[fic] Aeolus
If you recall, for the creative component of my final project in Joyce/Beckett, I wrote about Hamlet characters in the style of Joyce (or tried to, at any rate) - specifically, patterned after the seventh chapter of Ulysses, "Aeolus." Just now, I thought to myself, "Well, if I wrote fic for class, I might as well share it." (Hey, at least I'm not subjecting you guys to the ten-page essay on Beckett and postcolonialism.)
Also, if you squint just a little, I totally worked in Stacy's prompt about Laertes sleeping with Hamlet to keep Hamlet from sleeping with Ophelia.
Title: Aeolus
Fandom: Hamlet
Pairing/Characters: Ensemble, (hints at) various pairings.
Rating: R
Summary: Horatio mourns, Claudius hides, Laertes bargains, Gertrude hopes, and the Ghost waits.
Warnings: Pretentious attempts at using a really bizarre writing style.
Disclaimer: It's Shakespeare's! And uh, Joyce's, sort of.
IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS
Too much sadness in the castle, house, home that was no longer a home, home never a home to him in the first place, so Horatio went away. The house of ghosts, inside the walls of his mind now. The hoarse, dead whispers of its occupants kept him company:
-- My father! Methinks I see my father!
-- O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.
-- Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia.
Words, words, words, none of them his, no mouths still living, no tongues to shape sound, but whispers still, the house of ghosts inside him, a foreign city outside, all unfamiliar sprawled around him.
-- There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
THE WEARER OF THE CROWN
Bloodstained hands, guilt-stained conscience, a seemly disposition. Claudius kept his secrets well-guarded. Mask worn to perfection, one and the same with the face of the false brother, he wore his smiles under secret smiles while attendants bow in deference to passing royalty. Hint of Cain and Abel, wouldn’t you say, the unwhispered whispers went, and all hail Denmark’s king.
THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES
Little sisters grew up, became womengirls, soft, soft skin and thick fall of hair, the scent drew men in close, predator to the prey. Not Ophelia, whom Laertes protected, not Ophelia, girlchildwoman, Laertes’ sister.
-- I’ve seen you watching her, said Laertes. I know what it means.
-- That so, said Hamlet.
Curl of the mouth, smirk unbecoming on the face of Denmark’s heir. Two men with curled fists stood with bare inches of space between them.
-- She doesn’t understand, said Laertes, don’t do this.
-- This affair is not your concern, Laertes.
-- She is my sister.
What a curious thing is love.
-- What do you suggest I take instead?
Bitten lip, seven inches and then five and three and two and one, and Laertes and Hamlet without any space between them at all.
-- I see, said Hamlet.
Understanding like the blood red sun. Ophelia and Laertes, born of the same red blood, and Hamlet wanted a prize, still.
-- I’ll be your foil, Laertes.
Yes, yes, yes, what a curious thing is love.
LET US HOPE
Gertrude, dressed in mourning black, watched Hamlet with hooded eyes. Widowmotherqueen, no longer the good wife, but mother still, part of the woman ineluctable.
-- The prince is mad, murmured the servants, and Gertrude did not hear, does not hear what she does not want to. Still, awareness lingered on the periphery and Hamlet was born of Gertrude’s body, yes, the son undenied in throes of insanity.
Her son was the people’s prince once, could be again, mother’s little boy. No longer the emblem of guilt, she thought. Gertrude closed her eyes, seeing the specter of possibility. The laughing child.
THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME
-- Methinks I see my father!
Bleached white bones where royalty once stood proud and erect, the king’s ghost whispered in the ears of his trembling heir. Rotten corpse, aren’t you laughable now, ha ha ha, aren’t you the very epitome of the pathetically wronged.
-- Wait, said the ghost, wait.
At his word, the world fell to dust.
Also, if you squint just a little, I totally worked in Stacy's prompt about Laertes sleeping with Hamlet to keep Hamlet from sleeping with Ophelia.
Title: Aeolus
Fandom: Hamlet
Pairing/Characters: Ensemble, (hints at) various pairings.
Rating: R
Summary: Horatio mourns, Claudius hides, Laertes bargains, Gertrude hopes, and the Ghost waits.
Warnings: Pretentious attempts at using a really bizarre writing style.
Disclaimer: It's Shakespeare's! And uh, Joyce's, sort of.
IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS
Too much sadness in the castle, house, home that was no longer a home, home never a home to him in the first place, so Horatio went away. The house of ghosts, inside the walls of his mind now. The hoarse, dead whispers of its occupants kept him company:
-- My father! Methinks I see my father!
-- O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.
-- Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia.
Words, words, words, none of them his, no mouths still living, no tongues to shape sound, but whispers still, the house of ghosts inside him, a foreign city outside, all unfamiliar sprawled around him.
-- There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
THE WEARER OF THE CROWN
Bloodstained hands, guilt-stained conscience, a seemly disposition. Claudius kept his secrets well-guarded. Mask worn to perfection, one and the same with the face of the false brother, he wore his smiles under secret smiles while attendants bow in deference to passing royalty. Hint of Cain and Abel, wouldn’t you say, the unwhispered whispers went, and all hail Denmark’s king.
THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES
Little sisters grew up, became womengirls, soft, soft skin and thick fall of hair, the scent drew men in close, predator to the prey. Not Ophelia, whom Laertes protected, not Ophelia, girlchildwoman, Laertes’ sister.
-- I’ve seen you watching her, said Laertes. I know what it means.
-- That so, said Hamlet.
Curl of the mouth, smirk unbecoming on the face of Denmark’s heir. Two men with curled fists stood with bare inches of space between them.
-- She doesn’t understand, said Laertes, don’t do this.
-- This affair is not your concern, Laertes.
-- She is my sister.
What a curious thing is love.
-- What do you suggest I take instead?
Bitten lip, seven inches and then five and three and two and one, and Laertes and Hamlet without any space between them at all.
-- I see, said Hamlet.
Understanding like the blood red sun. Ophelia and Laertes, born of the same red blood, and Hamlet wanted a prize, still.
-- I’ll be your foil, Laertes.
Yes, yes, yes, what a curious thing is love.
LET US HOPE
Gertrude, dressed in mourning black, watched Hamlet with hooded eyes. Widowmotherqueen, no longer the good wife, but mother still, part of the woman ineluctable.
-- The prince is mad, murmured the servants, and Gertrude did not hear, does not hear what she does not want to. Still, awareness lingered on the periphery and Hamlet was born of Gertrude’s body, yes, the son undenied in throes of insanity.
Her son was the people’s prince once, could be again, mother’s little boy. No longer the emblem of guilt, she thought. Gertrude closed her eyes, seeing the specter of possibility. The laughing child.
THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME
-- Methinks I see my father!
Bleached white bones where royalty once stood proud and erect, the king’s ghost whispered in the ears of his trembling heir. Rotten corpse, aren’t you laughable now, ha ha ha, aren’t you the very epitome of the pathetically wronged.
-- Wait, said the ghost, wait.
At his word, the world fell to dust.