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The Story of An Hour

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The Story of An Hour

Kate Chopin

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband’s friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard’s name leading the list of “killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister’s arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will–as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under hte breath: “free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him–sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

“Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door–you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”

“Go away. I am not making myself ill.” No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease–of the joy that kills.

[text taken from http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/hour/]

An Hour Is All It Takes

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An Hour Is All It Takes
Joseph Ulloa

My sister could not bear the news that her husband, Brently Mallard, had died. Her husband’s friend, Richards, was the one that told us that his name was leading the list of “killed” in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received. He had made sure with the second telegram that came in, that it was true. 

At first, when she heard the story, she started crying her eyes out. Her eyes tearing, watering my shirt as she comes into my arms. I try to sooth her, without words, by stroking her hair back and cleaning the tears as they keep coming down. When she had let it all out, she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her. 

I was left in the living room with Richards alone. The silence struck and there was still grief to be dealt with, for Richards and myself. We were crying from the news as well but then I began to wonder how my sister felt and how this can affect her condition. Hearing about her husband’s death is not an easy task to handle especially with her afflicted heart trouble. I wonder how she is …

As her sister, I had the urge to run up to her room and be by her side in her time of need, but as I got up, Richards grabbed my arm and says “you should give her some time alone, give her time to collect herself from the shock she just heard”. “Don’t you know? She has heart problems and who knows what can happen, just from the very news can make her unstable quickly” I say. But I agree with him and decide to give her at most 15 minutes until I can offer some sort of relaxation. 

I offer him a drink to help calm ourselves down and we begin to reminisce about my sister’s happy marriage. “Louise lost herself a good man. He really tended to her and she looked happy about being with him. But then, I did notice there were moments where she looked like she needed space, not saying that it was a bad thing but maybe requiring some moments to collect herself from her reality”, I said. Richards says “Was she always like this, even in her young years?” I respond to him saying “She was always an open-minded person, more like free, in a sense where she’s her own person and had no restrictions on her mind but there were instances where it was all too much for her and maybe that is also why she developed the heart problems also. So I guess, yeah – she was. It doesn’t exclude the fact that she did love him, you can tell from her reaction too, that, she did.” He just nods his head. 

Richards mentions how Brently used to talk about her, saying how she was the best thing that ever happened to him and would keep making references to her. According to Richards; Brently would say “My wife made me a sandwich just like that one, and it was fantastic” after he had seen Richards sandwich from lunch one day. 

I look at the time and frantically get up to check on my sister. I go towards her door and I hear her whispering. I think to myself “Could she have gone mad or insane?” My ear is pressed on the door and then I hear “free! Body and soul free!” I start to tear again, now from wondering what could possibly be going through her mind! I knelt down to the closed door with my lips on the keyhole, imploring for admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door—you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”

“Go away. I am not making myself ill” she says. I keep begging for her to come out and after a moment, I stay silent. 

It was only yesterday, in which I heard her laugh and perfectly happy, even while she is in ill health. It was only yesterday and I miss that so much from her already.

I hear her get up from where she is at. She has this look in her eyes, like this feverish triumph. Louise came to me walking, did not seem like she has been dwelling on her own husband’s death. She clasped my waist, and together we descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for us at the bottom. 

I hear someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. It had seemed he had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. I let out a piercing cry and there, he stood amazed: at Richard’s quick motion to screen him from the view of my sister.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease—of the joy that kills.
               On my road to retelling a story, I chose to retell, “The Story of An Hour” by Kate Coplin with the theme being about freedom from a marriage and confinement from her wanting to be free. The original story was about a woman named Louis Mallard who had just got the news that her husband died in an accident and she ponders upon her new “life” that she has, until she dies at the end. The way I turned it around was that I changed the point of view to Josephine, Louise’s sister, and started from there. The original short story contained a third-person omniscient that conveyed Mrs. Mallard’s thoughts and showed how she was kind of glad that her husband died and enjoys the fact that she is now “free” from her marriage, the retelling uses a first person limited in which I conveyed to Josephine’s thoughts and small background information from what is given by Richards and herself. I chose to portray Josephine to show what happened on the other side of the door from Louise.
I started the story from when Richards had told the news to both sisters, but all of it was from Josephine’s point of view and which she is also the narrator of the story. From where the story began, Josephine had just heard the news from Richards. I collaborated with the original story in which they are in the same time period and same moment but just having Josephine narrate. From the retold story “When she had let it all out, she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.” Mashes in also to what the original third-person said “when the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would no one follow her” is in the same period of time. I had that type of similarity in the retold story to show how clearly it is switched from Louise’s thoughts to her own sister’s thoughts.
Throughout the whole story, I begin to use the word “I” clearly so that the readers can note the difference. Third person omniscient is “the narrative voice that renders information from anywhere, including the thoughts and feelings of any of the characters” taken from “Elements of fiction: The Formal Elements of fiction” by Gary Parks. First person limited allows the audience to see what this one focal character (Josephine) is thinking; it also allows that character to be further developed through his/her own style in telling the story, in which I did not really develop Josephine that hugely for it to be noticed. “As her sister, I had the urge to run up to her room and by her side in her time of need…” that quote shows how it is compared to the original story that had the narrator use imagery to show Mrs. Mallard’s grief and feelings.
Further on, I decided to bring Josephine to talk about her sister’s past and how she was as a young girl that can tie in onto how she feels for her husband and how she might have gotten the heart condition too. I mention “She was always an open-minded person, more like free, in a sense where she’s her own person and had no restrictions on her mind but there were instances where it was all too much for her and maybe that is also why she developed the heart problems also” in hopes of trying to reel in more of an outlook on how Louise is without her thoughts playing any role, from the original story.
I steered away from the original theme of it being about freedom and confinement but still having bits of it when I introduced her young days. From the original story, we have “When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: “free, free, free!”” I showed some resemblance to this by mentioning about her past “She was always an open-minded person, more like free, in a sense where she’s her own person..” I continued to say how her husband really loved Louise very much.
I wrote about how Mr. Mallard loved her wife very much, closely related to what the original story had mentioned “She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death… “. In the story retold, I say “Richards mentions how Brently used to talk about her, saying how she was the best thing that ever happened to him and would keep making references to her”. Both are very similar because it is from a different point of view to another character but different in narrative style that they contain.
I slowly make my way towards the ending in which all three characters are involved and, both the retold story and the original, are joining in from when Josephine tries to get her sister out the room, to all the way to her sister’s death. The ending has pretty much the same take because both sisters are interacting but also, like I said, are different in narration. Switching narrative styles can hugely impact a short story such as this one, because we do not see Louise’s thoughts and how it affected her in a positive way from her husband’s death. I switch to Josephine to show how the breaking news of the death affected her and Richards. We can explore and create new things with the many possibilities of changing a few details but still remaining in the story, just by changing the narration of the text.

