A Writer’s Tale

[Hawkman]

William swore as his quill snagged on the cheap paper, spattering a pattern of inkblots across the page. He’d have to write it out again after trimming the nib, which right now, looked more like a brush. He sighed, gazing disconsolately at his ink stained fingers, and, not for the first time, longed for a typewriter. Yes, a typewriter and a photocopier, together with an infinite amount of time and a troop of bright monkeys.

William had none of the above.

Photocopiers and typewriters were in short supply in 16th century London. Of course, it might have been different if he’d been living in 15th century Florence. A quick chat with Da Vinci and hey presto, problem solved. William didn’t speak Italian, but they’d almost certainly have been able to communicate using a mixture of bad Latin and gesticulation. The end result would probably have been made of wood, but if it worked, so what?

However, this was London, and even if he could have found someone as clever as Da Vinci, when the Guild of Scribes and Printers found out about it, they’d have been round faster than you could type ‘broken fingers’ and persuasively argued the case for not snatching the bread from working men’s mouths. Emphatically, they’d scream, “Demarcation” at him, while the bones in his fingers vainly tried to resist the impact of a primitive, high-mass, recalibration tool. Not noted for their welcoming attitude towards innovation, the guilds.

Time was also in short supply. Even equipped with a typewriter, a troop of bright monkeys would never have managed to get it together by tomorrow morning. There was no alternative, William would just have to work all night. Again.

He took out his penknife and attacked the nib, but only succeeded in cutting his thumb.

“Anglicans!” he swore, then realising that this particular quill was beyond repair, fruitlessly searched for another. With no useable pen to hand there was nothing to do but raid the kitchen, where Mistress Volestrangler, the cook, was preparing a goose.

Mistress Volestrangler was as unwelcoming of trespassers in her demesne as the Guilds were jealous of their trades. It would be prudent to be neither seen nor heard. Being caught, in flagrante delicto, was something he wished to avoid at all costs. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about. Though less overtly menacing than the hammers of the guilds, William knew from experience that the cook’s wooden spoon was a deadly instrument of corrective therapy. Mistress Volestrangler was an artist of discouragement with her weapon of choice, and having buried three husbands, knew exactly those portions of the male anatomy which would be most responsive to pain.

William decided to take no chances; the risk of discovery was too great. He took a moment to reinforce his codpiece with suitably impact resistant material, though the resultant bulge would have made a troubadour’s groupie faint with shock. But this was of little consequence; there were no troubadours in residence, so it was unlikely that any groupies would be encountered, even in the kitchen.

He was about to sally forth when he remembered that a wooden spoon also has a handle. He paused just long enough to slip a small board into the seat of his hose, then crept down the stairs.

The entrance to the kitchen was like the portal of hell. Within, the great hearth blazed, its flames heating the interior to a degree all too reminiscent of the infernal realm and painting everything inside with flickering shades of red. The air was thick with smoke and the aroma of charred flesh. In the centre of the room, upon the kitchen table, lay the un-plucked goose, but of the demon who ruled here, there was no sign.

Seizing the opportunity, William tiptoed across the flags. Taking a firm hold on a wing, he grasped a handful of primary feathers with his spare hand, and pulled.

Bent to his task, the first indication that he had been discovered was an awareness of a heavy paw landing on his shoulder. The second was a resounding crack as the tip of the handle of a wooden spoon impacted forcefully on the board guarding his rear.

Mistress Volestrangler was surprised by the lack of efficacy in her initial assault, but not non-plussed. Being a woman of ample proportions she knew very well how to exploit her own mass, employing both the benefits of inertia and the power of leverage. With practiced ease she spun the interloper round to face her.

“Varlet!” she bellowed, and upon being confronted with the bulging codpiece, screamed, “Beast!” before aiming a vicious underarm swing at the offending area with the inverted bowl of the great spoon.

The blow lifted the feather-thief to his toes, and although he certainly felt it, disappointingly, he completely failed to sink to the floor, doubled up in agony.

“Harridan!” yelled William, in response, but although Mistress Volestrangler’s ruddy countenance now registered respect, both for the size and resilience of her secondary target, she remained undiverted from her corrective mission. Deftly reversing her weapon, she delivered an accurately aimed poke to his left eye.

“Aaaargh! exclaimed William, clutching at his wounded orbit with a hand still full of goose quills. Fortunately, they did no further damage.

“May that teach you to keep your inky fingers off my goose and your degenerate personage outside of my kitchen. Worthless scribbler! I’ll remind you that I’ve not been paid this se’n-night and lest you earn a groat, we’ll be eating ought but dust come Sunday.”

“Ungodly witch, I need a pen to write, the lack of one will truly see us starve, and you shall have no pay, nor dwelling too, without my efforts on this needful play!”

“A pretty speech, why don’t you write it down?”

“Perhaps I may.”

The cook just snorted and dismissed the playwright from her thoughts as easily as she had from her kitchen.

William retreated, muttering under his breath. He had his quills, but it had been a pyrrhic victory. Practically blind in one eye he would also require some padding on his stool. He had not been incapacitated by the blow to his groin, but despite his foresight, he was discomforted. Well, with luck, it would keep him from falling asleep as he toiled over the pages. It was going to be a long night.

[Delta40]

A very well written and highly entertaining piece Hawk. Poor William (Shakespeare? lash me for not having read him) having to deal with the likes of Mistress Volestrangler. I guess my only question is why would he long for writing instruments that did not exist or is that merely a ploy to highlight the difficulty of the times?

Anyway, the value a cook and a playwright place upon themselves in a household is also well made in the story.

[Charles Darnay]

Certainly anachronistic at times, but I'm sure you are aware of that. And it is not as distracting as I initially thought it would be. I imagined the whole thing as a cartoon (one of those "Triplets of Belville-style animations) - not sure why.

Anyway, very entertaining!

[MANICHAEAN]

An enjoyable tale Hawkman, full of all the free-wheeling imagination, and prerequisite unauthorized license that a good writer derives from historical facts. Well done.

You might be interested to know, that there was internecine conflict at one time within Lit Net, regards a claim made that Shakespeare was an Italian, and thus feasibly from your story, might have acquired his typewriter.

