I used to be adamantly against fan fiction. The idea of taking an already well known story and writing your own take on it seemed wrong to me somehow. Writers should create new worlds, new stories, and new characters instead of just relying on someone else's. Then, I began thinking of this in a different way, and my opinion changed.When I was in art school, we studied the greats. Part of that was doing master copies. We'd choose a painting by someone we greatly admired and attempted to copy it to the best of our abilities. I spent hours pouring over books and staring at masterpieces in museums. This exercise allowed us to not only discover how they made that piece but how to riff on it. We could make it our own a little, and thus, were a part of it somehow. In music, you see the same thing. Would Adele covering an Aretha Franklin song be considered the same as my old definition of fan fiction? No, it would be considered an homage. Musicians take songs they admire and put their spin on them not only as their own expression, but out of respect for the artist who originally performed it.Film is no different as is performing arts. Any director, actor, or dancer will tell you about their influences and mentors. I've never heard any performer say no one inspired them. No one's work impacted their own. This is how styles and genres are defined and expanded upon. Fan fiction in the writing world is more of an homage. This is the realization I've come to. Of course, there are good and bad versions of this, and plagiarism should never be tolerated. The thing to consider is every piece was deeply inspired by someone else's work, and they sought to create something they thought was beautiful from that inspiration. To build off of someone else's world is an active practice of admiration. Look at Wicked, both the musical and the book series. This is considered fan fiction, but what an amazing form of it. Gregory Maguire took a story that is internationally known and celebrated, and he made something beautiful and unique by showing us a different take on the story. Everyone knows the story of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, but he takes a darker view of the whole thing from the Wicked Witch's perspective.My one caveat to all of this is, and of course this is just my personal opinion, if you are a true creative, you shouldn't live completely in the homage world. Pay tribute to the ones who inspired you, but then create work that is just yours. After all, that's how the next generation gets inspired.In the spirit of homage, I will share a flash fiction story I wrote. (Flash fiction meaning it's under 1000 words.) I adore Alice in Wonderland. Always have. This story is one I wrote as though Alice went back to Wonderland to find everything very very wrong. Please enjoy.All This For A WatchBy Michelle ReneWe both stared into the hole beneath the shriveled tree. The poor dear was quite dead now and gnarled in a crippled sort of way. A cold breeze ruffled our clothes and the rabbit cupped his paws over his nose for warmth.“What happened to the tree?”“Once it was green and never was it mean,” he said looking away.“Now you speak in riddles?”“I only speak in sorrow and so will you if you return.”Looking at the poor creature in front of me, I had never seen him worse off. His white fur now looked spotty and balding in places. The small waistcoat he wore was in tatters. His signature possession, which I had yet to see him without, was gone. Some creatures are simply not meant for carnage.“You are much changed,” I said.He nodded, and I gazed down into the dark hole once again. There was a smell rising, like dead things.“What happened?”“Go see for yourself. And if you see that cat, tell him he could have helped.”I leapt down into the hole and fell as I did before, crashing through several nests of black feathers along the way. They embedded in my dress and stuck to my arms the way they might a bird’s wing. By the time I landed, I was adorned in a costume of black plumage.Something solid landed heavily on my head. It fit like a helmet, and when I removed it to inspect the thing, I saw it was a rather large cap and beak of a bird. Possibly, these were the remains of a normal sized bird, and I had shrunk as I so often did.Replacing my helmet, I soldiered on through the broken doorway and out into the garden. My flowers, even the insulting ones, were plucked and mercilessly woven into large nests. A hair’s ear, a lizard’s tail, and a few errant cards were stuffed in among them. The garden appeared scorched and raw. Chess pieces littered the field, scattered like corpses on a snowy battlefield.Two large ravens pecked and played with a poor red bishop who pleaded for his life. They tossed him about just the same, laughing at his misfortune. One wore a rather ornate hat of a style I recognized.“Stop that!”The ravens ceased their torment to face the shouting voice. It happened to be my voice. With a few flaps, they were upon me. One to the left, and one to the right.“A hero?” asked the one to my left.“But she looks like one of us,” said the right.“Surely not a hero.”“Behold what we do to heroes.”One raven gestured to my friend, the white knight. He had fallen from his horse in the snow, perhaps for the last time. He had always been so gallant, and now he was so terribly still. A white knight among nothing but white. Such a queer and horrid sort of camouflage. When I looked beyond the trees, other eyes stared back at me, hidden eyes. They were watching me, hoping for my help.“I am no hero,” said I, standing as tall as I could.I was, despite my best efforts, still only was as tall as the birds’ bellies.“I am a raven like you.”“Raven!” squawked one of the beasts. “We are no raven! We are magpies! There were four and twenty of us, but now only two. And not three.”The magpies began to advance on me, and I took a step back for some distance. One jingled a bit when he walked, a beautiful pocket watch purposefully wrapped around his leg. I wasn’t sure what to do for answers can be elusive. Yet there was a glimmer, only a glance really, of a crescent smile directly behind the birds.“A poem I think,” said I with a sudden confidence.I leapt onto a nearby rock and puffed out my chest as a raven might do.“How doth the little crocodile…”“Bah!”“Who wants to hear of crocodiles?”They were agitated and getting closer again in a menacing way. Snow crunched beneath their feet, and wilted flowers fainted beneath the snow. Again the smile flashed behind them, a little closer this time. If I wasn’t mistaken, there was a wisp of a wink as well.“How doth the little magpie,” I yelled as they approached.The two beast ceased their malicious march, and smiled as best as birds are able. Magpies rarely cared anything for the truth and loved only what was fashionable. I continued my rhyme as the shadow of a cat floated closer behind them.“Improve his shiny beak.”“And pour the blood of those who die,”“Across from cheek to cheek.”“How cheerfully he likes to grin,”“With freshly polished jaws.”“But the danger tends to lurk within,”“The cat’s unfriendly claws.”Their surprise only lasted a moment before the Cheshire Cat ripped the birds to ribbons. There was a flutter of claws and feathers, and before long, the rapid beating of wings was silenced. When the deed was done, a cheer rang out through the woods. The living ran forth to help the injured and mourn the dead.I removed my raven’s helmet, and looked the cat in the eyes. A chilly wind passed between us. He only smiled back, seemingly unmoved by the carnage. Cats often live for carnage, so perhaps it was merely the nature of his breed.“Hello, Alice,” he crooned gently.“You could have helped sooner,” I snapped.“Yes, I could have,” was all he replied.I reached down to the magpie who jingled and removed the lovely watch from his leg. This required breaking a few of his heavy toes, but it was no matter to me. Perhaps I too was becoming the type unmoved by carnage. Either way, the watch had to be freed. I had a friend who needed it back.