she blurted. “Chillax, Martha.” I said. “Don’t worry about the weeds, worry about my career. You’re my manager after all. We have bigger fish to fry! Speaking of fish, when’s my dinner going to be ready–I’m starving?” After a soundless moment or two, Martha replied, “Um…. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.” She hurried out of the room and disappeared out of sight.
While I waited for my dinner, I started writing again. All of a sudden, I smelt something awfully bizarre. “Is it fish?” I thought. No. “Is it steak?” No. “I know what it is–an English boy. How peculiar!” I rose from my seat, stormed into the kitchen and stammered:
Fee, Fi, Fo Fum,
I smell the blood of an Englishman.
Be he alive or be he dead,
I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!
“Wow, I am so good! Where do these brilliant ideas come from?”
I roamed back into the study to find G-Honk gone. “Martha, where’s my little wonder of a goose?” I questioned her. A touch of guilt wandered across her eyes. “Uh, well,” she started, “a little English boy named Jack appeared from the weed I told you about. He said he was immensely hungry, so I gave him a little taste of your dinner. I put his dish away and when I headed back to the table he was gone, and so was your goose!” I thought about this for a second. “But, why did you give him something to eat and why didn’t you call me?” I asked furiously. “Well, you’re wearing a fluffy bathrobe and I wouldn’t want to ruin your image as the big, angry, mean, rapping giant. I am your manager after all!” Martha replied. “But what are we going to do without G-Honk’s awesome golden-egg-laying skills?” I asked. But Martha just shook her head in a disapproving way. “You don’t need that goose. Once you sell your amazing new album, you’ll have all the gold you need. So, get to work!”
I sat down at my desk and got down to business:
In, out, tight, loose,
That little boy stole my golden goose.
With another album selling so fast,
That gold will come to me in a blast!
Exhausted from all my writing, I headed off to bed. As I walked by the dining table, I stroked my most prized possession, my magic singing harp. Maybe it will give me luck and keep my creative juices flowing.
The next day, I woke to a high pitched scream coming from the kitchen. I rushed in to find my wife in tears and an empty dining table. “Where’s my magic harp?” I asked, shocked. “That little thief must’ve stolen it!” Martha shouted. “But, Martha, I need that harp!” My wife rolled her eyes. “Johnny, you’re a rapper, not Beethoven. You don’t need that harp. And if you want it so badly, there’s the boy, outside, just about to climb down the weed!” I rushed into the garden and slid down the weed. When I was in the middle of the extraordinarily long plant, my giant foot slipped and I plummeted down to Earth.
I woke up in hospital with my wife at my bedside. She was holding up newspapers and magazines with pictures of me on the covers. “HUGE, RAPPING GIANT ALMOST DIES IN FREAK BEANSTALK ACCIDENT!” the covers read. “Wow, I’m famous!” I exclaimed.
It turns out that little trespassing English boy was the best thing that ever happened to me. I got heaps of publicity. Losing that goose made me want that gold album even more. And really, have you ever heard of a giant rapper with a harp? Now, that ain’t cool.
I hope you enjoy it! Maybe you could make up your own fractured fairytale?