I’m not one to gossip as you know, but there are those that argue that the Bard was in fact born in Messina in Sicily as one “Michelangelo Floria Crollalanza.” Upon the family fleeing to London at the time of the Holy Inquisition his Italian name was translated into English “To shake a lance or a spear: Shake a spear.”

Loved the potential gay appreciation of the cod piece thing. Great linkage of themes, as of yet unexplored in all the PhD’s produced by eminent Shakespearian scholars.

Keep up the good work.

M.

[Hawkman]

Gosh! that's a hell of a lot of views in less than 24 hours... either people like it a lot or folks are clicking on the thread and and then clicking right off again - lol.

Delta: Thanks for sticking with it to the end :D I'm hoping that this will be an ongoing collection of shorts featuring our hero. The reason why William longs for a typewriter may well be discerned in subsequent episodes. ;) Well, maybe not a reason, as shuch - lol. Actually, there is one, but I'm loath to reveal it. It would spoil the joke.

M. Darnay: thanks for reading. I really don't mind how and by what mechanisms you found enjoyement in the piece, just so long as you did :)

Man: Thanks to you too. Once again you grace a thread of mine with the courtesy of your eye :D I am of course delighted that you too enjoyed it. As for the contentious issue of Mr. Shakespeare's origins, I have heard many strange theories of what they may have been. Personally I choose to adhere to the most sane, which can at least fiind some documentary evidence in official records. The son of a Glover from the Stratford area, who was employed in a lawyer's office, married an older woman after getting her pregnant and then ran away to London.

Da Vinci, as we know from an earlier thread, had his own problems with the inquisition, and even if Shakespeare was, in actual fact, an Italian immigrant, unless he was a lot older than we've been led to believe, the temporal anomally of a hundred years or so would seem to preclude any likelihood that these two genii could ever have met. :D

Thank you all again for reading and for decorating the thread with your comments.

Live and be well - H

[BookBeauty]

Really well written.

I love this line:

''The entrance to the kitchen was like the portal of hell. Within, the great hearth blazed, its flames heating the interior to a degree all too reminiscent of the infernal realm and painting everything inside with flickering shades of red. The air was thick with smoke and the aroma of charred flesh. In the centre of the room, upon the kitchen table, lay the un-plucked goose, but of the demon who ruled here, there was no sign.''

Very masterfully done. :) Keep up the good work! I look forward to progressive pieces.

[Hawkman]

Thanks BB. Glad you like it :) You may rest assured that I will add to it when I have the time.

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

"A sad tale's best for winter," quoth the Bard, but as your light-hearted offering attests, that's not always the case.

A quill, a quill, my by-line for a quill, aye? I've often wondered just how the h. he did it, without the benefit of not only a word processor or at least a ballpoint pen, but also cheap and easily-obtainable paper. Not to mention the lack of an ergonomically comfortable chair and desk, electric light, coffee, and maybe --since chronologically I can't say how far along Sir Walter Raleigh may have progressed during the time setting of your story --smokes(just in the nick o' tine.)

Pretty sure Shakes. had never known about the urban myth which posits that conceivably, given enough time, 1000 typing monkeys could randomly tap out Hamlet.

Also, the daVinci reference aside (blast that Dan Brown for attempting to exploit and ruin Leo's mystery!), I am perplexed how even the greatest writer who ever lived would've imagined a typewriter and a photocopier. Unless this is an alternative universe, a la a fantasy such asGame of Thrones.

But both anachronisms may be part of this story's appeal. (William, after all, used a couple of anachronisms himself, e.g. the reference to a clock in Julius Caesar.

Coming up with Mistress Volestraglr as the name of the kitchen-guarding cook
is ingenious. In addition to making her seem as if she goes out into the garden and chokes unwitting burrowing creatures for luncheon, her name sounds as if she'd be more comfortably whipping up a sauerbrauten than a steak-and-kidney pie (or the Elizabethan counterpart.) Still, we remember how English began structurely as a Teutonic language, and later evolved into a polyglot blend of Anglo-Saxon words, with multiple borrowings from the Vikings, Danes, and aforementioned Germanic tribes as well as Latinate words, both directly from Hadrian's occupation as well as filtered via the Norman invasion of 1066. That's why Shakespeare and his lesser contemporaries delighted playing with the Language of the Land, inventing neologisms and puns, and why to this day we have so many synonyms at our disposal, a feature which proves to be difficult for students learning English as a Second Language.

As to the possibility of William Shakespeare being an Italian immigrant, like the explorer John Cabot, I really don't buy it. He was, however, well-versed in the lore, borrowing heavily from the tales originating in Verona, Venice,
Sicily, etc.

To reiterate, this story is a delight. Keep 'em comin'!

[Hawkman]

Thanks Auntie, I'll try no to make you wait too long ;)

Live and be well - H

[smerdyakov]

A flawlessly written piece I would nearly say. The choice of language is clever and reflective of the time you are trying to capture. The "story" itself is somewhat lacking, and that's the only criticism I have. Nonetheless, I appreciate the humor, and the light-hearted vein it was written in. On the whole, a well conceived, and enjoyable, piece. Well done.

[Hawkman]

Thanks smerdyakov. Not much story - Mmmm. Well I grant you that it's short and describes a fairly trivial event. However, it does actually fulfill all the requirements of a story. The scenario has a protagonist with a goal, an antagonist who represents an obstacle to be overconme, a challenge, a conflict and a resoulution. Therefore the elements which comprise the three act structure are all present.

I'm glad you appreciated the humour though, and this thread will expand the chronicles of William in the future. Hope you'll continue to visit it as they arrive.


Live and be well - H

[Steven Hunley]

This read was a sheer delight. The language was spot on.
I have only two suggestions for the readers that know their English Lit.


"You might try “Dante’s infernal realm” and “ungodly witch of three.”

When something is this enjoyable, it's hard to suggest anything to make it better. Great stuff.

[Hawkman]

Hi Steven and thanks for reading. Thanks for your suggestions, however, in context I don't quite feel they are appropriate. To say, 'Dante's infernal realm' implies that it is Dante that rules there and not Satan (or in this case, the cook.) To have said, "Dante's Inferno" would be more accurate but would require the sentence, even the paragraph, be reworked to accomodate it. Likewise, to suggest the cook was one of three doesn't fit in context as there is only one cook. It wouldn't fit for another reason, too. William is speaking in iambic pentameter and your phrase couldn't be incorporated without breaking the flow. You will, however, be delighted to know that reference to that particular play is made in the next instalment, and features Mistress Volestrangler. :D Hopefully, it will be ready to post sometime today.

