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[Kidnapping situation, response to an opening. Hamlet references, I'm so proud of myself! Word Count: 748]
During his tender teenage years, Blake would have never expected himself to want to read anything other than comic books. Sparknotes had been his best friend, and movies had appealed to his interests more than the inky, dry smell of a thick paperback. Even now, in his not-quite-glamorous career as a B-list (well, a more accurate letter for his status was embarrassingly far down the alphabet) actor, the only words he was required to handle were loosely bound scripts from wannabe-Spielbergs or avid Hitchcock imitators. And yet he found himself on this gray December afternoon shifting a volume of Shakespeare in his palm, going through the pages with a careful, deliberate flick of his fingers, truly absorbing the words as he dove into the world of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.
For the minds of the mad truly fascinated him, even if he did find the language difficult. After all, madness in great ones must not go unwatched; time had flown by as he sat in the little coffee shop completely absorbed in trying to digest the famous work he'd so often encountered, but only in satire. Blake was nearing his mid-twenties, and he figured it was time to give this whole maturity thing a shot. He was the eternal bachelor in his circle of friends (for reasons they still puzzled over when they had other things to talk about; Blake had been picked up by a talent scout for a reason, he was still in film for a reason, and yet...), he had never bothered to correct the gap in his education concerning literature until now, when he had time to kill and no one to project an image toward and he was honestly the curious sort.
Certainly his circle of friends would laugh incredulously if he tried to tell them what he'd picked up. They wouldn't take him seriously if he tried to express his interest in Hamlet's tireless desire for revenge, or that after getting through the first two acts, he was starting to really enjoy the language and--surprise of all surprises--was understanding some of the dirty jokes? He'd had no idea that Shakespeare could be raunchy; had his high school teacher explained that Shakespeare was more than some dodgy old Englishman perhaps Blake would have taken some interest. Better now than never, he'd decided, because for a long moment he'd forgotten he'd even ordered a cup of coffee. Literature he'd once dismissed as outdated and irrelevant had actually captivated him. At this point the brunette would have been willing to step up and defend Shakespeare's brilliance. Hamlet had completely reversed his initial skepticism over a high school freshman unit of Romeo and Juliet and those god-awful movies. Though this be madness, yet there is method to 't. And he hadn't even gotten to the most famous of Shakespearean speeches.
Slowly the noise of the bustling coffee shop dimmed, and yet Blake hadn't looked up from the midst of Hamlet's depressing lament. Thus conscious does make cowards of us all... Had the tall, well-built male paid attention to more than the words on the page, perhaps he would have been forewarned by the increasingly quiet atmosphere. Perhaps he would have snapped the book shut and left, realizing that his cup of coffee was nearly half an hour late in the making. Two or three dollars would seem like pocket change in light of what was about to happen. But poor, fascinated, unaware Blake had his dark cobalt eyes trained on his book, entranced by Hamlet's struggle with life and death and the burden of revenge. Walking the thin line between deliberate and uncontrollable insanity, wanting so desperately to end the suspense, but afraid of the next step... oh, the things Blake would go through to receive a character role this complex, this challenging.
Enterprises of great pitch and moment/With this regard their currents turn awry/And lose the name of action.--Soft you now--as Blake reached the end of Hamlet's soliloquy, thoughts of roles and acting and opportunities floating idly through his brain, he saw the cup of coffee at the corner of his eye and an instinctive smile crossed his lips with the anticipation of his favorite beverage, "Oh, thanks..."
That cup of coffee would grow cold, cold as the metal on his collarbone and the lips against his cheek. The fair Ophelia.
Nymph, in thy orisons/Be all my sins remembered.
What else could he do but step into her waiting car?
 Felix-Fiasco · Sun Dec 04, 2011 @ 11:50pm · 0 Comments |
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