The Tortoise and the Hare: Reimagined

Bea Lovatt rewrites the classic fable The Tortoise and the Hare in three variations for their Reading Writing Genre unit.

Stories from generations ago continue to shape our literature today. How many ways can we rewrite these classic tales to speak to our modern world? (Image: Wix)

Not Lovers, But More Than Friends.

The annual community fun run had always been more about the raffle tickets and fairy-floss than competition. But for Tilly and Harrison, it was another stage for their long-running, undefined dance around each other. Friends? Flirts? They were not lovers, but certainly were more than friends. However, nobody, including them, seemed too sure.

Harrison, the endless brag, stood at the starting line in his neon Nikes, the most putrid green Tilly had seen. 

‘Five kilometres. Easy. I’ll be done before your marathon expertise even crosses halfway.’ His grin was blinding, equal parts charm and arrogance. 

Tilly tightened her ponytail with a huff, ignoring the way her stomach fluttered. She wasn’t fast. She had never been, but she showed up, rain or shine. It’s why she had so easily fallen into the addictive monotony of endurance sports. 

‘It’s not about speed,’ her remark was light-hearted, but charged with practised banter. ‘It’s about finishing.’ 

Flynn, their mutual friend, chimed in with an idea. 

‘Alright then,’ Flynn interjected, a playful smirk pulling at the edge of his expression as the pair turned to look at him blankly. ‘Bet time. If Tilly beats Harrison, he has to take her on a real date. No more this ‘whatever you two are’ nonsense.’ Harrison laughed, a little too loudly.

‘Sure. Why not? I’ll enjoy my free ice cream at the finish line while Tilly is still on kilometre three.’ Tilly simply smiled, though her heated cheeks. For once, there was a prize she actually wanted.

The starting horn sounded, and Harrison bolted. The crowd cheered as he shot forward, leaving Tilly with a pack of walkers and slow joggers. He was fast, no doubt about it. But speed had never been Tilly’s goal. She had found her rhythm: left, right, breathe. All the while, Harrison, high on adrenaline, couldn’t resist showing off. He stopped to grab a drink, posed for photos, and even jogged backwards at ogling spectators. Why hurry when victory was certain?

Except certainty has a way of slipping. His legs grew heavier than expected. The bursts of energy he’d shown off eventually left him gasping. By kilometre four, his ego crumbled into disbelief, because Tilly, steady as the sunrise, was gaining ground.

She passed him with a nod, breath ragged but posture maintained.

For the first time that day, Harrison was speechless.

The finish line banner loomed ahead. Tilly crossed it, chest heaving, eyes wide in a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. A new five-kilometre personal best to show for her efforts. The cheers blurred into background noise. She had done it, slow and persistent.

Harrison stumbled in minutes later, more flustered than he’d dare admit. The crowd cheered regardless, but Tilly just looked at him, waiting. He hesitantly approached, scratching the back of his neck. The cocky grin was gone, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. 

‘Guess I owe you dinner,’ he said quietly, between breaths. Tilly’s expression softened into a genuine smile. 

‘Sure, Harrison.’ She agreed. ‘I’d be honoured.’ 

This time, when his hand brushed hers, he didn’t pull away. And finally, their chase had found its finish line.

---

The Universe’s Introduction to Humanity

We had all made fun of the Humans when they finally managed to join us. Their advancement to intergalactic socialisation surprised us all; we hadn’t tracked them to develop interstellar travel for another ten rotations of their star, Sol. Yet there they were, mid-galactic rotation, stumbling into our communication channels with their crude languages and terrestrial political conflicts. But our research had shown us one terrifying thing: despite their undeveloped nature, the people of Sol were so brutal a people, they had rules of war. 

And so, we had welcomed them out of fear of discovering why such a simple species required such rules of warfare. We had welcomed them, not just to our trade paths, technology and knowledge, but to our celebrations and traditions. And so here they now were, the primitive bipedal species, now contenders in our Gauntlet.

The crowd roared inside the orbital arena, a carefully constructed hollow torus of Zariam Steel and illuminated glass, hanging in orbit above Proxima Centauri. The human below adjusted his helmet, trying not to look like prey. Hserrik of the Z’kara towered opposite the human, posed on his starting platform, scales shimmering like living metal. Z’karaian physiology: a catalogue of advantages; dual hearts, reactive muscle fibres, claws sharper than steel. The muscles across Hserrik’s back twitched and flexed with anticipation. Every species present knew the Humans never stood a chance. 

The signal blared. The Gauntlet began.

