This chatter is brought to you by the color of my favorite coffee mug, the letter C, and copious amounts of caffeinated coffee. Coffee makes writers smile. Do I have your attention? Good. We’re going to play a writing game.

And by ‘we’ I mean every single follower of Brigit’s Flame (I know who you are). If you do not participate in this game, I will be forced to keep a mental list of demerits against you. I may even stop inviting you to write in my writing games. No one wants that, really.

I am going to introduce several lines of Shakespearean verse, you will translate the stanza of your choice (1, 2, 3, or 4). When rewriting this stanza, feel free to do so in the spirit of whatever culturally-specific vernacular, or literary fashion you like, or, in your own voice as if applying it to personal memoir. #gowrite

1. What art thou that usurp’st this time of night,
Together with that fair and warlike form
In which the majesty of buried Denmark
Did sometimes march? by heaven I charge thee, speak!
(Horatio; Hamlet Act 1, Scene 1)

2. And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard,
The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day; and, at his warning,
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,
The extravagant and erring spirit hies
To his confine: and of the truth herein
This present object made probation.
(Horatio; Hamlet Act 1, Scene 1)

3.Much deserved on his part, and equally remembered by Don Pedro.
He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing in the
figure of a lamb the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better bettered
expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how.
(Messenger; Much Ado About Nothing Act 1, Scene 1)

4. Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows
Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,
And the continuance of their parents’ rage,
Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.
(Romeo and Juliet, Prologue)

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