What Is True Love?

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What Is True Love?

Anwar Uddin

 As a sister I can do so much, I tried and tried thus I failed to aid my sister during her sorrows. She was troubled with cardiovascular disease so I tried giving her hints and description of what might have happened, slowly trying to reveal the whole outcome of the tragedy but all attempts failed. My sister’s husband’s friend, Richard had learned about a railroad disaster when he was in the newspaper office and saw Louise’s husband, Brently, on the list of those killed. As I slowly told my sister about Brentley’s death, I can see all the emotions building up in Louise and her eyes gradually turning red and slowly the first drop of tears ran across her cheeks and down her neck. I felt pain and grief run through my body as I told her about the incident it was a painful ache that’s unexplainable. As I tried leaning forward to grab her, Louise ran down the living room and up the stairs not stopping at once as she skipped through two stairs at a time. I followed behind her as she slammed the door in front of me all I can hear at this point is an ache that ran down my ears from the wooden door that Louise had slammed shut. So many things ran across my mind I thought I was going to lose my sister also, as I heard the windows crack open on the other side of this dense wooden door. There was a little opening under the wooden door and I felt a slight puff of air hit my toes. So I knew for sure Louise had opened the window. As I put my ears against the door to listen to what Louise was doing behind door, I heard a little whisper saying “free body and soul free!” then I yelled out “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heavens sake open the door.” I kept banging on the door and I felt flood flow into my arms as I started banging harder and harder slowly my hands started turning red.”Go away. I am not making myself ill.” My sister answered. I felt helpless, here my sister was going through a tough time and all I could do is watch and listen. After waiting and waiting I didn’t know what to do anymore and unexpectedly the wooden door slowly opened and I was ecstatic to see my sister all right. For some reason I saw triumph in Louise’s eyes I was bewildered it was as If she was free again. I wish I knew what was running through my sister’s mind. But I was delighted to see my sister okay and that’s all that mattered. I held my sister as she clasped her arms around my waist and I slowly held her as we walked down the wooden stairs there was silence and I heard my sister breathing hard and the stairs making crackling noises. At the bottom of the stairs Richard was awaiting our presence. As we finally approached the bottom of the stairs where Richard was standing, someone was trying to open the front door. I heard keys trying to twist and turn trying to open the door and finally the front door had cracked open. It was Brentley Mallard carrying his grip-sack and umbrella, I couldn’t believe it I felt a huge burden lift of my back and all I thought to myself was “how?” I was truly pleased to see Brentley safe. I burst out with laugher and cry. Richard had tried unsuccessfully to block Louise from seeing him. My sister Louise had passed away from heart disease, I was speechless nothing can overcome what I have been through all the sorrow and pain.

 

 

In the original story, “The Story of an hour” by Kate Chopin the author narrates the story using third person limited narration. We are guided towards the mind of Louise Mallard and we come to learn about Louise’s outlook and emotions about her husband Brently Mallards death when a railroad disaster takes place. Louise’s Mallard’s sister Josephine is trying very hard to cope with the situation and she’s slowly trying to explain to Louise’s about the incident that occurred with Brently. Therefore in my narration of “The story of an Hour” I used first person limited narration to take a tour around Josephine’s intuition about her perception and thoughts of the incident which took place with Brently and how she might have actually felt trying to explain to her sister that her husband wont be coming back home.

In my telling of “The Story of an Hour” I used first person narration to describe Josephine’s thoughts and feelings when she had found out about the railroad disaster that had took place and how it might have felt to actually tell someone that your loved one wont be returning back home. I described the story through Josephine’s perspective and how Josephine may have felt. Therefore started my story of with Josephine’s feelings and how she feels helpless and unworthy, “As a sister I can do so much, I tried and tried thus I failed to aid my sister during her sorrows.”This portrays Josephine can only do so much to help her sister through her struggles. Also Josephine’s sister Louise Mallard was troubled with heart disease therefore she didn’t want to go straight to the topic of Brently Mallards passing away instead she used broken sentences and hints to portray Brently’s death. Josephine acknowledged the despair that was building up when she was explaining to Louise about her husband’s death as she states, “I can see all the emotions building up in Louise and her eyes gradually turning red and slowly the first drop of tears ran across her cheeks and down her neck.” Josephine tried to soothe her by giving her a hug but Louise went up to her room alone. She followed Louise back to her room but Louise wouldn’t open the door. Many thoughts were running across Josephine’s head as a sister she wanted the best for Louise as we can see she states, “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heavens sake open the door.” Louise had cracked open the windows and Josephine knew something was up, she screamed “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heavens sake open the door.” But Louise wouldn’t budge therefore she answered “Go away. I am not making myself ill.” Josephine didn’t want her sister to feel ill therefore she kept banging on the door eventually Louise had opened the door and she came out. Josephine explains that Louise looked very delighted and happy when she walked out of the room, “For some reason I saw triumph in Louise’s eyes I was bewildered it was as If she was free again.” But to Josephine all that mattered at that point was that her sister was okay. As they grabbed each other and started walking down the stairs Richard was at the bottom of the stairs waiting for them when they reached the bottom of the stairs someone was trying to open the front door and eventually Brently Mallard walked into the house. Josephine couldn’t believe it, Brently was alive she was full of joy. Later on we come to a conclusion that Louise had passed away from heart disease.

