Shakespeare-Lovers

AN: In classic Masked Man form, I finished writing this chapter a couple of months ago, and only just got around to typing it. Such is life. Last summer, I watched th touring production of Comedy of Errors at the Globe, and it was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen on a stage. I absolutely loved the characterization of the Antipholus/Dromio pairs, so I couldn’t resist including them in the prompt fic. Bully in the Alley: Antipholus/Dromio In Ephesus one day, a day fair only by meteorological metrics, one face, one voice, one habit, and two youthful persons traipsed the winding streets. Upon the sagging belt of one thumped a beleaguered purse, laden with the weight of five hundred ducats more than it had e’er been forced to bear ere now. About the slender arm of the other sat a coil of heavy rope, its splintered strands wreaking pilly havoc on the threadbare blue sleeve trapped beneath. One sang high and the other sang low, harmonizing a single melody miles apart, as they went

Dramatis Personae HAMLET, the prince of Denmark OPHELIA, a noblewoman CLAUDIUS, the king of Denmark TALKING HAM SANDWICH, a messenger of truth GHOST, a shade of King Hamlet COURTIERS Act I, Scene 1: Denmark, just before dawn. A castle battlement. Enter HAMLET, clad in black. He is startled by an unearthly sound. HAMLET Who goes there? Speak, if thou be friend or foe! What phantom dares to haunt this royal realm? Enter the GHOST of Hamlet's father, wearing a dark cloak. HAMLET Unveil thyself— reveal to me thy name, And let thine attentions be understood! GHOST O Hamlet, my son, 'tis thy father's ghost, Bound to this realm, a pris'ner of despair. In life, I wore the crown of Denmark's throne, In death, I wear the weight of secrets vile. HAMLET My father! S'wounds, mine eyes deceive me not. But wherefore dost thou haunt this mortal plane, When thou shouldst in eternal slumber rest? GHOST Repentance I lacked, ere swift death claimed me, And robbed me of

AN: For my pal Beth on A03, whom I managed to convince to watch some of my weird Shakespeare videos; they read Measure for Measure as a result and now we’re collaborating on a fic (stay tuned!). In freewheeling discussions of the play and its characters they suggested this prompt: “An idea that just randomly sprung to mind is perhaps delving a little deeper into the more moral characters of the play, i.e. Escalus and the Provost, and exploring how they perceive Angelo's actions and the situation unfolding around them?” So while working a night shift last week I banged out a little story. Enjoy! I. Condemned for a fault alone One man could not a fortress move. His ghostly father’s words, once upon a time, which he had long since adopted for his own. Countless times he had repeated them to the council, when tempers rose and desires clashed, the tension in the room pricking at his skin like so many stinging gnats. One man could not a fortress move. Forethought, insight, patience, above

Dramatis Personae PETER QUINCE, a carpenter NICK BOTTOM, a weaver SNUG, a joiner FRANCIS FLUTE, a bellows-mender ROBIN STARVELING, a tailor TOM SNOUT, a tinker PHEBE, Quince's wife ROBIN GOODFELLOW, a puck THESEUS, a king HIPPOLYTA, a queen Royal Courtiers Act I, Scene 1. A rustic workshop. PETER QUINCE sits in a workshop, fervently preparing for a new theatrical production. QUINCE Forsooth, I am beside myself with equal parts excitement and dread! Pandora's Box, they say, must be Athens' latest theatrical production. Verily a most grand and sophisticated tale— and we, the humblest of mechanicals, must needs perform it. Pray, Athena, grant us thy wit and wisdom! Enter PHEBE with a plate of wine, water, bread, and fruit. PHEBE Worry not, my dear. I'm sure thy play shall prove marvelous entertainment for the masses. QUINCE Ah, sweet Phebe— thy words doth verily encourage! However, we are but simple craftsmen, not great actors like those of

AN: Chapter 28 was “something stupid,” and since Roderigo and his unrequited love for Desdemona are peak stupid, night shift Tam couldn’t resist a little serenade (TBH my original idea was Andrew Aguecheek accidentally setting himself on fire, which is the other end of the stupid spectrum). Iago’s just here to troll. The amber moon seemed to wink as it rose over the streets of Venice. It glinted merrily off the gilt edges of marble rooftops, turned the stinking canals to pearlescent veins, the city’s holy ichor. A fine mist clung to brick and shadow still damp from an afternoon storm, which left a chill taint on the heavy air. The houses crowding the piazza loomed tall, darkened windows unrelieved by friendly flame waiting, watching, like so many troubled eyes, for the slightest disturbance. All was stillness. All was silence. Until the twang of a gittern, just slightly out of tune, shattered the fragile peace. “Give us a minute.” The man holding the instrument had a soldier’s