English Transformation Drafts

This is just a collection of my drafts through the following month or so. These are the drafts that will lead up to my final transformation from my base text The Werewolf by Angela Carter. It involves witches, werewolves, and curses. I will include the plan as well.

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18. Full Copy - Draft 1

~~Transformation from ‘The Werewolf’ by Angela Carter

People are different here,
Warmer.
No beasts linger in the woods,
Trying to catch the old drunkard as he stumbles his way past.
No sinister shadows,
Cast against the wooden logs of their houses.
No small children cry, afraid,
As they dance around the hot, glowing fires,
Happy with their choices.

The devil may be real,
Or not.
Believed to be an apparition,
Appeared to only those who have sinned.
Therefore the good people have no fear.
The worst beasts that are known of,
Are the few lone wolves.
Living out their last days in the forest,
Alone.
Like the bones of the dead,
Buried in their separate graves.

They do believe in witches,
Since the Witch-Hunter of the Citadel arrived,
He found three, yesterday,
Three innocent women accused of heinous sins.
All they had done,
Was be better,
Than their neighbour.
A black cat should mean nothing, but it proved,
To be the most damning of evidence.

Three women,
Put to death, yesterday,
Burned at the stake, bound to burning wood,
As their skin melted clean off.
Their barren houses,
Burnt to the ground,
No man went pilfering,
Through the wreckages,
No man wanted to touch,
That which was tainted by sin.

-

There was a girl, a jewel amongst them,
Treated as such, loved as such.
Innocent and sweet,
And full of kindness.
She watched the burning spectacle,
Flaming balls of orange death danced,
Around her heart, into her body.
Twisting their way around her soul.

The flames made her nature rot,
Burnt away her morality,
Her facade melting,
The flames were turning her.
Making her complicit in condemnation.
No longer the Earth-born angel,
Her tongue wasn’t silver,
But the colour of the curses she shouted.

“Burn in hell!”
“Curse your families!”
“May your bones shrivel!”
“You are paying for your sins now!”
“Burn in hell, evil witches!”
“You sicken the Earth!”
“Farmland poisoners!”
“Die, burn, die!”

Their angel had spoken,
The townspeople made their stand,

“Listen to our angel!”, “What she says is true!”
“Evil witches, evil witches!”, “Die, burn, die!”

-

But she is no Gabriel,
No Michael, no Raphael.
I aliken her to Lucifer trapped in hell.
She is no angel.

Innocent she is not,
Her kindness hath rot,
Uncaring, she watched her mother’s suicide,
And when her father tried to scrutinise,
The death as murder, caused her brother,
To crucify, his soul,
As his sister played a minor role,
In the play that was her life,
Which she was cut from with a knife.

-

I take it personally,
And I will certainly,
Right the wrong of this town,
I will tear down,
The girl who thought it funny,
To laugh at the women’s misery.
I call upon my art,
And I give her no running start.

Slice of liver, lock of fur,
Ground up claw and maiden’s hair.

Trickle of blood,
Wings of bee,
Slab of mud,
Dried root of tree.

Wisp of shadow,
Furl of dark,
Grass of meadow,
Feather of lark.

Through nights of cold and wintery storm,
A monster, not a girl, reborn.

Come to me, my precious, my sweet,
I believe I have found you, the perfect treat.

Your signal is the dark, pierced by the moon,
Quickly now, my precious, night will be upon us soon.

-

The jewel that once shone, will now,
Turn into a spined creature of the night.
Oh what a sight, she will be, oh she will flee,
Her life will change, perhaps she'll flee to the mountain range,
To the forest, dark and shadowed, scampering over the hallowed grounds.

She'll stumble,
And fumble and fall and cry.
She'll cry because she'll have no one to say goodbye,
To the people who once loved her, once cherished her,
The people who'd now wish she'd be punished for having the darks arts within her careless soul.

Oh how she'll hate this,
This new accursed sickness.
No longer will she perform this,
This open facade that will fool no one,
And she'll know she'll have to run,
Far away from where the gifts begun.

Adoration she will not receive,
Now nicknamed Adam’s Eve.
Maybe then she'll realise what she has become and leave.

“Wolf!” they'll cry, “Witch!” they'll teach,
“Burn in hell!” and “Die!” they'll preach.

She'll turn, in the dead of night, alone.
In the forest where now calls home.

Maybe she’ll live, and maybe she’ll die,
Maybe she’ll be stoned, or maybe she’ll fry.
Maybe she’ll have a family, keeping her darkest secret on her own,
So alone.

Maybe she'll even have a child if she acts proper.
Maybe her teeth and claws will be sharper.
Maybe she’ll kill anyone she once knew,
But this day, oh this day, she will always rue.

I gave her this punishment, this curse, as a sign,
She will murder, and on the corpses, she will dine.

Petty child, don’t you fluster,
One things for sure, you will prosper.


WORD COUNT: 831

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