In the original story of “The story of an hour” by Kate Chopin, she uses Third person limited narration. In the story there is a short description of Josephine’s reaction when she first hears the incident that occurred with Brently Mallard. Louise Mallard is heart troubled so she is cautiously informed about her husbands passing away. The description tells us that Josephine use’s broken sentences to describe the incident that occurred, as explained in the story “it was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing.” Louise’s husband’s friend Richard, had learned about a railroad disaster that befall when he was in the newspaper office and saw Louise’s husband, Brently, on the listing of those wounded and killed. After Josephine had slowly explained to Louise about Brently’s death Louise slowly started weeping and she runs upstairs to her to room alone. Louise sits down in her room and she looks out an open window. She sees trees, she smells the aroma of approaching rain, and hears someone yelling out what he’s trying to sell. She hears somebody singing as well as the sounds of sparrows, and there are fluffy white clouds in the sky as its stated in the story “She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.” She feels young with lines around her eyes we come to this conclusion because the author explain “she was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength.” Still weeping, she looks into the distance. She feels anxious and tries to hold back the building emotions inside her, but she can’t. She starts continuously repeating the word “Free” to herself over and over again. Her heart begins to beat quickly, and she feels awfully warm. Louise knows she’ll sob again when she see’s her husband corpse. Louise describes Brently’s hand as tender, and that he constantly looked at her tenderly. But when she starts thinking about the years to come, which belong only to her now, and spreads her arms out ecstatically with eagerness, the author explains “she knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.” Louise will be free on her own without anyone to tell her what to do. She feels as if all men and women oppress one another even if they do it out of affection. Louise often felt love for Brently but she tells herself that none of that matters anymore. She feels happy with her new freedom. Josephine comes to her door and starts knocking, pleading Louise to come out, and telling her that she’ll get sick if she doesn’t. Louise tells Josephine she’ll be fine and for her to go away. Louise thinks about all the days and years to come and how she’ll live a long and healthy life with no stress. Louise eventually opens the door and both sisters start walking down the stairs where Richards is waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. The front door suddenly opens and Brently Mallard comes in. He wasn’t in the train disaster or even attentive that one had happened. Josephine screams out of delight, and Richards tries to block Louise from seeing him. When the doctors appear they state that Louise died of a heart attack brought on by joy.

In conclusion, the author Kate Chopin describes all the feelings and emotions of how Louise felt when she thought her husband passed away. Kate Chopin used third person limited narration to describe Louise and her thoughts about the whole situation. Louise felt a huge burden lift of her back as she thought her husband passed away. In the story I described I used third person narration with a different character I used Josephine as the character and her described her thoughts and feelings about the whole situation from her point of view.

Unforeseen Freedom

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 Unforeseen Freedom

Brian P. Ballie

                Here comes Richard and Josephine I haven’t seen them in quite some time and they are here together. This is truly weird for they have no reason to visit me today. They came wearing grim faces and portraying sad eyes. In my heart I know that something terrible has happened, I wonder if it has anything to do with the terrible ruckus down at the telegraph station today I swear it was like a complete mad house there. Then they start talking and I can barely believe what I am hearing. “Jessica my sister” she says “I there has been a terrible accident on the rail. It has been most disastrous and families have been thrown into turmoil.” “Death has come and we will get through this as best as we can because we are family and that’s what family does” she continued to speak but I had long stopped listening to her and came to the horrible realization that he was gone. DEAD for that is what he is dead and gone according to Robert. My poor Brently taken away from me in a disastrous culmination of steel and fire on that beast of iron he worked on. I am blinded by the grief for my eyes have been bathed in the wetness of my tears and I have nothing else but sorrow in my heart. I now weep for he whom I lost the man that I love.

In a fell swoop it is gone I feel nothing and need to be alone, my room beckons calling me into the peaceful abyss of my abode. Gone is the light for the sky has turned dark with rain as if somehow the gods feeling my sorrow wept with me and have become spent. The darkness that is there is dissipating slowly like the sobs wrecking through my body. In this moment I am truly lost but just as quickly clarity comes to me as the light starts peeking through more and more through the sky. I remember a time when I was happy and young and beautiful, a time when life was so simple. Then I realized that I was free to go back to being that girl. I was no longer tied down to the dead man I was “FREE” truly free and I am going to love it.

Ecstasy has set in and my heart is pounding my realization has thrown me for a loop and I have accepted that I am truly free. I no longer need to worry about pleasing the dead man I have only myself to worry about. Pure happiness has filled my once dreary heart I feel like new life has been breathed into me and it is intoxicating. I feel alive more so than I have felt in a long time. I can hear her out there shouting in riotous anger Josephine my sister asking me to come out and talking to Robert at my conversation but she doesn’t understand, neither does he. They can’t begin to understand the feelings shooting through my very soul.

I have come to a conclusion that I am better because of his death but at the same time I truly loved that man that wonderful kind man who sheltered me through the years where I was his. I will truly miss him and when I see all that is left of him I will weep again but for now I will relish in my freedom. Because even though he was my love, love was not present all the time and I am happy I am not burdened with loving him anymore. There she is again yelling “Open the door Jessica who are you talking to stop these rambling thoughts before you make yourself sick.”  Sick what does she know she is no doctor she is a question bathed in mystery to me has been all my life.

I have had enough of her pleading and I care not for her talking. I open the door and in she rushes taking me by the hand and pulling me downstairs gently like I am made of glass and liable to break any time soon. I see Robert standing in the foyer looking expectantly at me as if I were there to present him with something. Then I hear it the jingling of the lock and the rattle of a key and in swings the door. Standing there is a ghost a ghost of my husband. I look again and see it’s not a ghost but the real thing. Gone is my freedom gone just as quickly as it came. I am no longer free. There is a pain a stabbing pain in my chest. They are all talking I can tell because their mouths are moving whether from shock I know not. All I hear is the clashing of a bell and the chains dragging me back in he’s alive and I am dead.

