Bakespeare, Chapter One

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Long has it been speculated that the great Bard, William Shakespeare, did either not write his world-famous works, or that he never even existed at all. This is a stab at both theories without making any serious assertations of truth. I simply am writing a played-out scenario in my head.

Submitted: November 15, 2011

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Submitted: November 15, 2011



The morning was like any morning living on this hellish island.

I lit the tobacco in my pipe and pulled a tattered old book from one of the many shelves embedded in the walls of my private study. I dusted the blackened-red cover off with a blow of air and rest it on thegreen felt toppingmy mahogany desk. After igniting a modest flame in the lamp in the corner of the desk I opened the cover of the book to find my tiny, square flask made of stiff brown leather sitting inside the cut-out pages, wherewithinwas a sinful beverage that would ruin my reputation as a scholar and gentleman if I were to drink more than I allow myself.

The drink burned with each sip, but it woke me from my grogginess of just stepping out of the shower. Nevertheless, I turned to a real book that I had lying beside it and opened it. Today's knolwedge pursuit was to read an old philosophical text that was given to me as a present from one of my contemporaries on my birthday just weeks ago, but I had not the chance to look into it yet. It was either the work of Aristotle or Plato, I could not remember which, but it provided the original Greek with an English translation next to it. To most, this would be rather boring, but to me it was a piece of writing I had never read before, and as a scholar, that was golden.

About five to ten minutes into my reading, my eyes grew tired looking at the white pages and the flame from the lamp burning my eyeballs just subtly from afar. The click-clock of my grandfather clock behind me was like a device specially crafted to drive someone insane as well. I just could not concentrate. The book was fine, but I could not focus. With a sigh I folded the book and I placed it back on my desk.

"Anything to eat, sir?" came the voice of my older servant, Cyril. He was a tall man, cheekbones prominent atop his slender jaw and his hair a short, curly gray shade. As he stood there in his equally-gray jacket, I thought perhaps he could be a candidate to listen to a trouble brewing in my mind.

"No thank you, Cyril," I replied. "I'm...I'm not hungry."

"Something troubling you, Mr. Bacon?" he asked me.

"In a way, yes. Would you care to listen?"

"It would be my pleasure, sir."

"Thank you, Cyril," I gestured to one of the two leather chairs in front of my desk. "Please, take a seat, will you?"

Cyril sat and crossed one leg over the other as he folded his hands in his lap. He was a sensitive soul, not a stoic like most of my colleagues and competitors. He could listen and give a three-dimensional response to someone in need. He was a good friend in addition to a faithful server, and for this I respected him beyond measure.

"I've grown," I paused, picking my diction properly. "Unsatisfied with the way my life is. I have pursued all this scholarly knowledge and work, that it feels like I've missed many opportunities for fun or adventure in my life."

"I see," was Cyril's response, still analyzing what he was hearing from me.

"I sit in this study, or at a meeting every day until teh sun goes down, and by the time I'm home, I have very few instances where I can socialize. I feel lifeless, I tell you."

"Perhaps you should work less?"

"That is the double edged sword, my friend. See, I am almost philial for my work. I love it. Asm cuh as it anguishes my soul with boredom at times like these, I love to work nonetheless. If only I could find a way where I could both work and have fun?"

"Then find a way where you can do that. I do not see what could stop a man as versatile as you?"

"You're right, Cyril. I should do just that. But, there is one agenda I must complete before I do so."

"What would that be?"

"I need to create a new identity while I do this 'fun work' that I will be doing. This way, I can give a political voice against things I disagree with in the monarchy or problems I see in our society. I've been working on this for a while now, writing plays that reflect the way I feel about society, government, and the mysteries of the human emotions. I think I shall pursue the passion for writing creatively, interweaving the greatest story plots known to man! I will just need a name and a new face."

"How will you plan to do that, sir?"

"First, I will trim this beard of mine and cover the short hairs with makeup. Then, I will style my upper-lip hair to point outward, instead of hang down. Lastly, I will put mroe makeup around the wrinkles on my face to give me a more youthful appearance. That, plus a change in hairstyle and wardrobe, and I shall be a new man."

"What will you call this new man?"

"I will call him the name I've been writing theseworks under: William Shakespeare."

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