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Our summer weather so far has been an ever-changing experience, almost one extreme to another. For the August comp please write a story about changeability titled ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ Thee can refer to a person, animal or something inanimate. Max 500 words, deadline midnight on 31st August.
Not sure it meets the brief and it’s a bit on the short side, but it’s where the fancy took me, so…
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Nay. Thrice nay, unless that day be cold and dreich.
Then shall I liken thee to the first rose of summer? Nay, again, save that bloom be not perfect and proud but over-blown and drenched in vinegar.
In truth, thou art like the ever-changing seasons, in mood and countenance; your tongue ill-wrought to lay a kindly word upon my presence or, indeed, my valiant efforts to see thee at thine ease.
If once a soft word reached my welcoming ear, or a gentle touch bestowed warmth upon a benevolent hand, time hath committed thy gestures to some far-flung memory, safe-guarded from retrieval by one such as I, poorly labelled cretin, by lips producing venom as a bee produces honey.
Thine exuberance I shall compare with tar melting in the sun and grant thy beauty, so well-disguised, age shall not challenge.
Yet, at my leaving, thine eyes, like diamonds, wilt tear into my heart as my unending love tears into thine.
Probably a bit aslant of what you were hoping for Libby, but is the idea that stuck
‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’
I guess you had to’ve been there, because even now, months later, just thinking about it makes me smile. It was the usual semi-dormant Friday afternoon meeting, Anton, our boss, wanting us to brain-storm some sort of cohesive plan which would encourage us to spend our weekend thinking up a cohesive marketing strategy for a new customer.
Clothes, as always, but not the usual sports-wear, which invariably demanded clashing colours, go-faster zing and shaped to display to best advantage biceps and meaty thighs; instead we gazed at slides of gauzy cotton, floral-printed nightwear, to be launched in time for Valentine’s Day, under the manufacturer’s ‘Sonnet’. Pretty, pastel and very feminine but … a wee bit too naïve to be sexy.
As per blinkered, normal, nerdy Richard, who I doubted even had a girlfriend. immediately clicked on Wiki and, assuming we were too arty-farty to know what a sonnet was, informed us, ‘A stanza of 14 lines; usually written in iambic pentameter and structured in three quatrains. Shakespeare wrote 154 of them, one of the best known is –‘
He was forced to halt by Ivan, our hunky, chunky sports-wear model, leaping to his feet and shouting, ‘Number 18!’ Hand on heart, he gazed misty-eyed out the window, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and temperate -’
After a moment’s astonishment, we gave him a round of applause. Anton, taking credit, said, That’s one approach. Anyone else?’
Bringing the mood down, I had to say, ’Please, not “compare”. Puts me in mind of that idiot with the twirly moustache, singing ‘ about car insurance.‘ Then Lily said, ’“Summer’s day” could be a bit dodgy too. Says ‘unexpectedly wet and fails to please’ to me!’
Jonty’s one-track mind and avid eyes failed to surprise any of us with his, ‘I approve of gauziness –‘ , but none of us anticipated his continuing, ‘For ‘those parts of thee that the world’s eye wanteth to view.’
Standing, checking his watch, Anton said, ‘Good start. Monday I want to know your top five.’ [344 words]
Reminder! The monthly competition closes at midnight on Saturday, 31st August.
Anyone can enter.
Here’s the task:
Our summer weather so far has been an ever-changing experience, almost one extreme to another. For the August comp please write a story about changeability titled ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ Thee can refer to a person, animal or something inanimate. Max 500 words.
I had been thinking of writing a piece about the regular assembly of early morning imbibers near the local pier. My idea was to call it The Breakfast Club, but in deference to the competition it is as requested. Note that the language at these events is often rough. I have tamed it a bit but there may be a trace…
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
The elaborate Victorian seats on the seafront have seen better days. The same can be said of the three men now occupying them and talking with a smart gent of military bearing who stands, supporting his bicycle. It is evidently not new but is as crisply maintained as he is. Barely eight in the beautiful seaside morning, the sun beats down on his back. They are joking about something. The man with the bicycle pulls himself even straighter.
‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’
One arm sweeps out as though to indicate one of the three, Josh, sprawled asleep in the corner. A flock of seagulls acknowledge his words with a chorus that might be applause, or laughter at the idea of Josh being lovely and temperate.
Dave, in the middle, is the most active of the three seated. He wriggles and sways. In his hand is a gold-coloured can of lager. He waves it with care but does not drink, mindful that it is all he has, so it must last. ‘Well, we know he aint temperate,’ he observes.
‘He aint lovely either.’
This is Mac, on the other side of Dave. That’s the three of them. This morning.
‘It’s Shakespeare,’ says the standing man. ‘I was an actor, you know.’
He reaches into his saddlebag, extracts a translucent plastic bottle, unscrews the top and takes a sip. A shiver as he swallows, betrays the fact that it is not water. He takes another sip.
‘You said you was a pilot in the war,’ says Mac, ‘not an actor.’
‘Woss that you got there?’ Dave asks, his eyes fixed on the bottle.
‘Do you want a drop?’
‘Yeah!’ Dave replies enthusiastically, holding his lager out.
With tremendous care, the man pours some of the clear liquid in through the hole. It is done with precision as befits a precious material.