 

            “She said it over and over under her breath: ‘free, free, free’”  Freedom is one of the major themes in the short story entitled “The Story of An Hour” by Kate Chopin. This story is about a woman’s reaction to the supposed death of her husband. In the original version of this story the narrator is a 3rd person limited narrator. We only have access to some of the thoughts of Mrs. Mallard and what she says while in the room but even that is limited in what we get from it. In my retelling I change it to a first person narrator from the point of view of Mrs. Mallard. I however structured it in the form of an internal monologue. The reality is the narration change drastically changes what we understand about the characters.

The third person narration present in this piece plays a vital role in the development we see of the main character. From this point of view we get to know Mrs. Mallard in a small sense. Learning about her but always wanting more. The limited view of the narrator also takes away from the complete development of the story as we only have a sort of one sided disjointed view into some of what Mrs. Mallard is going through. It paints an image where we know nothing about the people around her.

In regards to the retelling of the same story from the point of view of a different narration style I took several factors into mind before making my decision. At first I thought of doing the story in the style of a third person omniscient narrator; thereby in fluxing a plethora of new information and ideas into the story. However I didn’t feel comfortable changing the story so drastically because in doing so I would have to literally create the bones for the other characters because what we know about them right now is minimal. Then I though how about first person narration from the point of view of Mr. Mallard would change the story. I realized however that there was no precedent for doing that because we know nothing of what happens during the time of the accident to when he comes home and keeping the story respectful to the original plot would lead to too many new ideas that could be conflicting. I finally decided to do a first person narration from the point of view of Mrs. Mallard in the form of a monologue. This I thought would give me enough to be able to tell it from her perspective talking about all those around her because we know what they were doing there but not what she was thinking when she found out about the death of her husband. Also we get to know her and see a lot about her life but not what bought on her thoughts about being free in this way I was able to create a mind for her and tell her feelings as close to what happened as possible. I was also able to tell what she was thinking when her sister comes to get her to leave the room and even what happened in her mind before she died.

The similarities in this story were vast they both followed the same plot line and had the same characters. The general story was essentially the same however that’s about where they stopped and the differences came into light. In the original story Mrs. Mallard is portrayed as a weak person through her sickness. She is seen as someone who can’t handle any sort of hardship in life due to a heart ailment. She at first is grief stricken when news of her husband’s death reaches her. She reacts like anyone who has lost someone dear to them would by breaking down into a tear sobbing mess. However slowly the grief turns to exuberance as she comes to feel happy about the death of Mr. Mallard. In the retelling Mrs. Mallard is seen as a strong willed woman who knows what she wants and is able to make major decisions about her life on her own. She feels grief but is able to quickly quell that and come to the realization that she has her freedom.

In the retelling Mrs. Mallard comes across as a strong and her sickness or lack of as it is not mentioned is almost a metaphor for her sister treating her differently all her life. In the original story we hear Josephine asking Mrs. Mallard to open the door but she doesn’t instead she says “I am not making myself ill” instead that she is “Drinking in a very elixir of life through the open window”. In the retelling we see into the mind of Mrs. Mallard who thinks to herself “There she is again yelling ‘Open the door Jessica who are you talking to stop these rambling thoughts before you make yourself sick.’  Sick what does she know she is no doctor she is a question bathed in mystery to me has been all my life.” Here we see drastically a change because we now know the type of person Mrs. Mallard. We see that she truly doesn’t understand her sister. Also in the retelling we have a true ending when it comes to the character of Mrs. Mallard we get to see her last thought before death in which she says “All I hear is the clashing of a bell and the chains dragging me back in he’s alive and I am dead.” In comparison to the original story where we get to know that she died of a heart ailment in the retelling she dies from the knowledge that she has lost her freedom.

In the end the change of the narrator had a drastic change on the story. In the original narration we have a view looking in on a woman’s reaction to the death of her husband and then finding out that it was indeed false. In this format we get to see the softer side of the woman who loved her husband but also loved her freedom. In the retelling we have a woman’s view of what happens when she finds out about the death of her husband we get to see her intimate thoughts as she is having an internalized dialogue talking about her feelings as well as her reaction to finding out that the death notice was false. Here she is smart and straightforward person she is soft and hard at the same time in that she quickly comes to the decision that her freedom is amazing and she would much rather be free than married to her husband and thus she dies from the shock of losing the gained freedom.

 

The Joy that Kills

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The Joy that Kills

Yelwasli

Louise and I were closer than most sisters. I think what made us closer was when she was ill and started having heart problems. That’s when our bond grew stronger.

I see Richards, Louise’s husband’s friend, pacing quickly towards me as I was on my way to work. By the look on his face, I quickly knew he came bearing bad news. I had no clue what to expect as a million thoughts rushed through my mind. He tells me that Brently Mallard, Louise’s husband, was leading the list of “killed” in a railroad disaster. He didn’t even believe it so he double checked with a second telegram and this time was certain. I blanked out for a second and then couldn’t help but think if Louise would be happy or sad. I wanted to believe my sister was happy in her marriage but I thought otherwise.

As Richards and I head over to Louise’s house nervously, he tells me that Brently thought his wife was unhappy. I was even more concerned and that made me believe my first instincts. Finally, we arrive at Louise’s house. I can smell the fear as she sees me and Richards walk towards her, together, which was odd. The first question she asked was “Is Brently alright?”, although she was certain of the answer. I began by saying “There’ been an accident…” and she cut me off, screaming and weeping wildly. She thrust herself into my arms and I felt her heart on my chest, beating rapidly.

Before I can even comfort her, she escapes from my hold and run away, into her room and slams the door and locks it. Richard says to me “Give her some time to let it sink in.” I was stunned, so Richards gently sat me down in the living room chair. It took every ounce of power in me not to go after my sister because I knew she needed to be alone. I cannot control my thoughts that were jumbled in my mind. I began to think whether i was wrong for believing she would be happy, or I misinterpreted her whole marriage and she actually cared for Brently, judging by her dramatic reaction. Normally, I would think most women do not react right away, as they are in sudden shock, at this point I don’t know what to think, but all I had to do was wait. We sat there, quietly and awkwardly as we locked eyes a couple times, maybe we were both thinking how quiet it was upstairs. 

