i'm not dead i swear. finally decided to post this from english; yet again.
task: to rewrite a part of the christmas carol by charles dickens this is from stave 3 of the book.
(i want to say i love how i wrote this pls love it too)
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Christmas was a joyous time for celebrations and feasts. Families gather to share laughs, toasting drinks to each other's health. All work would be pushed aside for this beloved festival as the streets fill with restless children and sparkling lights. Strangers would greet each other as old friends, tipping their hats off with smiles on their snow-dusted cheeks. The air would be sick with the scent of sweet food from the different households, each preparing their own fabulous dinners. Carols made their way into everybody's ears. Even heavy spirits would soon be lifted by the bright atmosphere.
This holiday was one of the reasons why Bob Cratchit worked so hard. He was a poor clerk, working underneath a man whose name was too wretched to even speak out loud to most people. But not to him — Bob Cratchit owed everything he had right now to Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge. His wife always pleaded about how he was underpaid, that he was working for more than he was paid to do. He always shook his head at her, smiling, and said that it's still money, and it helps them get by, and that is enough.
The incomparable feeling he got when he went to his family, to see everyone he loved to be in such high spirits and a disregard about anything other than their happiness, could make him weep with joy. That is enough. For all the work he could do in mills, prisons and workhouses could not make him tire of his family. He mused quietly to himself, footsteps muffled by the heavy snow on the way home. He would climb up the sky and steal the moon from her frame, he thought, staring at the night sky, if that is what could help his family survive.
Tiny Tim sat on his shoulder, shrivelling from the cold. Bob held him closer, reassuring him quietly, "We're almost home." His son's face instantly lit up with a beam, and Bob felt his heart clench. If there was one thing that he was truly worried about, it's Timmy's health. As dreadful as it is to admit, all the love in the world could not protect his son's weak body from the illnesses and crippled leg. To which point, Bob would agree with his wife, that yes, he should be paid more, if only to pay for Timmy's medical bills. Bob squeezed his son closer again as they arrived at their door; an entrance to a shabby little hut with four rooms. It opened with a loud croak.
"Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob, looking around the room crowded with his loved ones.
"Not coming," said his wife.
"Not coming!" said Bob, deflating visibly. "Not coming upon Christmas Day!"
As if that was the cue she was waiting for, Martha came charging out behind the closet door and right into his arms, while the two young Cratchits rounded Tiny Tim and carried him away to the wash-house to look at the simmering pudding.
"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs Cratchit, watching her husband and daughter embrace with a smile.
"As good as gold," said Bob, a puff of pride leaking into his voice, "and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people who saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, will remember upon Christmas Day who made lame beggars walk and blind men see."
He recounted as if in surprise, but truly, he wasn't. God is often cruel yet wise. He trapped an age-old soul inside a fragile body; a robust spirit caged in a brittle shell. Bob felt his heart swell at the thought of his son, so young yet so grown. Sometimes he liked to crush little Tim in hugs, holding his closer and closer, as if wanting to engulf him entirely. But sometimes, he would cradle his tiny, feeble hand, and rock him gently to dreamland, as if afraid he would crack open like a vase and wither away. Bob's voice trembled when he remarked to his wife that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.
The tap tap tap of his son's crutch brought his back to the present, and he saw Timmy being escorted by his brother and sister to his stool by the fire. Then, after he'd been properly seated, the whole house erupted back in full speed: Mrs Cratchit left to cook the gravy in a little saucepan; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; the two young Cratchits crammed spoons into their mouths in case they should shriek for food before their turn came to be helped. Bob carefully placed Tiny Tim beside him in a corner at the table, revelling in the excited buzz of the whole family.
At last the dishes were set and prayers were made. There was a breathless pause, as Mrs Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the goose; but when she did, when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all around the board. Even Tiny Tim, voracious in his beatings on the table with the handle of his knife, softly cried "Hurrah!"
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Finally, the dinner was done. The plates cleared, the table wiped, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire. With a lingering taste of the delicious pudding still on their tongues, all the Cratchit family drew around the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, and at his elbow stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers and a custard cup without a handle. However, these held their drinks as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob serviced it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily.
It was moments like these when Bob felt like he had the whole world in his palm, that he could grow wings and fly along the skyline. He stared at each of their faces — his family; his life-line and his life-force. The two young Cratchits were laughing, poking at each other, doubling over and screeching. Time seemed to slow, all sounds were muffled, and Bob felt like they were entrapped in a perpetual bubble of happiness. Outside, snow, rain, wind beat against the windows, trying to rattle the peace to no avail. They were safe inside this rutty hut — safe from the scowls of richer passerby's and troubles of the mind; from all the dirt, grime, diseases, and all the Scrooge's in the world. Nothing could stop this, Bob thought, they were radiant and alive — and nothing could take this away from them. He wanted to carve their faces into marble, of all their bright smiles and gleaming eyes, and paint them over with the most vibrant colours.
"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears!" His voice erupted from his lungs, "God bless us!"
A loud cheer echoed his words.
"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all, with eyes shining brighter than gold. Bob stared at his son in awe. He looked strong and healthy; an able-bodied boy. Maybe Bob didn't need to steal the moon for his family when they already have all the constellations sparkling in their souls, brighter than any star in the night sky. Innumerable and inexorable. He took Timmy's small hand in his calloused palm once more, feeling strength flow through him this time rather than fear. They were together, he thought, smiling, and that is enough.