Live and be well - H

[Hawkman]

The lonely flame on the stump of a candle which had been burnt at both ends was just guttering into oblivion as William inscribed the final words;

“As you from crimes would pardon’d be
Let your indulgence set me free.”

He permitted his own indulgence to luxuriate in a sigh of satisfaction, then looked up, just in time to witness, through the blurry medium of his leaded panes; morning, in the bowl of night, fling the stones which put the stars to flight, while rosy fingered dawn caught the Tower of London in a noose of light.

He ran the words through the filter of his muse. ‘Nah,’ he thought, “Not my style,’ then wondered what time it was. How long had he laboured for his latest love? He hoped he’d not lost the plot. He found himself listening out for the sonorous tolling of Big Ben, but not surprisingly, didn’t hear it. Curiously, he was both disappointed and relieved. He blinked and tried to concentrate on his immediate surroundings. It was dawn, it was the 21st of October and that meant that it must be about 7:30 am. He breathed a sigh of relief, for he still had plenty of time to make it to his appointment with Burbage and the Chamberlain’s Men at 9. Then he remembered that there was, as yet, no such concept as daylight saving time and that it was actually 8:30 am.

As a result, he had neither time for breakfast nor a wash. The latter was but a secondary consideration. He still had another 3 days grace before he was due for his annual bath. However, the lack of breakfast would be a chore. He wondered if he could manage to squeeze in a bite if he took the tube, and calculated that it would be possible if he ran to Moorgate. If he left from Liverpool Street he’d have to change there anyway. From Moorgate, a mere two stops would leave him at London Bridge, and no more than 500 yards from the Globe.

He gathered up the pages of his manuscript and thrust them into his leather satchel, then clattered down the stairs to once more brave the wrath of Mistress Volestrangler. There was no need for secrecy this time; he was within his rights when demanding food.

Taking care not to cross the kitchen’s threshold, he peered inside and spied the looming presence of the cook through the ambient smog. She saw him and scowled.

“What do you want now, wastrel? You’d best have no designs upon my goose!”

“In truth I have not, though I would have you feed me. A mug of ale and sandwich will suffice.”

“Aye, I’ll grant you ale, but what’s a sandwich?”

“Why, ‘tis but two slices of bread about a fill of meat. I would have bacon with a leaf of lettuce and tomatoes, preferably diced.”

“Aye, I’d rather Bacon too, but I’m stuck with you. With him I’d be more certain of my pay. What, by all that’s holy, are tomatoes?” The cook was both irritated and bewildered by William’s outlandish requests.

Unaccountably, William found that he was unable to give a satisfactory reply to her last enquiry.

“They’re red things, like a kind of fruit, with seeds,” he said uncertainly. It was all he could come up with.

Well, it was too late for strawberries, and Mistress Volestrangler was at a loss to fathom what he could possibly be talking about. The only red things she had in the pantry were apples. They would have to do. Bacon and apple didn’t actually sound disgusting, unlike her employer’s other appetites. The memory of his assault upon the goose with a bulging codpiece was still unpleasantly vivid.

“Wait there,” she said, as her monumental bulk shivered with revulsion. “Don’t even think of moving and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Pray be swift, for I am already late upon the hour of this morning’s conference.”

“If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly,” replied the cook then busied herself with the filling of his order.

William mulled the line over in his mind and decided he liked it. Reaching into his satchel he scribbled it down on the back of a page with a pencil taken from his scrip. Secretly, he longed for a biro. He didn’t know what a biro was, but he knew he needed one. What he didn’t know was that they leaked. Even if he’d owned one, his fingers would still have been covered in ink and half the time the thing wouldn’t have worked.

When the ale arrived he quaffed it down, which meant spilling most of it down his doublet, then, with the sandwich in hand, he sampled the culinary invention. It was crunchier than he’d been expecting, and the flavour subtly different from his imagining, but it was not unpleasant. He gave the cook a cursory nod and headed for the door.

“Go, wretch, and don’t return without some coin,” said the cook to his retreating back.

“My coffer’s need is just as great as thine,” replied the bard through a mouthful of sandwich, but before she could think of a suitably withering repost, he was gone.

Having observed the favourable response to the improvised breakfast, Mistress Volestrangler decided that she’d try it for herself and returned to the kitchen with a thoughtful expression on her face. She was imagining a little booth in the heart of the city, filled with merchants eating sandwiches she’d sold them at a penny a go. Better yet, a mug of ale and a sandwich for a groat. She decided to experiment with fillings; the usurers of Threadneedle Street probably wouldn’t appreciate bacon. But what was she to call the venture? The fleeting gleam of avarice in her eyes faded into the dullness of perplexity. What exactly was, a “subway,” anyway?

Outside, the morning bustle of Bishopsgate assaulted William’s senses as he emerged, blinking, onto the street. The raucous cries of vendors, calling out their wares, competed with the curses of those who had not avoided showers of night-soil tipped from of upper-story windows, and helped to anchor him in time and place. This was his street, the loathsome stink of it familiar and comforting. Nimbly side-stepping the effluvia raining down from above and leaping gutters running with the same, he threaded his path through all obstacles with practiced ease.

He was making good progress, and it was not until he turned onto Liverpool Street that a vague sensation of unease began to permeate his being. All was familiar, and yet there seemed to be something missing.

Something big.

His pace slowed momentarily as he looked about him, but all was as he remembered it. He thought for a moment that he might have forgotten his manuscript. But the satchel which contained it bounced reassuringly at his side. He opened the flap and checked anyway. There it was, safe and sound. Closing the bag again he hastened on his way.

It was not until he arrived at Moorgate that he realised what had been nagging at the back of his mind. There had been no railway station at Liverpool Street. Consequently there was no tube at Moorgate which, not surprisingly, also lacked the convenience of London Transport. In fact he had absolutely no idea what the Tube was. What he did realise was that he was still a goodly distance of half a mile or so from the river, which he would now have to cross by water taxi. From Queenhithe to Bankside would take far longer than he’d allowed for. There was absolutely no way that he would make it to the Globe on time.