Mac leans back. He has a bottle of cider in the folds of his jacket and another in his inside pocket. He looks cross.
‘Ta,’ says Dave. He raises the can. He takes a sip. ‘Good stuff.’
‘I was an actor,’ says the man. ‘I’d be over a hundred if I’d been a pilot in the war.’
‘Yeah, but you said.’
Dave turns on Mac. ‘He never fucking said that. You’re a liar. And you’re a thief. You stole my lager in the hostel last night.’ He doesn’t hold back, his voice getting louder, the accusations wilder, his language cruder. He stands, unsteady on his feet, his booze held close. He stares at Mac, finally leans towards him, fist clenched as though to attack, then turns on his heel and totters off towards the toilets by the pier. His speed is unexpected.
The actor wheels his bike away.
Josh opens his eyes. ‘I was an actor too,’ he says. ‘Only amateur. I was a librarian, before my accident.’
The sun has sent Mac to sleep. Josh has no audience.
Shall I compare thee to a summer day?
The sons of Scathios are not many, but we exist, hiding in plain sight, yet cautious as stealthy shadows flickering through time.
The oracle of Ages states ‘everything is subject to the passing of time, even that which is immortal’ and yes things around me did transform and I perceived them in their transience.
In the beginning I only saw the most natural of things such as the ebb and flow of the ocean, the movement of the stars and moon and the mutable taste of wind on my tongue. I appreciated the shifting landscape and the seasons rolling one into another. Eventually, I noticed, as the days of summers flowed into autumns, friends grew old, approach the winter of their existence and faded into the dust blowing among the hills.
I on the other hand continued unchanging and for the first few centuries after that, I thought the words of the oracle were simply scaremongering. I rejoiced in my uniqueness, for my skin remained youthful, and my hair thick, vibrantly auburn, not greying. I felt the pain, and recovered, from several mortal woundings, and wisely, like others belonging to the secret tribe of Scathios, learned not to stay in one place too long.
For the several centuries that followed, still I thought the words meaningless and was happy with my allotted fate because not only was my appearance unchanging but my strength of body and mind remained undiminished.
As time passed, I’ve walked warily through the years trailing out behind me, only sharing brief encounters with others because I saw myself immortal and unchanging.
I’ve watched empires rise and fall, witnessed in person such geniuses as Confucius, Homer and Da Vinci. I’ve sat beside William as he penned his great works: In fact it was at my tongue in cheek suggestion he wrote those immortal lines, ‘shall I compare thee to a summer’s day’.
Immortal I may be but now, after so many eons, I understand the words of Scathios.
I am not unchangeable.
My physicality is unchanging but everything around me, all that I know, and all that I love – all of that changes with the flow of years and it is with the bitter tang of understanding I realise those things change how I think, how I feel, how I speak.
So, in the end, the oracle was right, everything is subject to the passing of time.
Everything changes; even me.
(409)
There’s a fabulous selection of entries in the August comp, and again it’s hard to pick one winner!
@Seagreen: This very enjoyable story reveals the rich history of a relationship, shown with a clever use of Elizabeth English and rhythm. There’s a satisfyingly wide range of emotion, including the delicious LOL comedy of “Thine exuberance I shall compare with tar melting in the sun and grant thy beauty, so well-disguised, age shall not challenge.” I couldn’t help but think of Antony and Cleopatra: “Age cannot wither her, nor custom stage her infinite variety.” Very entertaining.
@sandradavies: This story was pleasurably unexpected in subject matter: an advertisers’ creative brainstorm. I enjoyed the comedy and the character portrayals. The writing captures the sense of a collection of real individuals – hard enough to do in longer fiction, let alone in flash. And the delightful conclusion that they’d all be back at the table on Monday morning, perhaps being witty again or perhaps finding the uninspiring nightwear dragging them all down in a comic way.
@Athelstone: The ironies running through this story are very enjoyable, including that this is about not changing, though there’s plenty of comparing and some lying about personal change. I’m always fond of successful external narrators and I like how this one takes control to inform and guide us. At the end poor Josh still lacks an audience. The preoccupations and squabbles of the men reveal their rough-edged but ongoing relationship, the thing that I imagine is more important than any of them would admit.@Terrie: This story has a compelling view of change taken from the wide viewpoint of unhuman time. On way there’s the truthful point that we often don’t want change, but no one, human or mythical, can resist it. In the end we must all recognise it as our lot. I like the tongue-in-cheek way Shakespeare is given one of his most famous lines! And how the brief passing of a summer’s day is as capable as must longer periods of revealing change.
Sandra: congratulations! In the end it was those disparate characters tackling a Friday-afternoon meeting that decided the winner.
An enjoyable monthly challenge thank you, Libby.
Congratulations Sandra, I’m looking forward to where your monthly inspiration will lead us for September.
Well done Ath and Sea too.
It helps me to dip my toe into writing in genres outside my comfort zone when I see how diverse our entries are
Oh heck – I never saw that coming, not among so many superb entries – thank you, Libby, for comp and comments, and thank you all for much reading awe and entertainment. I’ll aim to post September’s competition before the end of the day. [but isn’t it odd how often a last minute, popped into one’s head, final sentence seems to make what seems a disproportionate impact?]
Another great competition. Thanks so much Libby. Congratulations to all, especially Sandra. Very well deserved.
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