Today’s Drabble Wednesday takes a more literary turn with some rifts on Shakespeare, Tennyson, plus to liven things up, a little Abbot and Costello. Enjoy.
(Note: most of these were written for a now defunct writing group, Genre Shorties, so there will be some odd references to things such as armadillos, badgers and the Moai, themes that often popped up in the group prompts.)
Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent
’Twas quite the conundrum put before William Shakespeare. To be the playwright, or not to be, to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or join Yorick in his millinery business.
“Alas, poor Yorick”, William exclaimed, “Tempt not a desperate man, and dangle your lure of enticement. Yet, ‘tis our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt. There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so and this above all: to thine own self be true.”
And with that he plucked up his quill to write.
A Shortie Soliloquy
“Brevity is the soul of wit”, said Shakespeare, and if that be so then laughter resounds amongst us, we fine bards who pen the Shorties. Satire, humour and whimsy resound in shades of puce and ecru, while we feast on pickles, peas and bacon.
We are the ones who “perchance to dream”, to conjure visions that swirl through time. We lead a parade of koalas, Moai, celebrities, and badgers as we drive the roads of imagination in 1967 Impalas and gull-winged Deloreans.
So, in their honour I take leave in paraphrase: “Is this an armadillo which I see before me?”
A Shakespearean Pirate’s Life
To be the scourge of the seven seas, or not to be the scourge of the seven seas, aye that be the question, methinks. I task myself to take up arms, to strut and fret aboard deck, and cast aside sound and fury of convention. What mind me, those tittle-tattle slings and arrows of a jackanapes society?
Best to give not a wit, nor a thought, to those who say me nay, but rather tell truth, and shame the devil. `Tis better to have crossed swords with a scurvy dog Englishman, than never to have sailed under the Jolly Roger.
Odd Bodkins Lottery
‘Twas my last ha’penny I used to purchase the lottery chit. Perhaps providence guided me, allowing me to indulge in the act of gambling, or pity for the sick that the proceeds benefitted. Whatever the reason, chance allowed me to win the veritable bounty. I was truly blessed with the princely sum of 1,000,000 dollars, all for a day at the Renaissance Fair.
Of course, be there that legality of only purchasing items that begin with the letter “L”, but I do need a new lamb’s wool tunic, some lederhosen, and a longbow. Prithee, I could even buy a livery.
Charge of the One Hundred
(with apologies to Alfred, Lord Tennyson)
Forward into the drabble, write the one hundred. Press onward, onward, to half the word count, write the one hundred. Forward, always forward, into the valley of the impossible prompt. Yours is not to reason why, just to make certain all the words are included and figure how the deuce to work in the ridiculous puce.
Forward we go, write the one hundred. Charge for the end and make it a mental twist. Badgers to the right of you, armadillos to the left, and look out, the slinky Moai are in front.
For the glory you write the one hundred.
Who’s Going to the Fair?
“It’s at the corner of Who Knows and Thingydeal Road.”
I look over at Abbot and Costello. “Are you sure?”
“And Who will be there?”
“Good. This is going to be great fun. Is anyone else coming?”
“I Don’t Know and I Don’t Care.”
“Oh great. The more the merrier. Do you think someone will be taking pictures?”
“Wonderful, I’m glad he’ll be there.”
“Certainly. There’s supposed to be a juggling act, too.”
“Do you think it will be Today?”
“That’s the rumour.”
“The three chickens will be performing?”
“Yes. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.”
“Those chickens have weird names. I mean, Why, Tomorrow and Because are silly names.”
“If I’d named the chickens, they’d be Sandwich, Cacciatore and Shifty.”