Text transformation creative writing course work, please comment?

She ran her hands through the heads of the knee high bluebell heads, the tallest of their kind anywhere, but not today, today they were all ash on the smouldering earth. The forceful wind blew ripples, waves, tides, in the great dead sea. It had changed since yesterday; yesterday it had been alive. She came to small fire, well into its embers: the culprit, next to a pair of once fluffy rabbits in a miniature wrought iron cage. From the abyss of black the thundering of hooves, closer, closer, her heart found a rhythm of missed beats.

‘It’s okay Ofelia.’ He demounted the black white horse. He was a gentleman, she thought, that, or a highwayman. ‘Fair morning to thee, welcome to the land of dead. What do you here?’ She held the flower basket to him as she walked closer, stopping a foot from him, and answered, ‘picking flowers for all the people at court. I think they need some colour in their lives.’

He nodded, ‘Well, these flowers will add no colour to their lives.’ He spoke without humour, without emotion, he spoke wearily, like an old man beaten by the world, but he was young, she could see by the way he stood, straight back, keeping his height, square shoulders, keeping his width. But his legs were strange, double hinged, resembling horse’s, or goat’s legs; there were faun’s horns hidden beneath his hat, a tall capotain with a magpie plume of green and purple but mostly black. He wore a waist length black cape over a puffed black shirt with dark green trim, and black padded hose and stockings met by knee length deerskin boots. Everything he wore was black, or near to black, everything but the ball mask hiding his face; that was ivory white. ‘A smile to hide the shame in the job’ he told her- without shame- when she asked what it was. ‘But where’s the ball? I’ve seen no people in costume going to a ball, and surely they’d head to Elsinore, not to this place. I wonder if you could point me to Elsinore?’ she asked him. He nodded, and answered ‘you stand on it. And there be no ball, I am a killer, and this is my killer’s mask.’ He pulled a matt black pistol from his cape, to reiterate the point; ‘who takes a loaded gun to a ball?’ He fingered the trigger, before letting it back into the short furrows of his cape. ‘I used to carry a scythe’ he told her. Hey, she thought, knowing then why she trusted him even though he held her an arm’s movement from gun point. She fell into his arms. ‘Still slave to the parasympathetic nervous system’ he lamented, with a light sigh. Soon enough she stirred, and ventured groggily, ‘Death?’ He nodded. ‘Yes. The grim reaper; very grim- hence the mask.’

‘And you’ve come to reap?’

‘Yes. I would offer you a coat, but they’re all bloodstained; Denmark is ill; seems every other person’s a murderer these days.’ He tapped his ebony sceptre on the ground, ‘come,’ he said, ‘see who’s showing tonight.’

He held her hand. She felt it warm. He pulled a small glass candle lantern from his cape, slid down one of the panels slightly so as not to let to much wind or rain in, and blew, lighting the storm proof candle with breath of blue flame. They walked, arm in arm, the final distance to the great coliseum invisible beside her, dim light came through the grand entrance between the blood drenched statues of Mars and Zeus on pillars taller than ten men stacked. Enough light for the arena, he decided -it made its own light- and folded the lit lantern back into his cape. Three thrones- two occupied- slightly off from the centre (that occupied by a sole standing figure). It was still night, but bluer black as she followed Death out onto the sawdust. She walked close enough to see that it was her father, Polonius, sat on the largest throne. He wore a green and purple jewel encrusted platinum crown, and sat next to a beautiful Queen. ‘Ofelia, dear; dearest . T’is the jewel in my crown, pride of place amongst the emeralds and amethysts, come to sit and be princess of our realm.’ he grinned, the fondest grin she’d ever see. Her mother smiled too. The fool lamented at the top of his voice- ‘oh boo! t’is the ugly duckling of the ugly duck and fat pompous faun! Boo hiss!’- to rapturous laughter and applause from the unseen audience high up in the stands. King Polonius clapped too, and pointed to the empty throne beside him. The fool bought her a silver crown on a purple velvet cushion, before running back to the centre of the ring. ‘Daughter dearest,’ said her mother, ‘how good it is to see you again- to see you from my own level- I can see why you drive men mad.’

Tears welled in Ofelia’s bright eyes. ‘Mother, father, together?’ She laughed, and a cold hand landed on her shoulder.

‘Ofelia, Ofelia t’is I: Hamlet, your prince.’ Her eyes confirmed it when she turned. She looked to her father, who looked to Death, who produced a black book of psalms, and held it for her, a living lectern, to follow his finger and read. ‘The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in gr