Suddenly he felt dizzy. He sank to his knees then leaned back against a wall. Completely disorientated, he clasped his head in his hands and wondered if he was going mad.

[AuntShecky]

This installment's full o' laffs-- a "laff riot" almost.

The joke about the BLT was great. Poor Francis!

Ditto, the biro.

By the way, the apple wasn't too far off the mark. Back then didn't they refer to tomaters as "love apples." But, like many tastes of love, they were considered poisonous.

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie. I'm really happy that you were able to enjoy this instalment. It's nice to know the jokes work :)

Sounds like you may have already, but in case you haven't and crave more history of the tomato, you might want to check this out:

http://www.landscapeimagery.com/tomato.html

Live long and prosper - H

[MANICHAEAN]

Hawk

Delightful playback between 16th C & today, or what was what, or am I losing me marbles? (Were they invented in fact?) My plodding footsteps, thrilled to your goat like leaps in the story.

Best wishes

M.

[Hawkman]

Thaks, Man, I hope you enjoy the next instalment as much :D

Live and be wel - H

[Hawkman]

“’Ere, you feelin’ alright, chum?”

The voice penetrated William’s daze and registered as coarse, but not unkindly. These thoughts moved sluggishly through the writer’s addled brain and before he could react, the speaker spoke again.

“I said, are you alright, guv’nor? You looks a bit peaky, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

William groaned and without looking up replied, “My friend, in truth I feel my wits have fled. This very moment did I know true dread and am unmanned by thoughts which are become confused. If I asked you what became of London’s Tube, how would you answer?”

“I’m not sure that I would,” said the voice, “Not until we’d established a common frame of reference. I mean, it would depend on what you meant by ‘Tube’. Are we talking about some kind of pipe, or a trumpet? Makes a difference, see. Now if I was using the word in the sense of, ‘something’s gone down the tube,’ I’d be saying it’d gone to pot or was rubbish. Now you wants me to make it specific to this town, and seeing as rubbish belongs in a midden, after looking around, I’d ‘ave to agree that it might be a description what you might call appropriate, seeing as ‘ow the streets is running with sh*t.”

William blinked and looked at his Good Samaritan for the first time. Of unprepossessing aspect, he identified him a character, who, in a list of dramatis personae, would have been placed amongst the ‘also rans’ of ‘sundry servants or attendants.’ As this one had been granted a speaking role, one of which he seemed happy to take full advantage, he classified him as; ‘A Rogue.’ To his horror, he detected the vague flicker of recognition playing about the man’s rough features.

He knew what was coming next.

“’Ere, don’t I know you?”

“Friend, I am sure that we have never met.”

“Nah, I never said we’d met, but I’m sure I know your face. Are you an actor?”

William’s pride would not allow him to deny it. “I am, and writer too.”

“Now I know ‘oo you are, you’re that Bill Shakebeer, ain’t you.”

“Shakespeare,” said Shakespeare.

“Whatever. ‘Ere, take my ‘and and get yerself off the grahnd.”

William accepted the offer gratefully and hauled himself to his feet. “Do you attend the plays?” he asked.

“Well, not the plays as such. You might say that the theatre was, what you might call, my place of work.”

“Are you in a company?”

“Nah, I’m more of a freelance. Freelance, eh! Makes us sort of a pair, dunnit. Freelance and Shakespeare, get it?” The man laughed the kind of laugh murderers laugh when they kill.

“Aye, ‘tis a pointed jest,” replied William, warily.

“’Ain’t that the truth, guv’nor.”

“So you work behind the scenes?”

“You could say that,” said the rogue with a grin.

“Properties?”

“Other people’s, mainly.”

“Ah,” said William and mentally added ‘Cutpurse’ to the label of ‘Rogue.’ Without thinking, he ran his hands over his possessions to check that they were still there.

The Rogue smiled. “No need to worry, master Shakespeare. These ain’t working hours."

The playwright was relieved to hear it.

“But about the playhouse, I goes for entertainment too.”

“You do?”

“The girls are accommodating, if you take my meaning.”

William did. The theatres were notorious as a rendezvous for the servants of Aphrodite and their eager supplicants.

“So, you see I’ve seen you around, and per’aps I’ve heard a play or two. It’s on account of this I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, I 'ave.”

The writer was at a loss as to what the roguish cutpurse had to gripe about. He was about to find out.

“It’s the language, see?”

William didn’t.

“Why sir, what about it turns thy liking, and so grates upon thine ear, love’s made hate?”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” exclaimed the villain. There you go again, spouting ‘poetry’ at me.” The inflexion on the word, ‘poetry,’ exactly matched that which people used when vernacularly describing dog droppings. “Poetry’s for the nobs,” he continued, managing to convey the silent k in a way that left William in no doubt of his intent. “People, real people, like me, don’t talk like that any more, that is, if we ever did.”

“Well I do,” said William.

“Yeah, but by your own admission, you ain’t right in the ‘ead. What I want is a bit of social realism, chum, not your high-falutin’ ideals. Life’s ‘ard enough without ‘avin’ to aspire to ‘ideals’ as well. Besides, ‘oo can understand it? We’re at the end of the 16th century mate, on the cusp of the 17th and you and your fellow playwrights is always spouting ‘poetry’ at us. It’s anachronistic, is what it is!”

William had never thought of it like this before.

“Ordinary people like me, the man on the street, you might say, just wants to see their real lives reflected in contemporary drama; a bit of ‘ow’s yer father, a fight or two and a funny bit with a dog. Now that’s not too much to ask, is it?”

“Perhaps not,” replied William, diplomatically, while thinking, ‘all the world’s a critic.’

“Well, now I’ve ‘ad my say so you think abaht it, ok?” said the man, without rancour, You all right now?”

“I thank you sir, I am,”

“Then I’ll be on my way. You take care now, master Shakespeare, and think on what I’ve said. There’s many a schoolboy not yet born will lie abed and thank you for it, you mark my words,” and so saying, the cutpurse disappeared into the bustle of the street leaving William alone with his thoughts.

Perhaps he was right. A playwright’s duty was to convey universal truths to his audience, but maybe it was more true at a baser level, communicated in the language of the street. He held this thought only as long as it took to think it, then dismissed it out of hand.