The course twisted through the torus, walls of shifting gravity, plasma vents, and magnetic storms. Hserrik leapt forward, a blur of claws and scales. The audience shrieked approval as he scaled a wall in seconds, muscles adapting like liquid machines.

The human stumbled at first, boots dragging against the rotating floor. He moved slowly, carefully, testing the artificial gravity before committing each step.

‘Pathetic,’ The commentators’ voices echoed the sentiments of the galaxy.

But the human pressed on.

At the plasma vents, Hserrik flaunted his Z’karaian biology, slinking through the heat without a flinch. He lingered, bowing to the crowd, mocking the human who lagged behind.

The human paused, watching the crowd ripple with admiration, his poorly evolved eyes following the illuminated symbols in alien text that glowed on the surrounding glass. Humans still couldn’t decipher the intergalactic languages without translators, but the arrows his gaze fell upon were a universal symbol. 

The human turned slowly, his gaze falling on where the starting platforms had sunk back into the floor. Below him lay a decorated, shimmering green line. The gauntlet was a large loop, orbiting the audience pit. And so, the finish line was in front of him and behind him. A line he was told he had to beat the Z’karaian to, but not how. 

Cautiously, he turned to walk back, ignoring the boos of the alien audience that watched him. He continued back towards the unobstructed finish line.

The holographic line shattered as he crossed it.

Silence fell. 

A human had beaten a Z’karaian in the Gauntlet. Not through evolutionary advantage, but through wits and patience. 

Humanity might be young, but they were a species that would not follow rules unless they were given.

And in that arena, on that day, the galaxy began to see why.

A Riddle Until Dawn

---

The boy hadn't meant to linger in the ring of toadstools. He had only stepped inside for a moment, chasing the glow of foxfire on the moor. But when the ground folded in on itself like a turning page, he stumbled into a hall of frost and firelight.

The Unseelie Court stretched vast beneath the infinite night sky. Fae Lords and Ladies, pale as moonlight and sharp as glass, feasted on crimson fruits that bled when bitten. Musicians plucked strings of spider-silk, their songs blending into the quiet hum of festivities that warmed the air. 

At the heart of it all, on a throne of frozen thorns, sat the Seelie Prince. He was a creature woven of summer light and cruel amusement. His golden eyes lingered on the boy, who wandered, enchanted by the Solstice celebrations. The Prince watched eagerly as the boy took a hungry handful of berries from a platter he passed, mindlessly dropping one onto his tongue.

‘You ate,’ the Prince said, his voice a melody wrapped in iron, ‘a berry not meant for mortal teeth.’ The boy blinked back in confusion. ‘The law here is clear: you are bound until freedom is won… or lost.’ The boy’s stomach twisted. He spat the berry out. But it was too late. He was caught.

‘How do I win?’ The Boy asked. The Prince’s smile bloomed like a knife. 

‘A game.’ The Prince announced with eagerness. ‘One riddle, woven to last until the sun’s return. Answer true before dawn, and you may walk back through the circle. Fail, and you remain, forever.”

The riddle unfurled in verses, twisting like smoke in the air before the boy.

What rises without feet, warms without flame,

Gives life yet takes, and dies without name?

The boy frowned. Each word was a trap. The Fae were riddlers by blood and bone, their tongues sharpened on conundrum. He had no gift for such things.

‘Too slow already,’ the Prince teased, reclining arrogantly as his goblet refilled itself. He turned his attention to revels surrounding, to dancers spinning like snowflakes, toasts offered in silver, and challenges exchanged at dice.

The boy sat on the cold floor, heart hammering. He turned the riddle over and over in his mind. What rises without feet…? warms without flame…? A thousand answers came to him and failed. The crowd jeered, waiting for him to stumble. He listened to the songs, the cruel laughter, the scrape of goblets, and the slow turning of celebration. As the night came to a close, the Prince grew careless, drunk on his own triumph. He stopped watching the boy entirely. 

‘Look, boy,’ the Prince leered, gesturing to where the black sky paled at the edges and the first thread of gold slipped through, ‘your time is almost up; it is soon sunrise.’ The words washed over the boy, sunrise.

‘The answer,’ The boy said, voice hoarse with disbelief, ‘is sunrise.’ The hall shuddered. The Fae hissed. But the law was older than their fury. The toadstool circle cracked open once more.

The prince’s eyes blazed with frustration. ‘A child of clay outsmarts me?’

The boy stepped through as dawn crowned the moor with little more than a silent prayer of thanks for his patience. Behind him, the Unseelie Court raged against the morning.