Intergeneric fairytales

What is it?

This type of writing is when classic fairytales inspire your writing. 

It’s about drawing on aspects of classic fairytales and in your own narrative. Your piece of writing has a sense of familiarity as the  reader is able to recognise the characters, setting/s, storyline, for example that you have incorporated into your story.

What can you do

Think of a fairytale that inspires you or resonates with you. It may be the character, storyline, setting, themes or ideas that interest you. Just go with the first thing that comes to you mind.

Write a scene for a narrative that blends this aspect of the original fairytale into the story. 

An example

The following scene is inspired by the fairytale Hansel and Gretel. The scene is about the children preparing to go to their father’s house in a typical morning scene where the family get ready for the day. I have maintained the simplicity of the setting in the woods from classic examples of the fairytale and made the parent a single mother. In this story the children decide to go off the track out of curiosity rather than abandonment. 

The mornings are flippant, so my mother told me. The way I hung my head upside down over the edge of the bed and dangled my arms from side to side when I was supposed to be getting dressed for the day ahead. How my mother washed in the bucket, scrubbing vigorously the ginger soap up her arms, under her arm pits. The water splashing out suspended in the air before zooming into the rough mat that signified the washroom. Her skin shiny and sore, like a burn after months of healing. How my brother flew his imaginary airplane along the sparse furniture that occupied the single room in our cottage, leaping and bounding through the space, knocking the rickety chair that he caught with his spare hand just before it hit the ground. He held the airplane in one hand and chair in the other, still in anticipation.

‘Billy,’ my mother shouted. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ 

Her hands flung the air about as she sighed. 

My favourite dress was neatly laid out on the crocheted red rug my grandmother hand made when I was born. When I wore it I rubbed the lace at the trim so purposefully, that holes like moth bites had grown over the years. Bits of lace hung down to the ground, I refusing to tear them off even though I tripped often. My brother already dressed. Always first. 

My favourite dress was neatly laid out on the crocheted red rug my grandmother hand made when I was born. When I wore it I rubbed the lace at the trim so purposefully, that holes like moth bites had grown over the years. Bits of lace hung down to the ground, I refusing to tear them off even though I tripped often. My brother already dressed. Always first. 

My mother helped me put the rucksack on my back and tapped me on the bottom toward the door. I joined my brother, facing my mother who leaned down in front of us. She cupped our chins with the palms of her hands and squeezed tenderly. ‘To your father’s now,’ she said. 

My mother helped me put the rucksack on my back and tapped me on the bottom toward the door. I joined my brother, facing my mother who leaned down in front of us. She cupped our chins with the palms of her hands and squeezed tenderly. ‘To your father’s now,’ she said. 

My mother, satisfied, stood up as we turned to the path leading from the door to the edge of the forest. I heard her good bye as we ran down the path with our bags jiggling on our backs.
My mother, satisfied, stood up as we turned to the path leading from the door to the edge of the forest. I heard her good bye as we ran down the path with our bags jiggling on our backs.

She rose from her squatting position and put her wet hands on her hips, the liquid dripped down her bare legs. She stood there till my brother delicately returned the chair upright, patting it a little, smiling nervously at the wall, avoiding my mother’s eyes.

‘Go and get dressed, both of you.’

He placed his rucksack on his back and moved toward the front door open to the wilderness. My mother wrapped a shawl around her body and moved about the cottage, tidying up evidence of breakfast. ‘Late for work again,’ she said. ‘To the door, Rose.’

I followed her gaze to my brother’s face as she intensified her hold on his chin. ‘No going off the path, do you hear?’ My brother’s head bobbed up and down in her palm.

My mother, satisfied, stood up as we turned to the path leading from the door to the edge of the forest. I heard her good bye as we ran down the path with our bags jiggling on our backs.