The greatest truth of all was that it was the nobs, with and without a k, who demanded poetry, and it was the nobs who paid.

[AuntShecky]

hey, now we're getting down to the ol' nitty-gritty, aren't we now, Guv'nir?

There's plenty of that there social realism in Shakespeare, no quest. about it,
but that wasn't his intention, n'est ce pas? All he said he was doing was holding up the mirror to human nature. Whatever nature the humans glimpsed wasn't his concern, you get me?

You know what though, this particular section of the highly ingenious thread you've started is smack spot on, as far as satirical insight goes. A bit of a parody, too-- the dialogue between our Will and that "freelancer" (ha, ha) is just like old school American quiz shows, like "What's My Line" and "I've Got a Secret." (Guess ya gotta be as "mature" as your ol' Auntie is to remember those programs.)

[MANICHAEAN]

"Its all very simple guvner, for I found you as a morsel, cold upon dead Caesar’s trencher, with eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, full of wise saws and moral instances. And as the sixth age shifted, into the lean and slippered pantaloons, your youthful hose well saved a world too wide, for your shrunk shank.

Better to be some jay of Italy cut off even in the blossoms of your sin, unhouseled, disappointed, unaneled. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressors wrong, the proud man’s contumely?

When he himself might his quietus make. With a bare bodkin, who would fardels bear? To grunt and sweat under a weary life.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o`er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment. With this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

Let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung, the story is extant, and the writ in very choice Italian. Lay not that flattering unction to your soul. Get my drift?

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie, thanks for sticking with it :D You may not be aware but we did have a very subdued version of "What's my Line" over here, very polite and stiff upper lippy :D Anyway, thanks for enjoying it.

Man: Er, so you're saying what, exactly? - LOL. Very ingenious reply and I kind of think it means you like it, which is nice :)

Live and be well - H

[MANICHAEAN]

Hawk

Actually, the way you have been writing the last section, reminded me of how I used to struggle with 16th Century English parlance, especially the Bard. So I had a file that I dug out with translations of such words (now perhaps obsolete, except to old duffers like myself.) I was especially enchanted with the way some of these words, used to roll off the tongue. So in meetings I used to introduce: unaneled, contumely, fardels & then watch the body language of the attendees! It varied between blank looks or "What the hell are you talking about bud!"

Best regards
M.

[Hawkman]

You are a naughty Man ;)

Live long and prosper - H

[Hawkman]

The Warden of Christ’s College looked up from his crystal, blinked slowly, then pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He had been scrying for hours and Uriel had been remarkably evasive in his answers to the great questions put to him by the ageing magus. Eventually he had given up and ranged his vision across the city to observe the comedic antics of London’s rising star of literature. It was an activity which had become addictive, a real life soap opera, as voyeuristic as Big Brother but considerably more entertaining. Watching the bard’s endeavours in the East End had become a staple of his evening’s televisual viewing. The man had such a fertile and receptive mind, and the people he interacted with, were: well, there was no other word other than, ‘bizarre.’

But now, weak from fasting, and with muscles stiff from the discomfort of sitting still for so long, the old man rose to his feet and stretched as far as he dared before causing himself further pain. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he took a moment to steady himself against his desk, leaning upon it with his left hand whilst the right stroked his long white beard.

He peered around the dim interior of what had once been the greatest library in Europe. The fire had burned low and was now little more than a ruddily glowing pile of ashes sulking on the hearth, and the few remaining candles barely competed with the blades of daylight slicing through the gaps in the shutters. It was time to look upon the world with natural vision.

He took up his staff, and supporting himself with it, made his way to the windows, his feet shuffling to the rhythm of the stick as it tapped its slow pulse against the bare boards.

Clunk, schlup-schlup – clunk, schlup-schlup…

When the shutters were thrown back the daylight brightness was blinding, but his ancient eyes adjusted, and he looked through the leaded panes onto the green of the well-kept lawn which extended down to the river at Mortlake. Opening the window he leaned out and took a deep draught of fresh air and felt instantly revitalised. His head was cleared, his vision sharpened and his nose revelled in the scents of earth and water. They were a welcome relief from the alchemical fume of the library’s interior.

“In truth, the room needs airing,” the old man said to himself, and turning away from the window, made his way to the door and went in search of sustenance.

With every step he pondered upon a dilemma. It was, he realised, a dilemma of his own making, for although he was completely ignorant of the concept of quantum mechanics and had never heard of Heisenberg, he was vaguely aware that the act of observation opened a door, and doorways allowed passage in two directions. Occult knowledge was occult power, and occult power was a dangerous energy. It could distort reality, change things and bridge time. Time, after all, was, is and always will be, relative.

The play which Shakespeare had just written, should not have been written, at least not yet, though who would know, unless it was performed before it should be. Therefore, such a performance must be prevented. Fortunately plays didn’t happen overnight. They required time for casting and rehearsal, and maybe, a little publicity to draw the crowds. So, the ancient wizard had time to intervene, time to tease history back on track, time to put things right.

For once, time was on his side.

Sort of…

As a man who in his youth had discovered the Elixir Vitae at Glastonbury, John Dee, mathematician, astronomer and sometime astrologer to her majesty Queen Elizabeth, found it galling, that now, well past three score years and ten, he had survived so long the perilous times in which he lived, but had still grown old. He’d rather hoped for eternal youth, not this seemingly endless extension of his dotage.

Of course, the Elixir had other uses.

The old man rather suspected that they would come in handy if he was going to succeed in his aim of correcting the historical aberration he had so carelessly engendered. The material was precious, and he had been husbanding his supply with considerable care. But, he reflected, it was a worthy cause, and anyway, he doubted if he could stand more than another ten years or so of a life stretched out so thinly. He could spare a little, for he was going to need gold. Gold had properties that tended to be remarkably persuasive. Gold, coupled with the threat of dire consequences, could be even more so.

The playwright was not venal by nature. He was truly an artist whose reward was found in public approbation and the roar of the crowd. However, he was always short of cash and the harridan who kept his kitchen had an unforgiving nature. True, Shakespeare was capable of generating the modest wealth necessary for his requirements by the labour of his own hand, but the full bloom of his success was yet to flower. Consequently, his compliance could be bought with gold; and yes, perhaps intimidation. Gold would not be a problem for John Dee; as soon as he’d had something to eat he would go and make some.

