It's Still Life

Beyond an Intersection Named After an English King and a Saint
Six Sentence Story: Day 12 Part 3

The Question Is The Answer

The curtain rises, and the ordinary becomes extraordinary, where tragedy’s shadow precedes its entry; the stage is bathed in moonlit gloom; the towering stone walls of Helsingør Slot silhouette the night sky; mist creeps across the stage—then, a bell tolls, marking the hour, setting the tone: mysterious, brooding, and haunted by the spectre of what’s to come.

Against my hip is Drummond’s grimoire, invisible, tucked away in a satchel; it rests—sleeps—as though the hordes of a thousand years are beyond its reach, and all I can think is, “…Time is out of joint: O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set this right!”

I slip my hand over Nick’s as Polonius counsels Laertes—“This above all… to thine own self be true”—and Nick shifts, tapping his cane against his leg as if to distract his body; it feels like I can sense his thoughts—not hear them, but feel them—and Polonius, blind to his own son’s strengths, cannot recognise his depths and passion; I catch Nick’s glance and smile, knowing that when the hearse carries his bones down the road, he’ll be tearing off in the opposite direction—guitar strapped to his back, full throttle on his motorcycle.

The book shudders and wails—a long, low keening (“Shush!” hisses the man beside me, and I apologise)—but as Hamlet intones, “To be, or not to be—that is the question…” the book’s lament rises, ululating (“Shut up or get the woman a fucking hotel room!” snaps the man beside Nick), and Nick, tossing his cane aside, stands and thunders, “You want a fucking piece of me? Come on, have at me!”—the man shrinks into his seat, pressing back as if to escape, while I seize the book’s spine, hissing, “Behave, or I’ll throw you into the River Avon, where you’ll seep ink forever into the silty depths of Warwickshire!”—but Hamlet continues, “To die, to sleep… to sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub,” and the book, defiant, moans louder, swelling into a phantasmagorically numinous lament.

Hamlet is paralysed by his dilemma, frozen where he stands—pressing his hands to his head, he wails, “To die, to sleep—no more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache,”—the book kicks about in the satchel, hissing words—and then Hamlet’s voice drops to a near whisper, “Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished,”… and Drummond’s book thunders a chorus, a cacophony of all those condemned who now have a voice, bellowing through the acoustics of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre: “F R E E E D O M! F R E E E D O M!”

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Note: For the visually impaired: An AI-generated image depicting a theatrical scene. An actor stands on a brightly lit stage, his back turned to us, creating a sense of mystery and focus on the dramatic lighting and setting. Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “entry”.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.