A little too quiet. I go upstairs and listen closely through the door as I hear her chanting under her breath “free, free, free!” I thought she had gone mad. I couldn’t help but think that I was right, she didn’t love her husband–sometimes, but her marriage was not that of a good one for sure. It had seemed that my sister was locked away in a whole other space and I could not get to her. Even though the only barrier between us was the door, it felt more than that, and I had no access to what was going on.

I thought that Louise would need a shoulder to cry on, because she always came to me when she was upset, maybe she wasn’t upset for some reason. It’s almost been an hour and I could not take it anymore. I pressed my lips against the key hole and demanded entrance. “Louise, open the door!” I begged. “Open the door- you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heavens sake open the door.” “Go away I am not making myself ill” she yelled. I heard her rise from where she was and turned the door knob. I rushed to her aid. She seemed relaxed and carried herself like a Goddess of Victory. She held my waist as I helped her down the stairs. Richards stood at the bottom of the stairs waiting to be of assistance to Louise. I hear the front door being unlocked and wondered who that could be. It was a confused Brently Mallard, who was supposedly dead. He looked like he had no clue of what happened and was far away from the scene of the accident. It all happened so quickly as Richards reacts to this by screening him from the view of his wife. But, it was too late. When the doctors arrived, they said she had died of heart disease—of the joy that kills.

 

 In the story, “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin, the kind of narrative being used is third-limited narrator. “Story Of An Hour” was written in 1894, and in that time period women had no power and were restricted. They could not give any opinions and their feelings didn’t matter. Some women were “trapped” in their marriage by force. This short story is about a woman named Mrs. Mallard, who receives bad news that her husband had died in a railroad accident. They tell her the news slowly but surely, and she weeps about it then goes into her room and locks herself away. She begins to realize that this so called bad thing isn’t that bad at all, but granted her freedom that she never thought she would get. She starts looking forward to the future instead of dreading it. When Mrs. Mallard fi

I’m Her Sister Josephine

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I’m Her Sister Josephine

Danny Meneses

I’m her sister Josephine; I’m the one who told her about the accident that has just occurred on the railroad. My sister’s friend Richard was here too. He informed me. My sister’s husband Brently Mallard’s was headed to the train, yet no call, all I can do is worry. She did not hear of the story the way others have, it was I her sister, closest to her who had to find a way to break the news to her. She wept once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in my arms. She then pushed me away would have no one follow her. I couldn’t believe this; I felt like I have brought down her whole world and had no way to bring her back. I don’t regret what said, I regret the way that I told her, I did it without thinking. None of this would have occurred if I hadn’t acted so recklessly.

My sister just stood there facing the open window, on a comfortable, roomy armchair,pressed down by the physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul. I didn’t know of what she was thinking, and I was worried of how she may act. The only thing I could think of is the fact that my sister is hurting, and I had no way to save her. This killed me. All of a sudden she got up with a face of no emotion walked to the room and locked the door behind her. From the other window looking in I could see what she did. There were patches of blue sky showing through the clouds facing her window, all my sister seemed to be able to do was sit with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, she didn’t need to speak, the emotion she showed was that of one already dead. I felt so horrible for causing this, I wanted to fix things but she was too far gone.

My sister is young, with a calm face, smiles, and always had life in her eyes. Now there was a dull stare in her eyes? There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully.  But she felt, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, and the color that filled the air. As all these things went through my mind, all I could think of is what is she thinking? What will she do? Unexpectedly she let out a slight movement, not able to be understood. All of a sudden she opens the window and I hear “I’m free! I’m free, never to be bothered again! “The look of terror that had followed it went from her eye. I was terrified; I wasn’t able to comprehend what was happening. I feared for my sister, she was beginning to become delusional, I ran to the door and tried to open the door, I pleaded for her to open. I hear her get close, I hear her breathing and then all when quiet I hear her by the door  uttering words not able to be understood. I ask what? She repeats with an understandable tone “I’m free! I’m free, never to be bothered again”. A few minutes later she opens the door with a pale white look, cold as ice as I put my arms round her. Those around including me did not stop to ask her if she was okay, that question was clearing answered. She wept again, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked the same after I told her the news of her husband.

My sister’s face showed noting but gray and death. She spread her arms out to them in welcome; this confused me because she hugged herself and said “I’m back” I realized what that meant. My sister became what seems to be “crazy” then after uttering the words “I’m free! I’m free, never to be bothered again” Repeatedly that was when it hit me; she had been trapped in her marriage for so long, never really free to be her true self, bounded by the marriage she voluntarily agreed too, and trapped from the love she used to have. She doesn’t know how to be free, the realization that now she really is scares her.  I was kneeled before her, I saw her with her lips so blue, eyes so clear, I tried to hug her but she wasn’t allowing anyone to come in. My sister finally responds after what felt like forever of pleading for her to say something, when she did she said “Go away” I feared for my sister, I was mad at myself for what I done, I should have waited and spoken to her in a more delicate manner, instead of dumping the load all at once. There was a feverish look to her, my sister clasped in my arms, I picked her up and help her down the stairs.

 

 

Richard stood waiting for us at the bottom. Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was my sister’s husband who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grips-sack umbrella. He had apparently been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at my piercing cry. He helped me take my sister to the room, the rest followed. He laid her down. We both left to talk about what happen, and I to explain all that happened. After a few minutes we both came back in, I hugged me sister, said I’m so very sorry for hurting her like this I shouldn’t have told her the news in the manner the that I did. She gave me her hand pointed for me to come close; as I did she whispered the words “Thank you, you freed me”.