Threats, however, were not his area of expertise. He would have to think about them over breakfast.

[Hawkman]

When William eventually arrived at The Globe he had found it deserted. He wasn’t surprised by this. By now it was well past ten in the morning, and in the absence of the playwright, the company would have retreated to an alehouse. Actors were, after all, beings of notorious thirst, and required little excuse to indulge in the futile quest for the quenching of it. They were also creatures of habit, so he had a pretty fair idea of where to find them. Consequently, it was with some confidence that he followed his feet as they plodded on an unerring course to The George at Southwark. It wasn’t far.

Strolling through the door of the inn, he was immediately confronted by the chaos which was the inevitable accompaniment to the carousing of theatrical players. Burbage was the easiest person to spot amid the great press of humanity which crowded within. This was because he occupied an elevated position above the throng, a result of his having climbed upon a table in order to declaim more publicly. His stage voice bellowed over the heckling of his peers and the other patrons’ demands for ale and victuals.

“Was this…” projected Burbage, waving his tankard and spilling liberal splashes of its contents.

“Give us a pint, love”

“The face that…”

“Not that old chestnut!”

“Launched a thousand ships and…”

“C’mon, Richard, Marlowe’s been dead five years!”

“Burnt the topless towers:- What’s that?”

“I said he’s been dead five years!”

“Philistine! Marlowe is immortal!”

“No he ain’t, he’s dead!”

“Well his words are!”

“Bollocks!”

“And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a...”

“Listen chum, the only kiss you’re likely to get will come frae Glasgae if you d’nae shut up!”

“So that’s 3 pints of ale, two meat pies and a basket of deep fried parsnips!”

“You got it love!”

“Kiss...” concluded Burbage, visibly sagging with discouragement. It was at this moment that he caught sight of William struggling towards him through the crowd. He perked up again and resumed his declamation, but on a different theme.

“Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of Stratford: And all the clouds that lowered upon our house…” At this point he subjected the anus of the body politic, those who had dared heckle him, to a withering stare, “…In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;”

“You should be so lucky; lucky, lucky, ducky,” interrupted an anonymous voice from the crowd, stimulating laughter from the audience.

“Our bruised egos hung for monuments:” continued Burbage, unabashed, “Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings.” He leapt down from his table-top and embraced William like a long lost brother, managing to shower him with the dregs of his tankard in the process.

“Good morrow, Richard, well met are we indeed. I see you’ve not been sparing of the cup, save that perhaps you’ve spilled more than you’ve supp’d. I’d hazard you’ve an hour or more in here,” said Shakespeare, prodding Burbage in the belly.

“Well, what’s a man to do, Will? I had a feeling you’d be late, and anyway, you’d know where to find me. So, have you a new play for me?”

“I have, and such a play, the like will light your stage and grace the ear of any crowd.”

“Now that is music to my ear, old friend. Let’s fill our cups and find a place to talk, then tell me of the subject, and my role.”

They battled their way back to Burbage’s table and Shakespeare summoned Nell, the barmaid with a wave.

“Yes lads, what’ll it be?”

“Two pints and a plate of crackling, please Nell,” said Burbage, tossing her a coin which she deftly fielded.

“Right you are chuk, won’t be a minute.” She disappeared into the crowd.

As good as her word, she swiftly returned with their order and the two men seated themselves. Then, between sips and crunches, they got down to business.

“So,” began Burbage, “What’s it called then?”

“The Perfect Storm,” replied Will.

“Good title!”

“I thought so.”

“And what’s it about?”

“Oh, you know, the usual…”

“The usual what?”

“You know, ‘The usual.’ Brotherly betrayal, treachery, a bit of a love story, redemption and forgiveness.”

“Oh, the usual. Any new twists?”

“Well, there’s some magic in it, that’s always a crowd pleaser.”

“Nice.”

“So how does it start?”

“With a shipwreck.”

“Oh, great, said Burbage, “So we have to do the whole play drenched to the skin after some stagehand has earned his penny by flinging buckets of water over us.”

“Ah, sorry about that, I didn’t think.”

“Never mind. Where’s it set?”

“On a mysterious desert Island.”

“Ah, now that’s good; it should save a bob or two on props and stage dressing.” Burbage began to warm to the idea. “Henslowe! Henslowe!” he bellowed above the din, and was answered by a distant squeak.

“What?”

“Henslowe, Shakespeare’s got a new play!”

“Does he want money up front?”

Burbage observed his companion with narrowed eyes and William squirmed.

“Looks like it!”

“Ha!” squeaked Henslowe from his corner of the tavern. “Is he likely to get it?”

“Depends on how good it is.”

“That’d be no, then,” laughed the impresario.

“What would you know, Henslowe?” yelled Shakespeare, “You know more about brothel keeping than how to run a theatre!” He was so annoyed that he failed to realise that he hadn’t spoken in iambic pentameter.

“They’re one and the same, Will. It’s all about peddling illusion,” Henslowe yelled back, still laughing.

Unnoticed, beneath the general hubbub and the shouted exchange, an uneven pulse was beating a relentless path towards the actors’ table.

“How much do you want?” asked Burbage.

“Five pounds?” William asked, hopefully.

“What’s my role?”

William was becoming aware of the tapping on the floor, but he refused to allow himself to be distracted from his negotiations. “Prospero, Duke of Milan, usurped by his brother and marooned with his daughter, Miranda on an enchanted isle. He commands the elements and spirits of the air; ‘tis a goodly part.”

“Tempting,” countered Burbage, “But is it worth an advance of five pounds?”

Clunk - schlup, schlup… Clunk – schlup, schlup…

“Where is that coming from?” asked William, no longer able to ignore the sound. He looked over his shoulder towards the source of the irritating noise.

To his surprise he observed that a venerable old man was heading purposefully towards their table, and seemingly, the crush within the ale-house miraculously parted to ease his passage. Moses couldn’t have done a better job with the Red Sea. Every time he took a faltering step, he planted the tip of his ornately carved staff on the floor of the tavern with a clunk. William couldn’t help noticing that it had a knob on the end.

