Saturday, September 14, 2013

Yellow Wallpaper - Creative (re)Writing

Envision a different ending for "The Yellow Wallpaper".  You might consider how the story would be different if she had a Granger or Faber, or you might take it in a different direction.  Compose a narrative, 300-1000 words, that is the new last page(s) of the story.   Post your story here, due by Thursday Sept 19th at 2pm, for 10 extra credit POL points.

1 comment:

  1. I’ve been writing about how I don’t want to leave. There is a reality in this room, in this wallpaper, in its history, in the marks of their fingernails. I’ve said I don’t want my presence in this room, her presence behind those patterned bars, to fade. I don’t know what I would do if I was the only person who knew these creeping women. I’ve written about how I want to creep, to feel the vibration of alienation and independence and self-direction.

    This frightens me more than anyone could imagine.

    What is wrong with me? What did I write of “creeping women?” It’s growing more frightening: I must stop this nonsense, oh it makes me smile but it’s lies - they are liars. I should know that. There is nothing but the trees in the wind - John did say so. I wouldn’t dare tell him what I’ve written. I’m not seeing things, I’m not seeing anything. Just stop, the paper is making me insane, pulling lies from my heart with its tempting lines and scars. I want to be unique, an accomplished writer, don’t I? Yes, maybe I’m just trying to sound . . . symbolic! I never did see those women, did I? They were the leaves in the wind, representing the parts of life we don’t . . . pay notice to, that we are oblivious of - yes that must be it.

    Maybe I should sleep; these shadows are playing tricks on my imagination again and I shouldn’t allow them to do that. I shouldn’t succumb to the darkness, to these dark thoughts that John said would be ever so tempting for a temperament like mine . . . Yes, he knows me best. I would be insane without him.

    I have one more night in this room with this lying wallpaper, and I must be certain to ignore that hideous hag in the background. Oh, she does make me insane.

    The night is long and I am weak. I couldn’t sleep. I dislike how the shadows of tree branches beckon to me. I lay here sweating and trembling, terrified that those creeping women are surrounding the house and creeping up the brick walls, that a shadow will catch my eye and then hers will catch mine . . . I am frightened that maybe I am insane. I don’t want her to take me.
    I need someone to hold, but John is so still, and I fear disturbing him, even if I were to put my fingers on his arm, ever so gently. He is a sensitive man, and I cannot disturb his peace of mind.

    I cannot stop whispering to myself. I must be insane, after all. There is a relentless “husssshhhhh” sound forcing it from my lips and - what if a woman is about to look in the window just now. I can feel a tug ripping at my vision, it desires me to look to the wallpaper. It’s unbearable and I must not look, I must not look, oh please God. I know she’s there, directly in front of the bed, rattling those damned bars. Stay in that prison, don’t break the walls down! I don’t know what will follow her from its depths, and it’s safest that she remains in her confinements. I must press her inside, back away. Stop it, stop it, stop these thoughts - I’m not insane. . . . But if I see her again, then I must be. I will be like those poor souls in the asylums - John will send me to the asylum.

    My eyes move on their own, any second now - what if she’s right behind me, her shadowed fingers reaching for me - I cannot stop my head and oh . . .

    Please dear God help me.

    She’s here.