 

 

 

Story of an hour is a about a woman named Mrs. Mallard who finds out from her sister Josephine about a terrible accident .Her husband Mr. Mallard may have been a part of involved a train crash, not many survivors. Throughout the story you get an idea to what the narrator is thinking but you aren’t completely sure. When reading the story I feel like the reader was someone outside looking in through the “window” telling us what is going on. The narration of the story is third person limited. Third person limited is the point of view in a method of storytelling in which the narrator knows only the thoughts and feelings of a single character while other characters are presented only externally. Third person limited grants a writer more freedom than first person, but less than third person omniscient. So throughout the story you are able to see how people feel about all that is going but you can’t get a good idea of whom is it.

Following the news of the accident Josephine feels that she needs to tell Mrs. Mallard of what has just occurred. She knew that Mrs. Mallard had heart problems. Telling her such news would nearly kill her. Ironically that is exactly what happens but not in the way the reader has lead us to believe. Upon reading the story one is lead to believe that once hearing the news of her “late husband” she would die due to a heart attack or anxiety attack. Yet Mrs. Mallard didn’t react exactly how we thought. She was feeling down but more “happy” then sad. She felt free, apparently she had been feeling trapped throughout her marriage. Now notified of the possible death of Mr. Mallard she couldn’t help but feel joy and sadness all at once. She began to lash out, act “crazy” she locked herself in the room and wouldn’t speak right when talking. She made it hard to understand what she was saying.

I used the narration and how the story was structured to change the narration, and transition to what turned out to be a “new” story. I used first person limited to change narration. I kept the same idea to what was going on, and how the story itself is in general, but what I did change was how the reader can perceive the story. Instead of getting a glimpse to the story from the outside in, I gave the reader the opportunity to actually be inside the mind of a character, in this case I choice Josephine.

The plot line to this version of the story is the same accident that may or may not have caused the death of Mr. Mallard, but now  Josephine tells Mrs. Mallard of the news.. I made it so that we feel the guilt she felt after she told the news, and the tremendous pressure she felt just before she notified her of the news. Mrs. Mallard didn’t know how to react; she was there but not there at the same time. She felt so much pressure lifted off her shoulders. She was sad and horrified about what has just happened. “I her sister, closest to her who had to find a way too break the news to her. She wept once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in my arms. She then pushed me away would have no one follow her. I couldn’t believe this; I felt like I have brought down her whole world and had no way to bring her back. I don’t regret what said, I regret the way that I told her, I did it without thinking. None of this would have occurred if I hadn’t acted so recklessly”. You are able to see how she feels. Mrs. Mallard began lashing out in ways not imagined, it seemed like she was not only delusional but also possessed by the sprit she lost when married.“She was battling within herself, about herself. She lost who she was, now she lost who she is. She let out a slight movement, not able to be understood. All of a sudden she opens the window and I hear “I’m free! I’m free, never to be bothered again! “The look of terror that had followed it went from her eye. I was terrified; I wasn’t able to comprehend what was happening. I feared for my sister, she was beginning to become delusional”  Mrs. Mallard very much like the first story exiled herself from the rest. Very much like the original story upon seeing her husband alive walking through that door to everyone’s dismay they thought they were looking at a ghost.

Mrs. Mallard died peacefully in this “alternate ending” of story of an hour. I wanted Josephine to not feel guilt for thinking she caused her sister’s death. She died in bed. I as the reader feel like not only did Mrs. Mallard die in peace along with giving everyone around relief that she doesn’t have to suffer anymore, but also that she died being herself again and happy. . “He laid her down. We both left to talk about what happen, and I to explain all that happened. After a few minutes we both came back in, I hugged me sister, said I’m so very sorry for hurting her like this I shouldn’t have told her the news in the manner the that I did. She gave me her hand pointed for me to come close; as I did she whisperedthe words “Thank you, you freed me.”

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard

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Knowing that Mrs. Mallard

Katherine Ferrer

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.

It has her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences. Mrs. Mallard’s husband’s friend Richards was there, too, near her sister. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard’s name heading the list of “killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

Josephine was worried. All she could think of before telling her sister the news of the accident was how she would react. It troubled her greatly to think that Louise might get sick upon hearing the bad news.

Louise did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in Josephine’s arms. Josephine could not bear the sight of her sister breaking down like this, but she could do nothing except hold her. When the storm of grief had spent itself, Louise went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

That didn’t go too well. Hopefully Louise will be well in there, she thought. Josephine and Richards looked at each other, words at the moment weren’t necessary. The looks on their face said it all. They didn’t know what Louise was doing in her room, and this troubled them.

The news had not been so easy on them either. Mr. Mallard had been a dear friend to all those who knew him. “He was a great man, he would be dearly missed” stated Richards. He had been devastated when he heard the news. Josephine was very sad too. Her brother in law had become very dear to her in the years that he and her sister had been married.

“How could this have happened? He was such a hardworking man. He didn’t deserve to die this way, not in a terrible accident like this one. What would Louise do now?” commented Josephine to Richards. She was still taken aback by the event that was taking place. Richards agreed with her silently, nodding his head to her comment. He didn’t know what would be of Mrs. Mallard either. She was not alone though. She had her sister Josephine, and him.

As they both sat in the living room, she and Richards started to discuss Mrs. Mallard’s reaction to the news of her husbands’ death. She didn’t seem to be as distressed by the news as one would think any women would be when they discover that their husband has died a tragic death. “Do you believe he was happy, Richards?” she asked, gaze fixed on the ground.

He didn’t know what to answer to this question. He had always witnessed them being happy. They were always smiling around each other. Mr. Mallard always gloated about his home to the other workers. He always told us stories about how happy his wife made him, and how he didn’t wish for nothing else in the world but to live happily with his wife as they had lived until now. But her reaction gave way to a different understanding. She seemed a tad calm about everything.

Upstairs, Louise had sat on an armchair that was in the center of the room, facing the window. “Dead,” the word repeated itself over and over in her head. “He was dead!” Her husband was dead! What would she do now, she was all alone. She had no one. The person that she had shared her life with for all those years was gone, and had left her alone. All the thoughts that were now running through her head were beginning to confuse her. Was she alone?

