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A Letter From Tobe

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A Letter from Tobe

Curt

To the Town of Jefferson:

Assuming these thoughts will matter to you now although they seem too late, this release has been a long time coming and hopefully your mind will be as free as mine if you accept what I give. I’ve struggled everyday of my life after Ms. Emily. Living with Emily was more work for me than the actual work she had me do. Now this is not an implication that she treated me terribly, but getting to understand her psyche was difficult to take in; but it also awakened a big sense of sympathy within me too.

My devotion to Ms. Emily has caused me much loneliness, I’ve found no reason to laugh or smile. I’ve never been too fond of conversation anyhow and being Ms. Emily’s permanent worker didn’t allow me to be very social. Nights were somewhat darker than normal, and the days were always cold even in the high temperatures of summer. One day Ms. Emily had me waiting outside for her and a stranger asked me for directions. I opened my mouth to speak and realized it was not possible. I tried so hard and at that moment I realized that my voice had withered. I could only motion to the stranger, much to my displeasure. I didn’t know that it was possible for me to lose my voice from not using it.

I don’t even know if Ms. Emily realized that I couldn’t speak. I don’t know if she would care. She was in her own world. We had never once spoken to each other. She spoke at me and I did what was needed to be done. I was hired by her father, Mr. Grierson, many years before his death. The details of that are not clear now but I clearly remember his intention. He didn’t just want me to be a servant to his beloved daughter, but to protect her.  There was a mental withdrawal once he passed away. She was not herself for a long time, and who would be? Town folk felt that her father was too protective and  careful, but he was a good man, and he was a father to her; a real good father. I was already employed to be her helper but at the time I really wanted to put extra care into anything I did for her. I noticed she was changing. Her demeanor was slightly depressing, and I questioned her habits sometimes.

There were incidents, however where I felt her moments of mental torment had gone to extremes. On a night in the fall a year after her father died she had me go with her to a cemetery. I don’t know if she knew or not but it wasn’t the same one where her father was buried. She stood in front of a grave site and eventually kneeled in front of the tombstone. I kept my distance from her a bit, but I could see her very clearly. She got closer to the ground and it looked as if she was trying to dig into the ground. I was sure my eyes were deceiving me and I reacted late, I ran toward her but an officer in the distance had noticed her before me and got there quickly. We helped restrain her as she was hysterical and in tears. As we were leaving she blew kisses to the tombstone. That might have been the first detection I had of her necrophilia.

I’m sure you want to know about Homer Barron too. Now there’s not much I can tell you about him. I know as much as you know about who he is. Emily loved him, or maybe the idea of him; a male figure she could connect with intimately. She needed that male figure in her life, but in a sense her feelings were unrequited. It was this slight rejection that made her want to do something extreme. She wasn’t extreme by habit, but she was more of a cause and effect type of person. Her father not being there was like a missing puzzle piece that she was trying to replace, but instead she ended up jumbling it even more. This was when Emily started doing drastic things like getting arsenic rat poison to kill this man. I was only able to witness the after effects of that. I thought it was impossible to live to bear that scent of the dead man everyday. Often times I would make market trips for no reason just to escape it. Just knowing I was living with a dead person was traumatizing. I was not sure what Ms. Emily was doing with the body but then after a while I figured it out when I had terrible flashbacks of that graveyard incident.

After a while taking care of her got more difficult. We had both aged and she had been very ill. After I discovered she had been sleeping with Homer’s body it was hard to even look at her. She had stayed away from it after a while due to being bed-ridden most of the time, but there were times where she still tried. I figured I tried to accept Emily for who she was but there were times where it took it’s toll on me and Emily probably never cared. I wonder if she saw me as a human and if she ever thought of how her actions would affect me. When she died I left. I live alone and I write now to not go insane.

I cannot tell the whole story of Emily Grierson, for they would simply be too much to tell. I am sorry that she drove people away and I admit that she was deeply flawed. At the same time, Emily was human. She was insecure and often unhappy. There were many voids within her and no one could help her, even if she let them. I pity Homer Barron, and myself for living under such conditions. I cared for Ms. Emily and I did my best, but years of caring takes its emotional toll on you. Once I saw that she died I left a rose by the doorstep when I left. It was the only way I could say goodbye.

 

Signed,

Tobe.

 

 

 

 

The Story Of Tobe & Emily Grierson.

William Faulkner’s “A Rose For Emily” was written as a first person narrative with a distant narrator(s). The narrator never used “I” but instead used “we.” Retelling the story from a different perspective could definitely shed a closer light on a character as complex as Emily. The original story had little to no focus on the relationship between Emily and her servant, Tobe and my purpose in the retelling was to change that. The only way to do this was to have someone who was always close to her to tell their story, thus an exploratory first person narrative from the perspective of Tobe.

