The Unreliable Narrator
I’m what you might call an unreliable narrator.
But you can trust me.
I‘ve been summoned to tell tales of the theatre and this dashing gent, with his smouldering Oscar Wilde look about him, his unruly cravat, foppish hair and come-hither eyes.
He is the greatest Shakespearian thespian that has ever lived. He has held aloft the poor skull of Yorick, ‘neath the strutting beams of the Globe theatre. His calls for Juliette have settled, and softly seeped into the thatched-roof fabric where they will live forever; like his searing talent.
What’s that you say? What about the bottle on the side? Perhaps he likes a tipple between scenes? Maybe a genie, you say? Well, there was this one time in Band Camp…
In hindsight, I forgot to mention that beneath the disarming looks of the ‘actor’ there are chains round his wrists, rips in his trousers and yes, have you noticed that ball attached to his feet? Are we even in the theatre? Or, do we stand beneath the glorious archways of Notre Dame? Behind him is a back so curved and bulbous they call him cruel names and tell stories of him to scare children.
Perhaps, you should not trust an unreliable narrator.
I was very happy with my Special Mention this week