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Hamlet

A chatroom

somewhere in Elsinore
Examine Room:
The battlements of Elsinore Castle
In the room are:
Hamlet
Ophelia

Hamlet Hi
Ophelia That’s what I was going to say. You stole my opening gambit.
Hamlet Tell me O, (I can call you O?) Are you still shagging that guy Toby?
Ophelia Believe me H, I just don’t know where you got that from. Toby is just so over.
Hamlet Really?
Ophelia Yes really. He is history man. Put him right out of your mind?
Hamlet Out of my mind!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ophelia Well yes I wasn’t being personal but you do take things to heart you know, you need to lighten up H baby.
Hamlet well bad things happen O, I can’t just ignore them. People
(time passes)
Ophelia People?
Hamlet They just can’t be trusted. Is there anyone else there with you?
Ophelia Why do you ask?
Hamlet Do you always answer a Q with a Q?
Ophelia Why do you ask?
Hamlet because I think you open your lovely person to every guy who comes along – Toby or not Toby.
Ophelia No really “lovely person”?
Hamlet Yes look I wrote lovely person and the chat system changed it to lovely person.
Ophelia How weird.
Hamlet I was thinking of going to Slovelypersonorpe at the weekend.
Ophelia LOL
Hamlet I still think you’re a bit of a nun.
Ophelia You wrote nun and it changed it to nun?
Hamlet Yes
Ophelia You really are a lovely person.

Brighton to London - another short story

(short means short)

As the train pulled out of the station, Poi settled himself comfortably into a corner seat. The carriage was empty but a girl, who gave her name as Lucy came and sat down opposite him.

The predominant theme of her clothes was magenta. She had a magenta t shirt, a matching magenta skirt, gloves, leather jacket, thong (well this detail came out later) tights and shiny shoes.

And a magenta belly button ring.

They chatted of this and that, Big Brother came up, so did George Orwell who Poi played cards with. Various other people got into the carriage and she confided to Poi.

“You know I can’t stand the way they look at me as if I were a tart.”

There was a silence.

“I suppose it is my own fault for having my work clothes on.”
“What do you do?”
She gave him what can only be described as “a look”.

She leaned closer, “I am an actress.”
There was a pause
“and a psychotherapist and a spiritual healer”
There was another pause
“and a masseuse.”
“Oh I see.”
“And, if you must use the word, a tart.”


Derek McMillan

London to Brighton Short Story

(and I do mean short - this is a blog not a book)..

As the train pulled out of the station, Poi settled himself comfortably into a corner seat. His hair was unfashionably long and in dreadlocks. His clothes smelt slightly of Nag Champa. He could pass without comment in London or Brighton but the train passed through Ridicule, Distrust, Suspicion and the little halt at Abuse.

On the train it was safe and the other passengers were art students.

To begin with he was content to listen to the conversation but when it turned to a Dadaist exhibition in Paris, he had to smile and comment,
“Of course you know why they drive on the right over there.”
They didn’t
“Well back in the day,” he said relaxing into the story, “everyone in Europe drove on the left. So they were all patiently driving on the left when Napoleon decreed that his tanks were going to drive on the right. They would overtake anyone on the left and anyone coming towards them would have to get out of the way. There was a lot of ill feeling about this among the peasants but soon people realised they could drive on the right too so that was what happened.”

There was a silence in the carriage.

The conversation reverted to the Dadaist exhibition and again Poi was just content to listen, until the train was nearing Brighton he interjected,

“Of course there was that scandal.”

And they looked at him.

“There was that big scandal about Dada because he used to go around stealing kittens.”

As the train pulled in to the station one student leaned close to Poi and confided.

“There wasn’t a person called Dada.

“It’s just a meaningless word.”