She rose, walking towards the window; her gaze was fixed away on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought. She stood at the base of the window, letting the breeze hit her face slowly. There was something coming to her with the breeze. What was it? She did not know. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, and the color that filled that air.

She became agitated. Her breathing started to quicken. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: “free, free, free!” All of a sudden, she wasn’t so taken aback by this feeling.

She did not stop to ask of it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him—sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she had suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

“Free! Body and soul free!” Louise kept whispering.

Josephine became more worried when she noticed that much time had gone by and her sister had still to come down from the bedroom. She and Richards had been commenting on the accident, and what would be of Louise now that her husband had died. “Enough time has passed, let me go to the bedroom and see what is going on,” she said to Richards.

What is happening in that room, she thought? She had to get in there and help her sister. She walked rapidly to the bedroom, and knelt before the closed door with her lips to the key hold,  imploring for admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door—you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”

“Go away. I am not making myself ill,” replied the sister from inside the bedroom. No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she would had thought with a shudder that life might be long. Louise arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunity.  There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of victory. She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

As she held her sister and they walked slowly, Louise stopped suddenly. She stared at the door in disbelief. Her eyes were betraying her. This could not be happening. “What is the meaning of this?” she said. Someone was walking through the front door. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife. But it was all a horrid vision. Louise’s eyes started to shut, and she started to slip from her sisters’ grip, her body limbless, all of a sudden.

“Hurry Richards, do something!” shouted Josephine.

But they had been too late.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease—of the joy that kills.

 

 

 
In “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin, we are told the story of Mrs. Mallard, a woman that has just discovered that her husband has died in a horrible train accident. Upon discovering this news, she is enjoying this new-found freedom that she has obtained by widowing. The original story is told from a third-person limited narration style. The narrator has access to the thoughts and feelings of the main character; Mrs. Mallard. We know what she is thinking throughout the course of the story, and permitted access to her mind, her thoughts and feelings. In my retelling of “The Story of an Hour,” I would like to switch the narration from Mrs. Mallard, to her sister Josephine. Although the original story’s third-person limited narration from Mrs. Mallard’s point of view offers us a detailed view of the main characters thoughts, this retelling uses a third-person omniscient narration style to give the reader access to the thoughts and feelings of all the characters in the story. In this retelling, we get insight to new details and thoughts that were not accessible to the reader with the original narration style.
Throughout the process of “The Story of an Hour,” we are taken through a journey from the eyes of the main character. In my retelling, in addition to still being able to tell what Mrs. Mallard is thinking, we also get to see a lot of the thoughts of the new narrator, Josephine: “Josephine was worried. All she could think of before telling her sister the news of the accident was how she would react. It troubled her greatly to think that Louise might get sick upon hearing the bad news.” Here, we see what Josephine is thinking. She is troubled by the fact that she has to tell her sister such bad news, and she fears her reaction. This offers us a distinct point of view that will give the reader an advantage to understanding the story better.
Upon changing our narration style, this switch gives us new access to things in the retelling that the narrator didn’t have permission to originally. On top of being able to access the thoughts of all characters, we are also able to roam freely in the setting of the story. This gives the reader a new edge. While being in one room, the narrator can also tell what is going on in another room of the story: “She rose, walking towards the window; her gaze was fixed away on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.” The narrator now has access to a different room than her own, in addition to the thoughts of the character in that room. Our new narrator Josephine can tell us what is happening in the room upstairs, which is an essential part to understanding the story in its entity. Had we chose to make our new narration third-person limited from Josephine’s point of view, we would only see what she is thinking. Therefore, we would not get an insight into the happiness that losing her husband has brought Mrs. Mallard, key element in the story.
Finally, from switching our narration style to third-person omniscient, our new permissions to retelling the story are very beneficial. Something that we didn’t have in the original story that we have in the retelling are some thoughts that the characters had of Mr. Mallard. We only hear him be mentioned once in the original and hearing more about him gives the reader a different advantage: “The news had not been so easy on them either. Mr. Mallard had been a dear friend to all those who knew him. ‘He was a great man, he would be dearly missed’ stated Richards.” Here, we get the point of view of a friend of Mr. Mallard, in contrast to only the thoughts of the main character in the original story. Richards who was a great friend of Mr. Mallard is offering the reader his feelings towards the death of his friend, a different approach than the original.
Overall, switching from a third-person limited narration from Mrs. Mallard’s point of view to a third-person omniscient narration from Josephine’s point of view, in “The Story of an Hour” has given the reader quite a few different advantages as to the way they depict the story. With an omniscient narration style, the author can give the reader something more. The reader not only gets to see and hear what Mrs. Mallard is thinking as the main character, but they can also hear what the other characters in the story are thinking. With the ability to move about in the story’s plot and setting, the reader also gets the opportunity to view distinct opinions that help mold how they are able to interpret the story. These are all positive advantages that are obtained by switching from a limited to an omniscient narrator. This switch offers the reader a different understanding of the original “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin.

A Weak Heart

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A Weak Heart

Nicole Romano

 My younger sister Louise always had a heart problem since we were young.  I spent most of my childhood looking after her until she found a man of the name Brently Mallard who captured my young Louise’s heart.  They spent many years together and I knew she was in good care, until I found out about his death from his friend Richards. From what Richards told me Brently died in a railroad disaster as he was traveling to work.  I was dumbfounded at the thought that my poor Louise would have to face this burden on her weak heart.  So it was I who made the decision to be the one who would break the news to her.

Richards and I approached the yellow two-toned farm house and knocked on the door, Louise answered in her calm and soft voice “Josephine–Richards! What brings you here at such a time, you both just missed lunch; do come in!” A lump formed in my throat at the thought of having to bring this bad news upon her.  “Louise… there’s something I must tell you… there was a train wreck…” and before I knew it tears were pouring down my cheeks. Richard softly grabbed my shoulder and gave a slight squeeze of reassurance, I looked at Louise and her face turned to a look of confusion at first. “Brently…he…the train…is dead.” My broken sentences finally registered; the look of confusion quickly turned to disbelief as she automatically registered what I was saying.  She covered her mouth to silence her whimper and I rushed to embrace her in my arms.  Shaking her head back and forth and crying out loud “This can’t be true!” I guided her into the sitting room onto the loveseat; tightly embracing her.  We sat there for a while as we both cried in each other’s arms.