Tobe’s actual name is only mentioned one time in the story when the special meeting of the Board of Aldermen took place. We see that Emily is bothered by the presence of these men and their tax requests in her home and she calls for him to lead them away. “‘Tobe!’ The Negro appeared. ‘Show these gentlemen out.’” In the broader spectrum of this scene, this is where Tobe is first introduced as “the Negro” and he is called that throughout the story, but also that specific scene is the only time when he is spoken to directly. On the surface of this story one can argue that he plays a minor role but I would try to debate that argument by having him tell his version of  Emily’s story in his own words. Although he might not have directly affected the dynamic of the story as say Homer Barron would, he was still with Emily all the time and was able to see things that might not have been included or noticed by the original narrator.

The information given in the original story about Tobe could work with this idea of revealing what might have been left out. One of the few things that are revealed about him Faulkner’s story is his inability to speak.  However, a letter from his perspective allows us to get into his mind and see what more he could reveal about Emily and all the events that surround her. An example of this is a particular moment in the original story when the narrator mentions that there have been failed attempts to get information about Emily out of him. Faulkner writes, “we had long since given up trying to get any information from the Negro. He talked to no one, probably not even her, for his voice had grown harsh and rusty, as if from disuse.”

Tobe writes this letter knowing he has valuable information and thoughts to share, however from that opening sentence he shows a shadow of doubt concerning Emily’s present relevance. He wrote the letter after she died but the narrator of the original implied that they craved for any information on Emily while she was alive. She was the talk of the town every time they noticed something about her.  “So THE NEXT day we all said ‘she will kill herself’; and we said it would be the best thing, When she had first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, we had said, ‘She will marry him.’”

 

An important element of Tobe’s letter is that he gives firsthand account of Emily’s reaction to major events that took place in her life as opposed to just the public reaction and speculation seen in the original. The letter shows that there is that extreme side to Emily that is described in Faulkner’s story but Tobe’s letter gives a bit of insight of what is behind it.

The original story speaks of an incident that occurred right after Mr. Grierson’s death where ministers and the ladies tried reaching out to Emily to help her cope with her grief and also to urge her to bury her father. Initially she denies his death, but then she breaks down and they bury Mr. Grierson’s body quickly. In that section there’s a quote that stuck out to me.“We did not say she was crazy then. We believed she had to do that. We remembered all the young men her father had driven away, and we knew that with nothing left, she would have to cling to that which robbed her, as people will.”  This quote in the original shows a major side of Emily’s humanity and I intended for Tobe’s letter to expound on this theme. He writes in his letter that notices visible change in Emily once her father passes. He even gives an anecdote of an incident not mentioned in Faulkner’s story about her bizarre visit to a cemetery a year after Mr. Grierson’s death. Although she was not at her father’s grave site this experience had something to do with the loss of her father, the control he had over her, and I think it bridges the gap between one male figure (Mr. Grierson) to the next (Homer Barron.) According to the letter this scene he introduces Emily’s necrophilia existing because of her antics at the grave site.  “She got closer to the ground and it looked as if she was trying to dig into the ground. I was sure my eyes were deceiving me and I reacted late, I ran toward her but an officer in the distance had noticed her before me and got there quickly. We helped restrain her as she was hysterical and in tears. As we were leaving she blew kisses to the tombstone. That might have been the first detection I had of her necrophilia. ”

Tobe reveals his relationship (or lack thereof) with Emily. In the same quote from the original story that I mentioned earlier that stated that Tobe didn’t even talk to Emily and he confirms that assumption. He writes, “I don’t even know if Ms. Emily realized that I couldn’t speak. I don’t know if she would care. She was in her own world. We had never once spoken to each other. She spoke at me and I did what was needed to be done.”

One thing that isn’t explicit in any of the two tellings is why Tobe and Emily never built a verbal relationship, but some sort of relationship is there. He stayed with Emily through her many phases, antics, and illnesses. He was there until he also grew very old and grey. Even if the relationship between Tobe and Emily was not like a friendship but strictly professional, it was long lasting and it lasted until her death when he leaves. He ends the letter speaking of her death and leaving the rose on a step as he made his final departure. Through this retelling I wanted to bring some significance to the rose mentioned in the original title. This letter doesn’t cover as much historical information as the original story but I aimed to make the letter seem more personal and highlight the servant more and make him seem more human as well. The relationship between him and Emily did hold relevance in my opinion because of the lived experience he had with her and the understanding he had of who she was.

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.

 

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.

Instructions for contributing to our anthology

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To finalize our work on the anthology we started making in March, please share your great work via our site. To do so, please write a post, following these instructions:

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  • Please run spell-check in your word-processing program before adding your materials
  • Choose the category Anthology, and then also the category that corresponds to the title of the story you’re writing about (without that second category, I won’t be able to organize your work according to the story you’re working with!)
  • Add any tags you find appropriate—you can create your own, or use ones already created on our site
  • Don’t be alarmed if I need to make some minor changes to your work if I’ve forgotten something—I might ask you to make the change or I might just make it myself
  • Don’t be alarmed when you see the full-text stories being added to our site—it’s the only way for me to get that text into our anthology
  • If you’re interested to know more about how we’re making this anthology, look at information about Anthologize, a free, open-source, WordPress-based platform for publishing, at Anthologize.org

I’m excited to be able to produce this anthology to share our work in a new way, and to give you each the opportunity to share your work with your friends and families.