NOTE: this idea came to me after a thought of Shakespeare came into my head...and i recalled how it was so difficult at first, but then noticed how you develop an ear for it..and how i wish i had read ALL of Shakespeare's works. Most classics i could give a damn for, but Shakespeare was in a class all his own. Then i had the thought that the description of how it is to read Shakespeare is often how it is to understand something our brains don't at first comprehend...and a metaphor was born...like coming onto some scene or predicament that makes us stop, in dumbfounded silence, and we struggle to make sense of it. Then i thought how that would make a good scene, esp using the Shakespeare reference. And this is what came out in the freewriting. (Surprisingly, in 2nd Person, which I never write in, so that made me think maybe i need to write something that way)...
It was like reading Shakespeare: at first, you think it's a foreign language, for which you have no understanding, and then you recognize that it's English, just well-wrought. And then you develop an ear for its cadence, a clarity for its depth and humor, and finally, you wish you had read all his works, years ago, for they may have helped you avoid the current predicament in which you find yourself.
Your phone rings and the cat shoots straight into the air, landing wide-eyed on the mottled carpet. It wasn't that your cat was jittery, but she was sleeping on top of your cell phone. Usually, it was set on vibrate. And she knew that, and liked it when it rang. It sends her into paroxysms of writhing. But you had changed it to ring because you were in the other room, frying baloney for a sandwich. You wanted to be able to hear it, but couldn't carry it around. You had on your underwear and there were no pockets. And you wanted to remain in your underwear for a just a little longer.
But now.
Now there was this.
This confusing, shocking, Shakespearian tragedy on the floor in front of you.
And the niggling question at the back of your mind is, Since there is only one window, not much bigger than a porthole, and only one door, off the kitchen, where you were, which leads down the stairs from this attic abode of yours, how did this little surprise get past you and onto your bedroom floor?
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