Bards Tale Hamlet

The Shakespeare Uncensored Chain Stories

Welcome to Lit's own "Globe Theater." On our stage, you will witness (through a bit of artistic license on each author's part) various erotic scenes that we feel may have been "omitted" from Shakespeare's original plays. We hope you enjoy!

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My soul cries for my egress, but I am imprisoned by a force that I cannot fight. O God, how I ache to be released, from this place, from this world; I would happily dissipate to nothing, abandon all thoughts of paradise and the rewards hereafter. Nothing wouldst be a friend to me, an emptiness a bliss that I could not describe; tis not possible to weave words to fully show the ways in which the void of a void torments me.

Or, if I cannot be nothing, then I would gladly turn to the deep torment of eternity. Fie, flame wouldst be as the gentle caress of a sweet love and the cacophony of tortur'd screams sweet music to mine ears, 'gainst what assails them here. I would join that eternal choir and I would smile at the fates that gave me that release from the script that unfolds here.

The lady cries out again and mine hand moves 'gainst strong will to the curtain. Mine eyes have no need to see, mine ears no need to hear, my nose no need to smell their rank sweat, dripping from their skins as flesh joins flesh in the sickly motion that the earliest man knew before he knew he was man. I have no need to look; the view is burn'd forever onto my lids, a scene to play over and over were I ever to close my vision again.

Yet, my hand moves, once more, to pull the curtain away and reveal the darkness beyond, such gluttonous blackness and sickening dirt so filthy that for all my wisdom I do not know if Denmark can ever be clean again. She is sickened and wounded and this cannot, but harm her further. Better than she should expire now, cut curtly down in the strains of mourning, than she be forced to bear witness to what lies beneath her sickly surface.

The lady moves as I watch, mouth working hungrily to his as though she cannot sate herself by food alone. She will not see me, cast in her shroud of Eros, but every expression on her face draws clear as the sun rising, such familiar features torn and twisted as she writhes against him.

Fie, tis fault to heaven that we cannot cast our minds away; that sight, once seen, cannot be unseen again. The permanence of thought makes every vision a long-suffering wound, a knife carried always, buried to the hilt, blade upon blade driving through skin til there is no flesh left to cut, no body left to wound and no soul left to burn. For truth, I could not conjure afore how a man could leave his senses, but now I see what drives the lunatic; it is only by releasing sanity that we can purge the damn'd sights from our eyes and attempt to cleanse our souls, scrubbing til the weave comes undone and the material is faded and grey.

A wave o'ercomes her and she shudders, soul trembling with insensate lust as fires lick at the tapered edges of her self-control. She cannot help, but move, pressing herself to him; no longer queen, nor mother, nor lady, but wanton maid thrust to insanity by basest passion, by the throbbing staff that spreads and consumes her. I cannot watch and yet mine eyes cannot cease from looking.

O! That this sight belonged to some other man that I need not endure it. Tis the greatest crime that vision can make – to force the sight of a mother opened and spread before the son, like an Oedipal conquest that sickens the gut.

O fickle woman, whose husband lies not weeks in his grave! How can she wound him that she professed to love and, in wounding, sullies herself with this basest lust. For I am also my father's son and by this injury she hath slain me too, and cast my heart from my chest to lay it on the flames of her passion.

Should I make my presence known? I wish not to see more than I have already seen, but I know that, should I stay my hand, this treachery will go unpunished and dear Hamlet's grave will not stay peaceful. What son could not move when faced with treason? What prince could stay his hand when a man hath thrust into the very depths of the royal household, usurping the place held only by a greater man than. My bodkin waits at my belt, eager for the quick taste, the sharp elixir that feeds all life and would cut this dog down where he lies.

Soft! He moves, their sin shifting to a newer motion. I withdraw, hand on my hilt. If his visage is known to me, there may yet be a gentler way to solve this feud. Or, if not, then I may repair my mother's trespasses 'neath my cowl and keep the memory of the King undefiled. Now turn. Turn, villain and let me see thy face!

O treachery. O hateful eyes that hath shown me this vision; I would rather tear thee out and never see again than be forced to look longer on this scene. Perfidious traitor that doth tease and torment the royal flesh, winding his hands 'cross zones that draw the scream from a lady, removing all decorum and leaving her whimpering and open, breath heaving like Jezebel unrestrained; this is no position for a queen. Fie, this foul, vile dog that parts my mother and thrusts into her with such animal viciousness, this hateful cur that hath stole my father's place is no lesser a man than the villain who hath taken his crown!

The blade at my belt screams for blood and I draw it with a sing of steel, ready to end this villainy forever.

But wait. There comes a groan and a wail and, thus, the snake hath finished his tryst, laying his surges inside the lady and resting his head upon her breast. And in doing so hath made himself king unrestricted. For what man could deny a King that doth have the support of the Queen herself? He was king in all but ceremony and now he hath cemented himself.

Were I now to cut him down, it would bring down the house of Elsinore, snuffing out the light that reaches into the darkness of Scandinavia and condemning our country to a sickening end, laying her weak and feeble, open like its Queen to the highest bidder, legs spread in an invitation for our enemies to take what they wished for and give nothing in return.

Fie, that I should have some guiding light. Some sign from God to show me the path to take. Uncertainty sickens and yet the right remains shrouded. To allow this sickness to take root would let it grow strong and insult all that has come before. But to attempt to uproot it immediate would risk destruction. I have not wit to see the ends and yet I know that neither and both courses will satisfy my duty in equal measure.

Woe that such sickness had ever laid eyes on Elsinore! Wherefore came this filth that would burn from inside to out, ev'ry edifice crumbling in the wake of a grunting dog and a straddled maid, bound in a web of incestuous treachery.

Noise comes once again and the images of entwined skin play 'cross mine eyes without need to look. The rhythm builds anew and I am sickened as Denmark is, turned rotten from the inside by what lies within. I must away and consider my response, for matters such as these are not lightly to be solved.

Softly, I away, villainy echoing in my ears.

Exeunt, stage left