Brool brool (n.) : a low roar; a deep murmur or humming

Scene III

 |  micro writing

From The Lost Acts Of Shakespeare:

Scene III. A fire burns in the middle of the woods. The full moon can be seen in the background. POLONIUS stands by the fire, warming his hands. FEANE enters, dejectedly.


Hark, comrade!




Thou seemst sad and weary of life, Feane;
what botherst thou?


Truly, you have espied my mood
as easily as an eagle spots a rat.
Oh! And my mood is a large dark rat
gnawing at my soul.
I speak without iambic pentameter,
I am so divest of good cheer.


Then sit by this roaring fire,
that doest drive away the chill,
and tell me of your problems.
For if I can help, I will.


I pray then, please explain
the meanderings of women. My heart hurts,
and my head is in pain,
and I understand them not.
They change their minds on the slightest whim;
can go from angel to harpy in an instant.
The truth is a wispish cloud to them,
something that binds them only in passing
as fleeting as a fog.
How can a man make sense of this?


Not all women are as fickle as a whim,
though they are rare indeed.
Forsooth, I have had my own encounters
that have befuddled me greatly
until I doubted my own sanity.
But, it does boil down to this:
one goes receive what one demands.
If you accept a woman mecurial,
you will always have a woman mecurial.


I despair, at times.


Truly, as do we all.
I fear that women are not to be understood
by mortal man, and any man that claims he knows
the fairer sex is, by right,
a charlatan, or a fool. It matters not.
The understanding of women, I think,
is as far and unattainable as the moon.


I think thoust are correct.
the moon is very pretty, is it not?


Aye, the moon is pretty, my friend.
(both men stare at the moon)
(end scene)


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