The White Girl's Game of House

Based on “The Color Purple” by Alice Walker. As extra work for English, my teacher set the task of writing a short story and analysis of that story as based on a novel that I’ve read. This, funnily enough, was the result. Written as a series of letters to God in Georgia in the 1930s, this loose adaptation of the novel takes much of the same themes and considering that this is the first time I’ve tried writing in this style, any pointers would be very helpful. Also, I put this under historical fiction even though it is technically fan fiction as I didn’t really want it swamped by all the One Direction stories under that category.

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1. The White Girl's Game of House

Dear God,

 

She dead. My baby, I mean. She done die last night, while she were still in my arms, all quiet, like. An’ I didn’t even notice or nothing, as my baby slipped away, as her breathing done get all slow an’ ragged while I held her to me. ‘Cause one moment she looks at me an’ says “I love you, Mama,” an’ I done say “I love you too, baby girl,” an’ she turn away while still in my arms.

 

An’ she die. She die.

 

She just got to lettin’ go. An’ dyin’. But I di’nt realise neither, so I kept holdin’ her an’ rockin’ her like I did when she were only a day old. An’ singin’. I done carry on singin’ to her an’ sayin’ “I love you, baby girl.” Over an’ over again. “I love you, baby girl.” Just over an’ over. It take me a half hour ‘till I done realise that my baby girl dead. An’ by then I too tired from all the holdin’ an’ rockin’ an’ singin’ an’ “I love you, baby girl”-in’ to cry or  scream or shout or just curse the Lord for takin’ her away from me, away from my arms where she be safe. So I just carry on an’ pretend that she ain’t dead, that she still breathin’‘cause maybe if I done pretend then maybe the Lord give my baby back to me, as if she weren’t never dead at all. But I know she dead, though I done pretend otherwise.

 

Lord have mercy on me, I know she dead.

 

I be looking at her, her little smooshy body all wrapped up and suchlike in a quilt. I try to cover up her face, but I ain’t wantin’ to at the right same time, ‘cos she so pretty, my dead baby girl.

 

She always were so pretty. All my babies be pretty. All my babies be dead, by and by.

 

But now she dead, she a dead baby girl and a dead baby girl ain’t no use to nobody, not to hold ‘cos she all too cold an’ stiff, not to wrap in a quilt and suchlike like I done did ‘cos quilts too good to go to waste, not to love ‘cos I tired o’ lovin’ somethin’ that ain’t gone love me back.

 

Maybe I should-a hit her. That way she get to knowin’ I love her, me hittin’ her, ‘cos that what people do to people they love, nawt but hit ‘em. Maybe I should-a hit her and if I done gone get to hittin’ her she still be here. I still here. Lord knows, I still here while they go lying in them fields by the old house, linin’ them all up like dollies in some white girl’s game o’ House, ‘cept no white girl ain’t gone ev’r wanna touch no child o’ mine, they be dead or ‘live.

 

God, I get to thinking, why you keep giving me babies if you gone keep takin’ ‘em away from me? Why you make me have ‘em in the first place, why Pa keep lyin’ top-a me if he gone keep takin’ ‘em out to the woods or you gone steal ‘em from mah arms? I can’t go stoppin’ Pa from lyin’ top-a me if I try, he too big an’ strong. I ain’t trying, I ain’t, an’ it ain’t my fault when he turn around an’ hit me. He don’t lie top-a me, he lie top-a Mama, he don’t lie top-a Mama he lie top-a one them kids runnin’ round the house all hours the day, and they ain’t gone needin’ that. He hits an’ gets out his thing ‘cos he can. I done get to thinking that’s why you do what you do s’well, God. ‘Cos you can. Why else you keep takin’ way my babies and hurtin’ me like you so fond o’ doin’? Huh? Sofia say you a white man. I think you is a white man, but it ain’t gone matter if you is ‘cos you still a man. You can go livin’ in them clouds all you like, you ain’t no different.

 

They go lying in them fields by the old house, linin’ them all up like dollies in some white girl’s game o’ House. But at least the fields be purple.

 

For that, I suwwah, all get forgiven.

 

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