This began as a creative writing prompt in one of my English classes. It takes the poem of Jack and Jill, and it is in the perspectives of Jack, Jill, and their mother, Dame Dob.

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Jack, Jill, and Dame Dob in the Story of Fetching Water.


Jill and I had reached to top of the hill, and we quickly filled a pail with water from the well. Neither of us enjoyed the errand for Maman, but she would punish us if we didn't do as we were told. As we turned to go back down the hill, I tripped on a rock. It set me tumbling down the hill, my sister not far behind. I couldn't stop, couldn't slow down as I rolled over and over, cracking my head on another rock at the base of the hill.
Tears sprang to my eyes, but I could not, should not, would not cry in front of Jill. Strong boys don't cry. Ever. Even when my body aches from the tumbling, and my head is spinning; my brains feel like scrambled eggs. There is blood on my clothes, blood dripping off my face. Jill looks ready to puke. She's soaking wet from the pail, which is now completely empty.
"Jill, Jill, go fetch another pail of water," I told her. "I'm going to find Maman to stop this bleeding." I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry! The mantra pounded in my throbbing head, vision blurred as I stumbled towards the cottage. Jill stared after me anxiously before complying, and running back up the cruel hill for more water.


I reached the hilltop once more, shivering slightly in the breeze. My clothing was soaked, and I'm sure I got a bruise on my bottom from that fall. At least I wasn't bleeding like Jack. He's so brave. I could see he wanted to cry. He must be in a terrible lot of pain.
Quickly, I refilled the pail with water, and carefully, if hurriedly, made my way back down the hill. I would not trip over anything, and get soaked again. Poor Jack. I hope he is all right. I'm sure Maman will fix him up just like new.
I stepped into the kitchen of the cottage, placing the pail by the door, and then went over to the fire where I stripped my clothes off. I could hear Maman in the other room fussing over Jack, and smirked. If I could just get changed before Maman finds me and the wet clothes, then I will be able to play some more later. Quickly grabbing my wet clothes, I snuck up the stairs and into my bedroom. I moved a chair near the corner of the room where I got some heat out of the kitchen chimney. I slipped into another dress and stockings, put on my other shoes, and went downstairs again.

Dame Dob.

I had just finished cleaning up my young Jack from his tumble with vinegar and brown paper when his little sister came stomping down the stairs. Her hair was still wet, but she'd changed into dry clothing—the girl hates it when I make her stay inside.
She took one look at her brother, and started laughing. Now, I wasn't going to have none of this. It's not kind to laugh at him in his situation. "Don't you laugh at him little Dame," I scolded her. "It could just as easily been you. I see you got wet, still."
She looked at me wide eyed, innocent-like. I refused to let it work. I took that ripe wench into the kitchen and gave her a good whippin' for her insolence. This of course set her into tears and she slunk into her room to sulk.


A/N: More will come later! It started off short, but I see advancements, surely!