Fic: 27 Shots for Dear William (RSC Hamlet/Dead Man x-over; for artsatalex )
Title: “27 Shots for Dear William”
Author: Shaitanah
Fandoms: RSC Hamlet/Dead Man
Rating: PG
Summary: Sometimes a character becomes the writer of his own story.
Disclaimer: Hamlet and Dead Man are property of their respective owners. The quote Hell is empty, and all the devils are here is taken from The Tempest by William Shakespeare. The quote Go, bid the soldiers shoot is taken from The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark by William Shakespeare.
Dedication: Happy 27th Day, my crazy HLL. You started it.
27 SHOTS FOR DEAR WILLIAM
Some said he had a wolf in his stomach day and night,
Some said he had the Devil, and they guess’d right…
William Blake. ‘Long John Brown and Little Mary Bell’
Close the book. Let me sleep.
In death, there is peace. There is calm after all the tempests have ceased raging, a chain of quiet, star-filled nights when the entire Universe seems to have paused with a quill in her hand, writing the final, never-ending verse of your poetry. I should know. I have sprung from poetry.
You would think that death is when you do not have to make up your mind whether it is to be or not to be. But the truth is that we never really die. Not even when you close the sodding book.
Zip.
Look at me, I’m on stage. I’m on telly. I’m in your school. I’m in your head. I’m ceaseless. You can kill the actor, the writer, you can burn the film reel, break the TV-set, rip the books apart, but as long as there are words of any language floating through the air, as long as there is memory, I’ll be there.
Sometimes I wish I weren’t.
The ground is saturated with blood. The soil keeps drinking it like nectar. I’m skipping the channels again.
A gun cocks. Didn’t have those firebreathing pet monsters around in my time. In my original time, that is. We would settle our disagreements with cold precision of steel. But I like these small metal dragons, which spit out instant death as easily as trees shed their leaves in autumn.
I turn around. My bare feet are dotted with shallow cuts from treading on sharp twigs buried in the carpet of fusty foliage.
“Who are you?” I ask.
He looks like a mad poet. I cannot look away from the jagged lines painted on his face.
“My name is William Blake,” he says and points a gun at my head. “I’m waiting.”
“For whom?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody’s coming. Face it, mate. Hell is empty. All the devils are here.” Oops. Wrong play.
“Do you care to die?” asks William Blake.
“Been there, done that,” I shrug. Just need to get a t-shirt.
“I have a wolf in my stomach,” says Blake. “Day and night.” His hand trembles, fingers clenched tight around the gun. I wonder what happens if he shoots me.
“Try being the Prince of bloody rotten Denmark,” I mutter.
He gives a nervous laugh.
“I know nothing of that. All I wanted was this goddamn job as a book-keeper. That, or go home to Cleveland. Now look at me. I’m dead!” He shakes his head, a curtain of shaggy black hair falling over his eyes. “I’m a dead poet stuck in the middle of nowhere. And I have not the faintest idea what my damn poetry is about.”
It is my turn to laugh. I would know a thing or two about that. This one is interesting. Wrong William, though. Would he believe me if I told him that we never truly died?
I reach for the gun and close my fingers around the barrel.
“Nobody promised me I would go home,” Blake whispers.
“I can’t promise you that. But I can promise you a fine prospect of shooting someone. You poets, you should find an understanding.”
That old friend of mine, dear old William who really didn’t know when to stop when it came to tragedies, deserves twenty-seven bullets in his immortal gut.
I follow William Blake down the sloping river-bank, upon which thick fog is creeping like a devious reptile. He leads me to a boat, an Indian canoe by the looks of it. It rocks gently as I set foot in it.
Time to go and bid the soldiers shoot.
April 27, 2010
Author: Shaitanah
Fandoms: RSC Hamlet/Dead Man
Rating: PG
Summary: Sometimes a character becomes the writer of his own story.
Disclaimer: Hamlet and Dead Man are property of their respective owners. The quote Hell is empty, and all the devils are here is taken from The Tempest by William Shakespeare. The quote Go, bid the soldiers shoot is taken from The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark by William Shakespeare.
Dedication: Happy 27th Day, my crazy HLL. You started it.
27 SHOTS FOR DEAR WILLIAM
Some said he had a wolf in his stomach day and night,
Some said he had the Devil, and they guess’d right…
William Blake. ‘Long John Brown and Little Mary Bell’
Close the book. Let me sleep.
In death, there is peace. There is calm after all the tempests have ceased raging, a chain of quiet, star-filled nights when the entire Universe seems to have paused with a quill in her hand, writing the final, never-ending verse of your poetry. I should know. I have sprung from poetry.
You would think that death is when you do not have to make up your mind whether it is to be or not to be. But the truth is that we never really die. Not even when you close the sodding book.
Zip.
Look at me, I’m on stage. I’m on telly. I’m in your school. I’m in your head. I’m ceaseless. You can kill the actor, the writer, you can burn the film reel, break the TV-set, rip the books apart, but as long as there are words of any language floating through the air, as long as there is memory, I’ll be there.
Sometimes I wish I weren’t.
The ground is saturated with blood. The soil keeps drinking it like nectar. I’m skipping the channels again.
A gun cocks. Didn’t have those firebreathing pet monsters around in my time. In my original time, that is. We would settle our disagreements with cold precision of steel. But I like these small metal dragons, which spit out instant death as easily as trees shed their leaves in autumn.
I turn around. My bare feet are dotted with shallow cuts from treading on sharp twigs buried in the carpet of fusty foliage.
“Who are you?” I ask.
He looks like a mad poet. I cannot look away from the jagged lines painted on his face.
“My name is William Blake,” he says and points a gun at my head. “I’m waiting.”
“For whom?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody’s coming. Face it, mate. Hell is empty. All the devils are here.” Oops. Wrong play.
“Do you care to die?” asks William Blake.
“Been there, done that,” I shrug. Just need to get a t-shirt.
“I have a wolf in my stomach,” says Blake. “Day and night.” His hand trembles, fingers clenched tight around the gun. I wonder what happens if he shoots me.
“Try being the Prince of bloody rotten Denmark,” I mutter.
He gives a nervous laugh.
“I know nothing of that. All I wanted was this goddamn job as a book-keeper. That, or go home to Cleveland. Now look at me. I’m dead!” He shakes his head, a curtain of shaggy black hair falling over his eyes. “I’m a dead poet stuck in the middle of nowhere. And I have not the faintest idea what my damn poetry is about.”
It is my turn to laugh. I would know a thing or two about that. This one is interesting. Wrong William, though. Would he believe me if I told him that we never truly died?
I reach for the gun and close my fingers around the barrel.
“Nobody promised me I would go home,” Blake whispers.
“I can’t promise you that. But I can promise you a fine prospect of shooting someone. You poets, you should find an understanding.”
That old friend of mine, dear old William who really didn’t know when to stop when it came to tragedies, deserves twenty-seven bullets in his immortal gut.
I follow William Blake down the sloping river-bank, upon which thick fog is creeping like a devious reptile. He leads me to a boat, an Indian canoe by the looks of it. It rocks gently as I set foot in it.
Time to go and bid the soldiers shoot.
April 27, 2010