When her breathing subsided to a steady pace she turned to me and said “I need to spend some time alone” I hesitated at first on letting her go by herself due to her health, I would much rather have her stay near me—yet I knew that having some time to think would be best in this situation; so I watched her slowly walk up the stairs to her bedroom. I went and settled down again sinking my head between my legs.  I kept replaying the last time I saw Brently which was not too long ago, we were in the yard discussing Louise’s health.  He was telling me how recently the doctor came to check up on Louise and said that her heart condition is becoming weaker.  He told Brently that she can’t handle any more intense moments anymore or her heart won’t be able to handle it.  I was apprehensive after what Brently had told me, yet he reassured me that she will be okay since he will take good care of her. She was blessed with a good husband who truly loved her and for that I was genuinely happy.

I silently cried to myself as Richards walked out into the yard through the kitchen. “Oh, how I wish this wasn’t true” I whispered under my breath.  I heard Louise’s cry come from her bedroom and I raised my head and looked up. I left her alone since it was what she asked yet pained me seeing her go through such a hardship.  After a few minutes I stopped hearing her cries, so I wiped my tears with ease and walked up the stairs to check on Louise.  When I got to her bedroom door I heard her whispering under her breath but I just could not seem to grasp what she was saying.  I put my ear to the door and briefly heard her mumble the word “free” to what seemed like the end of a sentence.  I knew something was wrong so I knocked on the door and pressed my lips to the keyhold begging her to open up, “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door—you will make yourself ill.  What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”  She responded by telling me to go away and that she wasn’t making herself ill.  Yet I had such a bad feeling, all I kept thinking was how she must be making herself over think and cause more stress on her heart, for it hadn’t already went through enough.  I kept knocking until she finally opened the door.

She seemed different when she opened that door, the look in her eyes weren’t ones filled with sorrow but filled with the triumph of waking from a long slumber on a beautiful spring morning.  “Let’s go make some tea” Louise said to me as she clasped my waist, we both descended down the stairs.  Richards was waiting for us looking up at both of us.

I turned and looked past Richards when I noticed someone was opening the front door. I thought to myself “Who could that be?” and in walked Brently Mallard. There wasn’t a scratch on that man; it looked as if he wasn’t even at the scene of the disaster.  My joyful moment turned sour when I turned and looked at Louise grab her heart in astonishment and cascaded down the stairs.  I heard a piercing cry and realized it was my own and quickly ran to her.  Brently was still standing in the front door puzzled at what had just happened in front of him.  I saw Richards immediately went to call the doctors, I kneeled down and cried over the lifeless Louise and I knew that this was the end of my young poor Louise.

 

 

 

Each short story has a unique narration perspective; one example of this is “The Story of An Hour”. The story takes place in the nineteenth-century where the protagonist Mrs. Louise Mallard has a heart condition and loses her husband in a train disaster. This is narrated in a limited third person perspective of Louise in her bedroom. I decided to do my retelling in a different perspective; I chose to narrate in a homodigetic narration of Josephine–Louise’s sister. I felt that from her point of view you would get a different outlook on what is going on outside the bedroom and how she feels about her sister, and her marriage with Brently.

The original story’s limited third-person perspective shows only Louise in her bedroom struggling to accept her new come feelings about the death of her husband “She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will—as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under hte breath: ‘free, free, free!’ The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes.” (1) From this quote you can sense how at first Louise did not want to accept the feeling of freedom from being a married woman. She at first felt guilt, but soon realized how she truly felt about her freedom and identity. “But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.” (2) Louise than embraces this new feeling of freedom and looks forward to her new future with her husband. The reader than finally understands her true feelings, but unlike Louise, Josephine thought differently in my retelling story.

Not only did I want to show the reader’s a different narrator but I wanted to show Josephine as a caring sister who worries about Louise’s health. Since the original story did not focus of Josephine, I decided to make it from her point of view to show what was going on while Louise was in her bedroom.   In one part of the story you see Josephine being a caring sister when she said “When her breathing subsided to a steady pace she turned to me and said “I need to spend some time alone” I hesitated at first on letting her go by herself due to her health, I would much rather have her stay near me—yet I knew that having some time to think would be best in this situation; so I watched her slowly walk up the stairs to her bedroom..” (2)  Josephine did not want her sister to leave her side knowing how much she cared for her health.  Not only is Josephine a caring sister but she showed a more naïve side when it came to her sister’s marriage as well.  In the retold story Josephine looks at her sister’s marriage as something that she is lucky for, she said “I was apprehensive after what Brently had told me, yet he reassured me that she will be okay since he will take good care of her. She was blessed with a good husband who truly loved her and for that I was genuinely happy.”(2)  From this you can get a sense of how little Josephine really knew about her sister’s marriage compared to Louise’s health.

Although each story may have different narrators, both Louise and Josephine each have a unique outlook on the marriage after the death of Brently Mallard.  The limited third-person narrator in the original “The Story of An Hour” to the homodiegtic narrator in my retold story “A Weak Heart” the reader still gets the same dark tone in the story but from just a different perspective.  Also they may have these noticeable differences but even though Louise may have realized her freedom she still loved her husband.   “And yet she had loved him—sometimes.”(2) Josephine may have seemed naïve about certain aspects on her sister’s marriage yet she wasn’t entirely wrong neither since Louise still did love her husband.

From third-person to first-person in a short story you may be limited in certain aspects of the story based on the perspective of the character or narrator; because of these limitations you may not know what could be going on outside the world of the character.  Although they have these differences between the narrations you still get a sense of an exclusive short story.  That is why I chose to do this retelling of “The Story of An Hour.”