Abel Prudhomme

jimenezA writer and performance artist, Abel Prudhomme is the author of the play Hamlet, Resurrected, which is in the Plays section.  In these three flash fiction pieces, Abel developed his ideas for his play.  To learn more about Abel, click on "Who Is This Guy?!" in the Interviews section.

 

Other Works:


One Night

(298 words without title)

Music in the distance? But it wasn’t this.  No, nor the stillness of everything else.  Just that one gradual thing woke him up; that inability to shift. 

It was obviously a carryover from the womb.  A comfort enjoyed each night, as he lay upon his bed; now withheld!  He could not turn to the side, he could not cup his head in hands, he could not bring his knees gently to his chest, and so he could not descend back into restful solid sleep.

Were there players in the village?  Their revelry increased?  And what was that pressing against his knee?  And that dream, fading away as all dreams do; hard to recall, lingering at the edge of what was real. 

They love their rhythm, don’t they?  They must be shuffling, keeping time.  Yet, he is more concerned with what he feels against his back, against his arms, against his side; and his eyes opening to touch the utter dark!

Those drums!  Damn the revelers; those drums!  What is this?  What? 

And then he remembers: prince, poison, sword; something wrong! Something!  The dream; it was –

The beating, the beating, now pounding from his chest!  Yet, he can almost, almost… There!  His hands are now beside his head, pressing up with all his might.  Nothing!  Nothing!  Smashing with his elbows, pushing with his knees, but nothing, nothing yields!

The music, the rhythm; it was his own heart; now silenced by the scratching, and the screaming!  His own voice, his pain, his fingernails torn to shreds!

Now, he is transformed again; whimpering, the immobile, the undead!  The sound of his beating heart returns; overwhelming all but this, “Laetres, if this be you, then the Prince of Denmark, Hamlet is also… buried alive!” 

And he wonders, will the noise ever end?

 


Trapped!

(256 words without title)

I would scream, but none would hear me.  My day is as my night.  My mind explores the infinite, but I -- a mortal still! 

Oh, to rise; to be free!  Constrained!  I did not build this thing! This thing was not built for me!  Constrained!!  And this metal pressed upon my head that stiffens mind, and heart, and will, and…

Oh, for the counsel of Klenjdal Mountains, the sun that would not set; and the breeze of Loen Lake which calls me home.  Mock me not, mock me not all thee who warned me then!

Vengeance!  Coward!!  Thou art nothing more than me!  Fie!  False fallen god!  Thou art but echo of the laughter none can hear.

It was not enough!  Why was it not enough?  I, Prince of Norway, nevermore to be!  I, Fortinbras, victor of no battle; conqueror of the kingless crown!  Trapped within a foreign throne!   Imprisoned by this gold upon my head!

Surrounded by my court, my hypocrites; am I not chief of thee?  Truth buried in the ground; I weep for thee, myself, my darling; true self whom none shall now ever know.  (Tears that are not falling are choking me, choking me!) 

All is gone!  All is nothing; and I shall be here another day!  And so…

“Bring the executioner!  Bring the House of Hamlet; and as I sign this new decree, with bloody blade and muscled swing, from newest babe to oldest thing, let all whose breath could be a threat, before me here be put to death!" 

 


The Gravedigger

(298 words without title)

Hamlet is alive!

These words I know confuse thee more than tell, yet burdened heart from me to thee must spill.  Yea, ’though this madness follows hard from depths of inky grave.  Oh, ho, usurping heart, behave, behave!  ’Tis so!  ’Tis so!  He lives!!  Hamlet lives!!

Oh, I tell it!  I tell it! 

'Twas twice a morn beyond invaded shores.  Bodies filled the streets!  Stench of death possessed the wind, and sailed 'pon pools of blood.  Ah, the royal nose was filled!  King of Denmark, Prince of Norway - Fortinbras!  Conqueror of the kingless crown!

Swift was decree, so nimbly borne, so well directed, so frighteningly phrased that e’er the sun did fall, the still and rotting flesh lay deep within the ground, save corpses three  - king, queen , and...

The rigid regal sent to oily hands, princely pride joined to mine; and I went ‘round to digging, digging, digging, digging, like an earthworm in the Rhine; until the thing and I combined, guest and guide fetching down.  Then the moon turned me around and

I saw death looking back at me!

'Twas but a variant of movement, like painted eyes not as they seem.  And then it blinked, and then it twitched, and then it spoke… and then it screamed!  And up the ladder for the living, the thing… escaped into the dark!

Next day, when they found me, and my fellows pulled me out, we gained permission to unearth that other tomb, and the body of friend Laetres was exhumed. 

His eyes horrid, frozen, opened; his lips twisted in a shout; his bloody fingers, nails newly ripped, with those splinters sticking out.  Ah… oh, a vision then I saw, a vision I shall ever see, words gory gouged inside the coffin, “Remember me!  Remember me!!”


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