The man was clad from head to toe in black, which only served to accentuate his pale skin and long white beard. His eyes though, were brown and kindly. Having reached the table the old man halted and addressed the seated playwright.

“You are Master Shakespeare?”

“I am sir, but who is it that asks?”

“My name is Prospero.”

“****!” said Burbage under his breath. William groaned.

“I understand you have a new play.”

“What makes you think that?” asked William, ingenuously.

“Apart from the announcement screamed a few moments ago in this very room, you mean?”

“Ah, well, what if I have?”

“I have reason to believe that its principle character bears my name, communes with spirits and casts enchantments.”

“How could you possibly know that?” asked William with genuine astonishment.

“Would you like to take a guess?”

“Because you commune with spirits and cast enchantments?” hazarded William.

“I knew you were a bright lad.”

“And your name is truly Prospero?”

“It is.”

“You know, you look uncommonly like John Dee.”

“So I have often been told,” replied the sage with a twinkle.

“And if we perform my play, what will happen, exactly?”

“Apart from my suing you for defamation of character, you mean?”

“Well you could sue us, ‘tis true, but would you win, if by your own admission you commune with spirits and cast enchantments?”

“Almost certainly,” replied the sage, “and for that very reason. Such things are known to be very influential. But there could be other consequences that you wot not of.”

“Like what, exactly?” chimed in Burbage.

“Like the end of the world.”

“Such a consequence would seem somewhat disproportionate,” said William.

“The reasoning is complicated, I’ll admit, but such is the possibility.”

“Only a possibility?” asked Burbage.

“I see you prefer certainties. Very well, if you persist in attempting to perform this play during my lifetime, I’ll turn you both into toads. Is that certain enough to satisfy you?” The mage was still twinkling, but it was the cold, hard twinkle of adamant.

“It is a very persuasive argument,” conceded William.

“I knew you would be sensible,” said John Dee, in a much softer tone of voice. Besides, I have no wish to prevent this play from ever being performed. It is a very good play, destined to be performed before a King. Your star is rising, master Shakespeare, but I suggest you keep the manuscript under lock and key until say, 1611. One thing though,”

“Yes?” asked William.

“The title,”

“What about it?”

“You should call it, ‘The Tempest.”

“Mmmm… Not bad,” said Burbage.

“I grant you it’s a good title, but if it’s not to be performed now, how am I to live? I was counting on the money and I need a play.”

“Fear not, Master Shakespeare, your needs will be met. I have taken the inconvenience into account.” So saying, the aged seer extended his hand and deposited a purse in front of William. As it settled on the table it chinked in that friendly way that only a bag of gold coin can manage. “You will have another play in a matter of days and this should tide you over quite comfortably until it’s finished. I know you’ve been thinking of a likely fiction to adapt for the stage. In truth I believe ‘tis more than half written in your head already. ‘Twill be a Venetian comedy about a Merchant and I know it will be a success.”

“It will?”

“Definitely. Now gentlemen, our business is concluded, and I’ll take my leave.”

So saying, the venerable John Dee turned and slowly walked away, his staff, as always, tapping out the rhythm of his passage.

In later years, Scholars would remark on certain temporal incongruities within the text of The Tempest, and even speculate on the identity of the man who had inspired the character of Prospero. There would even be debate as to when the play was actually written. What cannot be denied is that it was indeed performed before a king in in the year 1611 and that an air of mystery and magic surrounds the name of William Shakespeare. What could be more fitting in a writer’s tale?

[Hawkman]

I have finished my Shakespearian tale and note that I have made some significant historical errors. The first is Master Shakespeare’s route from Bishopsgate to Moorgate. Tiresomely, both these stations are outside the city wall which marked London’s boundary in Elizabethan times. At this time Liverpool Street did not exist. The quickest route from Bishopsgate to Moorgate would have been along the wall.

In my last instalment, which concludes the tale, I have implied that the Merchant of Venice was written in 1598. Certainly it was first published in 1598, but unfortunately on 22nd July, when the date is stated in the second episode of my tale as being 21st October. Philip Henslowe’s diary makes reference to, “a Venetian Comedy” as early as August 1594, though there is no certainty that this was indeed Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. The first officially recorded performance of the play is given in my edition of Shakespeare’s works as being in front of James 1st on Shrove Sunday, 1605. It might have been preferable to have chosen “As you Like It” for the unwritten play, in fact I had planned to have Burbage misquoting the, “All the World’s a Stage” speech in the tavern, but rejected it for the reason that it had not yet been written.

John Dee was Warden of Christ’s College Manchester in 1598. However, his diary for that year ceases on 11th March and does not resume until June 1600, when he records leaving for Manchester from London on the 10th. The next entry is on the 18th when he arrived in Manchester. It is, therefore, not beyond the realms of possibility that John Dee was at his Mortlake home in October of 1598.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this little fantasy.

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

Well, Sir, I think you may have outdone yourself here.

Not that you are in the habit of resorting to your "B game," this is your A-plus game: not some run-of-the-mill posting but rather an offering. I do hope that we LitNutters are worthy of such an extraordinary tour de force.

If I were to categorize the entire story, I would say it could be placed in the realm of speculative fiction-- not quite the same as garden-variety biographical fiction and not necessarily fantasy or SF. The other day a LitNutter alluded to the novel Nothing Like the Sun another "take" on W.S. by the brilliant Anthony Burgess, whose other speculative fiction biographies include such diverse subjects as Jesus Christ (Man of Nazareth), King Arthur (Any Old Iron), and Atilla (Hun.) Burgess was one of the finest British novelists of the last century, so good for you to be in similar company.

That you did a great deal of research to produce this work has not gone beyond notice.

Upon the last two installments--
on the John Dees section-- I might've already mentioned that despite the delightfully playful themes of this work, I detect at least one serious notion-- in which a serious writer take the challenge of producing a work seriously (without taking himself too seriously!) Of course you know what's coming-- a reference to T.S. Eliot's "Tradition and Individual Talent" in which Eliot implies that the new poet (or writer) should be aware of the responsibility involved in contributing to the canon of works that have come before his. That seminal essay includes another one of Eliot's notions that a poet acts as a "catalyst" to produce a new work, much like a chemical reaction. In a way, poetry can turn ordinary elements into gold (so to speak)-- Poetry as alchemy. The appearance of the the Ur-Prospero, John Dee in his lair-- a kind of laboratory --made me think of this, though we all know that Shakespeare was the true wizard (the fact that Eliot criticized Hamlet is merely beside the point.)

