I wrote this today, been obsessed lately with Shakespeare

Shakespeare’s Clothes
by Sheri

One day, Shakespeare went down the cobble street to find where he left his clothes, a raucus night had preceded him, even His mind would stop brimming, and then he would want so many a cup, the rowdy men in rags their women had sewn and re-sewn, over and over, lucky his reclusive landlord made his clothes, very fine ones, with hand-crafted buttons, perfect pleats, and all she ever asked for in return was to be the first to read his works. So, Shakespeare knew this landlord of his, this widow, would be greatly disappointed in him losing his clothes, for the estate she was left was in ill-repair, and it had a reputation from the death of a previous tenant, died there from the plague, so there were several empty rooms.

So, here we find Shakespeare, walking down the street in under garments, a head ache, a hunger in his soul, searching the dark alleys, the divides in the walls between buildings, the recesses of an entryway, for his clothes. He went around the block, and the women wearing night caps still, aprons just put on, it was early after all, called down to him, “Fine bugger you are!” “Land sakes!” “Holly knobs hanging loose?” and they laughed and laughed.

He gave them a look, and he gave it up then, and went home to the landlord. When he entered the dining room, she setting the table for breakfast, and Shakespeare had no idea what time it was, but by the position of the sun, he imaged about 7:30. She did not even see him there, and rushed back through the swinging door, into the kitchen. He had other clothes, but never so fine a jacket. He could go up to his room, and change, and sit down to breakfast, and she wouldn’t even have to know. But he sat down, tired, and hoping he hadn’t contacted some kind of crippling man’s disease.

The landlord, Clarice, that was her name, she came busting back in, took one look at Shakespeare, and nearly dropped her dish of shoestring potatoes. “Lolly gags, Shakespeare, down to your skins?!”

“My dear lady, mine’s been lost, missing.”

“My toil can’t please thee gent?”

“Oh, it does, it pleases me much.”

“More and more when you barter a lady, think not of clothes, hence her soul?”

“No thought I have on happenstance.”

“Fine threads you will find, and should count meself lucky.”

“forever in debt, my good woman.”

Shakespeare went up to his room, and found a new jacket hanging in his closet, complete with satin around the cuff of each sleeve, and a satin strip down each arm, long wooden button you had to twist to make them stay. He loved it. It was her last piece of statin, and he may never see it again. It was the only jacket he now had, though he had plenty of shirts and trousers. He told himself he would not loose this jacket, he would not give in to these frolicking ladies, he would watch himself closely.

A week later, down at the theater, Shakespeare had just delivered his current play to the players on scrolls, and what they couldn’t read or decipher, they made up, rehearsing it out loud as they went, with profundity. Shakespeare watched from the back row, and glanced behind him to be sure no one was coming in, and that is when he saw a parchment flier nailed to the wall and blowing slightly in the breeze. He got up to examine it. It was written with several ink spots all over it, as if the person had never written before and it said:

Shakespeare’s Clothes!
Gone to the highest bidder.
Sunday afternoon, County Building

Shakespeare was shocked but also felt a sickness come to his stomach and travel up through his heart like indigestion. He walked the upper floor of this theater, and saw more, and more of these fliers. What had become of this world!

There was only one thing to do, spy on the auction, and see who this was. Hundreds of people gathered, it was those with money, and those without who were interested, sitting on wooden benches, waiting for the auctioneer. Shakespeare knew the grounds, and came up to the building through the outdoor gardens, much like a maze, he nearly he got lost. The windows were opened and he positioned himself leaning against the wall, just beside the back window.

“Silence! Silence. These tailor-made garments have the finest ornament. Dear boy, speak. How that thee possess these clothes?”

“In most rumor withstanding, I am child of the skillful display, she make not my bed, my supper, my cleanliness, she blasphemes any right to my flesh.”

Gasps and Ah’s are heard from the crowd, and Shakespeare stares out long and hard through the oak trees, dressed in early color.

“Silence! Not an inkling of thee, a common thief?”

“Nay, was cold, the fortnight, stumbling he was past me’s humble sheet tent, to perform his nature calling, me knew, Shakespeare! Thy presence amongst me.”

“Winstor of tales, thee are, proceed.”

“He took alarm, spoke, Many a-mother is amongst us. Take mine jacket and trousers, and shirt, and the light in his eyes grew dim, he lay his head a stone and slept. Missing me am from me mother’s hands, me graced the garments upon me body, and there me was, the great Shakespeare! Me, the rouse and loose, given ornament. Me walked in dreams through the streets.”

“And be it thee who comes here to perform for these as the great Shakespeare?”

“There be only one, as is a mother. And me needs to eat.”

“Very well. We shall start the bidding.”

Shakespeare eyes filled with tears, a few dropping like secret springs, and he slowly walked home. He did not know how much the garments went for, and didn’t care. How, the woman who cared for him, and blessed him, and adored his works? He might address her later in the parlor. He might see the boy again, certainly he may, though he never looked through the window to see who he was, and couldn’t recall, in a drunken stupor what his eyes saw. The boy would be a face in the crowd.

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Dreamy and others,

I should go back and change ‘was’ to 'twas’
I think that was the language.

And wasn’t sure about Shakespeare in trousers, or maybe a dress.

What do you think?

A rose by any other name…

It’s really about prose. Just let the words flow from you. I end up playing more relaxing music to get it going.

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