I want to be modern, but I am classical, you know.

"With me, poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion." Mr. Poe announced, holding a glass of red wine in one hand and smiling as he examined the faces of his colleagues. In his mind, he must be thinking that he made such an impactful statement given the crooked smile on his face and the manner with which he got up. Around the table sat the greatest writers of all time, staring at Poe, some disgusted at his audacity to declare himself the best and some considering whether he was really good at what he does or not.

Mr. Twain, whom you may know as Mark Twain was highly irritated at his statement and scoffed at him. "Best poet? Poe, if you’re the best, then I’m the emperor of China. Ever heard of Homer? Or Dante? There’s a whole history of greatness, my friend, and you’re just a dot on the timeline.” The others became silent and listened keenly to the two most disagreeable men in their gathering.

The other members of the club also began to argue amongst themselves, who the best was. Like any typical human, most of them suggested themselves as the best writers to exist.

The room was filled with the best classical writers across the world. They were present for their weekly meetings to discuss and interact with their friends. The chaos had spread across the room, but none of them got violent as to start hitting each other, although that would have been the case with Mark Twain and Mr. Poe, for the latter, had a very short temper.

A few were uninterested in arguing who the best was and sat quietly, observing the pandemonium. These authors obviously did not know what to do. How can people who are ¡highly honoured in the modern world, behave so irrationally? It just reminds me of the wedding of Peleus and Thetis. How Eris had caused a discord between Athena, Aphrodite and Hera about who the fairest was. She succeeded there and she succeeded here as well.

Someone has got to stop them from behaving so unreasonably.

Instead of arguing about who "the fairest" is, why don't they argue about something more interesting?

I stood up with my wine glass and spoon. The clinking sound of the spoon on the glass was able to grab their attention and stop the disorder for a while. I cleared my throat and lowered the objects in my hands, preparing to give my suggestion.

"Friends," I began, "how can we, the finest storytellers in history, stoop to such foolishness? Is it not dishonorable for us to argue over something as trivial as who is the ‘greatest’? Our Works speak for themselves. Why not channel this energy into something worthwhile?"

They stared, curious but skeptical. They turned their heads towards each other, wondering what kind of new activity I wanted to introduce. Like Solomon said, "There is nothing new under the sun."

I reached into my black bag and withdrew a stack of books. "These," I said, holding them up, "are retold versions of our works—modern reinterpretations created by writers inspired by us. Let us discuss these, rather than bicker about ourselves. Do they honor or desecrate our legacies?"

I passed the books around. Dickens received a retelling of A Christmas Carol. Austen held a modernized Pride and Prejudice. Twain chuckled as he flipped through a version of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Even Poe hesitated, curious, before taking a copy of The Raven, reimagined as a psychological thriller.

Of course, I wasn't able to supply each of them a copy of their own novel but I was able to hand out 50 copies to 50 different authors and with the period of silence and introspection that followed, I was satisfied with my intervention.

The room grew quiet as the writers began to read. Jane Austen was the first to speak.

She rose slowly, smoothing her skirts. “Retelling Pride and Prejudice?! Absurd. The writer has married Mary Bennet to Mr. Collins—of all people! And poor Charlotte Lucas—has she been written out of existence entirely?” Her voice was calm, but her face was covered in disapproval. Mark Twain agreed with her, as if looking for another instance to cause an argument. This time Mr. Poe was in support of Twain's opinion. He also thought the retold version was awkward.

In contrast, Charles Dickens found the idea pleasant. He felt that it gave the writer an opportunity to see ideas he didn't consider fit the time he wrote the book. In his words, it's like viewing the world from another person's imagination. Miss May Alcott agreed with him, also seeing the beauty in others ability to play around with their original works. Of course,she wasn't bought out by the person's version because Jo wasn't supposed to marry Laurie at the end of Little Women but she didn't like being narrow minded either.

Then, from the corner, Shakespeare let out a hysterical laugh. He slapped the table so hard his wine glass tipped over, spilling crimson liquid across the book in front of him. "What light through yonder window breaks? 'Tis comedy! They’ve turned my tragedies into farce!"

His laughter echoed as he stumbled toward the balcony, still shaking with mirth.

Gentle Homer had been observing the whole sequence since its beginning. His temperament changed after reading a few pages. With a grim expression, he tore several pages from his retold Iliad. "This... is an abomination," he declared, his voice thunderous. "The gods themselves would weep to see such travesty."

J.R.R. Tolkien, seated nearby, simply closed his book with a sigh and placed it on the table. "I suppose some things are better left untouched."

I had always wondered what classical authors thought about the retold version and adapted versions of their works. I never knew it would be this dramatic! Absolutely worth seeing! I wish you'd seen their faces. Some were absolutely repulsed, some angry at the audacity, a few impressed and others no remark. Nevertheless, I was satisfied that they behaved more honourably than before.

It was ironic how well I blended in. They didn't even know that I was an outsider!

I didn't believe I'd be in the afterlife now. After stealing those keys from Ivan, the Russian guard at the museum in Irkutsk, I was determined to know if the legends were true. It's an ordinary key, the guard had said to me. But I knew that couldn't be true since it was kept a big secret since and wasn't in public access. There were only three copies of the key in the world. One was in Germany, another in Mexico and the last one here in Irkutsk. It was called the Key of Life and had the power to transport someone to the afterlife, to meet people that once lived on earth.

I sneaked into the museum's secret quarters and found the door to the other world. On opening its lock, I stumbled upon an old fellow, who helped me navigate through the town. ¡He happened to be one of the classical writers. He liked that I was interested in novels such as these and I also thought it'd be a good idea to share with them the ɍetold versions of the classical books I'd packed with me. Fortunately, I got the chance to.

You tried. Reading this shitty thing I wrote, now can you guess who I am and who the old man who helped me is?

Surely the-gorilla might be able to figure this one out.

And if you're using dark mode, switch to light mode so that you can see the first image properly.

Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay