Boy Shakespeare’s Tale
by Thelma Phillips, Convener, Creative Writing Group
Oh i’faith, homework on Macbeth, King of the Scotlands. I know forsooth on the morrow I will be a whining schoolboy with a satchel creeping like a snail unwillingly to school if I fail to learn this set piece. It’s a chronicle of wasted time. I sigh. Oh, how I sigh and watch the candle burn. Macbeth, King for the Scots from 1040. He challenged his cousin Duncan for the throne, defeating him in battle. Seventeen years he ruled then to be killed by Duncan’s son. What more can I put on my parchment? I know of no romance in his life, no thrills or adventure. What if he took a wife, a Lady Macbeth? I could improve on this history with verse of an ambitious wife, lusting for blood, then ghosts to haunt her soul. There’s more to it. There’s nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Twelve nights have I been writing my set assignment and tonight is the twelfth. I feel the cane already poised to strike, for lack of production. It’s to be or not to be. I think I’ll sigh no more. It’s Mistress Hathaway that fills my ever wakeful hours. Good sooth, she is the queen of curds and cream. Under the greenwood trees she loves to lie with me, but it’s much ado about nothing, it’s as she likes it. I’d make her a beauty, age cannot wither her. I compare her to a summer’s day; she’s my midsummer night’s dream.
When I’m eighteen and finish schooling, I’ll wed her, go to London to make my fortune. Yet all that glistens is not gold, often have I heard that told and ambition is made of sterner stuff. I’ll write a play about a lover and his lass – hey ho. Why the world’s my oyster. I will to London and join the players there as the course of true love never did run sooth. Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind. What matters if Anne is years my senior. So it will be to London I will venture and bell, book and candle shall not drive me back when gold and silver beckons me to come on. Oh, we are such stuff as dreams are made on.
Back to Macbeth, born 1005, died 1057. Now I’ll round it with a sleep.
CREATIVE WRITING GROUP
by Barbara Thatcher Creative Writing Group
Willie poked his head out from under the rock. His ancestors had roamed this earth since prehistoric days and would have dealt with earthquakes many times. Disasters like this were commonplace. Maybe his protective armour which looked like plates similar to dinosaurs’ was a good thing after all.
It did not worry him when he thought of how others saw him, especially when the Maoris called him “the god of ugly things”.
Being a quiet and still day, it was as if something was going to happen. The heat was unusual. He remembered power poles swaying and all of a sudden the road cracking open. Cars stopped, ran off the road, people running around not knowing what to do.
He thought it better to stay away from this chaos and just observe. Then his rock started to move. Nowhere was safe. He remembered his mother’s words. “People will be more scared of you and not the other way round.” Being brave was ingrained in him. Maybe he thought, I won’t become extinct after all. Willie decided he liked being a giant weta.