I thought the concluding Burbage episode was funny. I guess actors will always be actors, even after 5 centuries.

And about your final comment. Years ago there was a little TV special on J.R.R. Tokien (What's with these writers of allegories that they have to have a multitude of "r's" in their names, George R. R. Martin being the latest?) Anyway, in that special Prof. Tolkien displayed the notebook containing the incomprehensible runes and lexicon of Elvish, the language he had invented for Middle Earth. In the process, he noticed a error, exclaiming something on the order of: "Oh, dear me, that should be a [unpronounceable Elvish character], shouldn't it now?" At which point he erased the erroneous rune or letter and fixed it right on the spot.

While watching that little bit of footage, I laughed so hard I nearly fell on the floor. "Oh, who on earth would possibly know that?" I exclaimed. My younger daughter, who was a college student at the time, said that I'd be surprised at the number of Tolkien devotees who would pick up on that "mistake."

I remembered that anecdote when I read of your painstaking details in attempting to get the time frame and the London locales correct. As I surmised about Tolkien, few of us LitNutters (at least the non-Brits) would have noticed any poetic license you could have employed for the dates and sites, and if we had, it certainly wouldn't've bothered us.

But it bothered you. Which is yet another reason to believe that you are nothing but a committed professional, and a responsible, careful artist.

Hats off to you, Hawkman.

[Hawkman]

Thanks for that Auntie. Oh, and just as a matter of interest, The site now occupied by Liverpool St. Station, was, in Shakespeare's day, St. Mary Bethlehem Hospital, the original Bedlam. It was moved in the 18th Century to St. Geoges Fields, at a cost of some £17,000. This site is now occupied by the imperial War Museum. The current Bethlem Royal Hospital is in Bromley.

I must say, I rather like the notion of being an alchemist of poetry (or writing in general) though I'll leave it to others to make the claim for me :D

The question is, though, should I rewrite those areas which are flawed, or just leave it as it is? I confess, I'm tempted to rewrite. It would not be a major job, just a tweak here and there.

As to the nature of my fiction I guess it comes under speculative fantasy. I freely admit to inspiration by Tom Stoppard, who co wrote Shakespeare in Love, and any number of scholars and writers, including Coleridge, who wrote a note indicating temporal anomalies in the text of The Tempest. This fragment of a remark, taken out of context, was in fact, the catalyst which sparked my embarkation on this tale. I approached it very much from a Pratchettian angle and gave it my own peculiar spin. What we are left with is plausible improbability :D

Anyway, I had some fun writing it, and I hope all those who have stuck with it have enjoyed reading it.

May you all live long and prosper.

H

[Steven Hunley]

Well, I'm near LA and we DO have oil wells and all so...allow me to gush!

This was just great and I agree about the BLT too. The word play was first-rate. It's funny, when I need pirate dialogue just "do the voice" (the Robert Newton voice) and within moments, Begaarrrrr! After that the words come easier. I just might be that when you wrote this you were "Methinking and Hencing" in your sleep, that is if you talk in your sleep. However you do it, it's highly enjoyable methinks for certes!

[MANICHAEAN]

You are one of my favourite writers, especially the range of your imagination, the crafting of your work & the irrepressible ingredient of humour that comes through in your character.

Bless your cotton socks.

M.

[Hawkman]

Why, 'tis young Master Hunley communicating from the New World! Good morrow, sir, but, i'faith, thou shouldst not gush, for oil wells that do, pollute the seas, and that can be expensive - ask BP ;)

Thanks for enjoying this little piece, Steven. I'm glad it tickled you. I have actually revised it to correct those little historical abberations which were troubling me, and I've also tweaked the odd sentence and played with the punctuation a bit. However, I haven't posted the amendments, it'd be too much work. I suppose I could have reposted the entire tale as a complete revision, but a lot of people have already read it as it is, and although I have extended the paragraph which deals with William's realisation about Liverpool Street, and altered the ending so that the unwritten play is As You Like It, (an excuse to add a couple more literary jokes) the vast majority of the story remains unchanged. I don't think I talk in my sleep, though I have been known to snore a bit. As for immersing myself in the language of previous ages, my extensive library enables me to wallow in past idioms, ranging from classical antiquity through to that of the 21st Century. I find that an hour or two reading the right book sets me up quite nicely :D

Thanks again for reading and being so good as to let me know you have. :)

Man: thank you too. I'm very happy to be able to entertain you in a manner which suits your taste. Rest assured that I find you as entertaining as you find me :)

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

It took a little time to find this, but well worth it. "A Writer's Tale" truly deserves a "bumping," though I admit I hadn't thought of it until I saw the reference to it on a recent Short Story Sharing thread. Also, I suppose I should rectify a possibly misleading statement in a previous reply:


The other day a LitNutter alluded to the novel Nothing Like the Sun another "take" on W.S. by the brilliant Anthony Burgess, whose other speculative fiction biographies include such diverse subjects as Jesus Christ (Man of Nazareth), King Arthur (Any Old Iron), and Atilla (Hun.)

While both Man of Nazareth and Atilla were speculative biographies, Any Old Iron does not directly reimagine the life of Arthur. Instead it is a highly engaging novel about two generations of a Welsh family whose various members fight in both World Wars. You might say, however, that the reference to Excaliber is the impetus for much of the plot and carries much symbolic weight throughout the narrative. All three books are enjoyable reads.

[Hawkman]

Sorry, Auntie. I've only just noticed that you bumped this. Much appreciated, thanks. I'm sure we can all benefit from your recommends of works and authors. Burgess is always worth the effort.

Live and be well - H

[New Secret]

I can relate to the main character in your story in that being a writer who is inspired to write and not finding a utensil to write with can be frustrating. I like medieval stories every so often. Flaunting a bulging codpiece at a woman sounds like classic medieval behavior. Being that the main character is a playwright named William in the renaissance era I am going to guess that this story is a fiction about the one and only William Shakespeare who may or may not have flaunted his junk at women in the kitchen while looking for something to write with.

Well written. I like this one and give it 5 stars.