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?”
“Absolutely.”
“And Who will be there?”
“Yes.”
“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?”
“What.”
“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.”
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