Tails of the Old Crow: Chapter One
Greetings book lovers.
Here is the first chapters of my latest project, a middle-grade novel about a young William Shakespeare and the cats and rats that live in the theater.
Enjoy, and please tell me what you think of it so far…
Tails of the Old Crow
by Wade Bradford
(c) 2010
Chapter One:
William Shakespeare picked his nose. He did this every time he suffered from writer’s block – which was just about every time he held a quill.
He stared at his hornbook, and the parchment of rough paper that lay blank upon it. Then he let out a long, sad sigh. “Writing is hard,” he groaned. He looked around the empty stage of the Old Crow Theatre. His legs dangled off the edge of the proscenium. His quill was nearly dry, so he dabbed the feather into the inkwell. Finally, his eyes lit up. He knew what to write:
“Act the Furst.”
He was not the best speller in the world.
But William was quite pleased with his penmanship. “Now,” he thought, “what words should come next? What should the play be about?” Then, he realized he needed to begin with a title, and he had a good one. He scribbled:
“King William and the Stinky Ghost Monkeys”
He smiled at his own craftsmanship. It was going to be the best play he had ever written. In fact, it was going to be the very first play he had ever written.
“WILLY!” a gruff voice echoed through the open-aired theater. “Didst thou finish sweepin’ the floorboards?!”
“Yes, uncle,” replied young Shakespeare.
His uncle glared at the boy. He was a thick bodied man with an even thicker beard. William had never seen him without food. Today his uncle clenched a turkey leg in his fist. Well, most of it was in his fist. The rest was in his beard.
“And didst thou clean up the beastly remnants?” His uncle pointed to a pile of bear poop left on the stage.
“I shall fetch it,” he replied.
“You best do!” His uncle walked through the gates of the Old Crow theater, whistling for his hounds.
“What a miserable task for a marvelous mind,” grumbled William. He set down his quill and parchment and tended to the dried bear droppings. It wasn’t long before his mind wandered. Daydreams were the perfect escape from unpleasant chores. William dreamed of someday having a better job working on the stage. But for now he assisted his uncle with the bear-baiting events. He would rather work with the actors who performed exciting tragedies and merry comedies. What would that be like? To have the groundlings peer up at him and the lords and ladies in the expensive seats smile down upon him? But his uncle would never allow that. Bear-baiting made more money. Audiences wanted barking and growling – not speeches and poetry. Yet maybe if he wrote something wonderful enough. Maybe then he would—
Shakespeare stepped in bear-poop. It was a terrible way to snap out of his day dream. As he scraped off his boot at the edge of the proscenium, he felt something – a very small something –poked his leg. He looked down to discover a mouse. It was holding William’s quill. More than holding, it was poking him with the pointy end as though he was trying to get the boy’s attention –
But William assumed that the mouse was trying to attack him.
“Zounds!” gasped the boy. “A beastie!”
The brown mouse calmly set the quill at William’s feet, but since the boy thought that the rodent was going to bite, he stumbled back, knocking over the ink well. A black streak of ink crawled down the front of the stage. Now William was truly in trouble. His uncle would kill him, and then the world’s greatest eight-year-old playwright would never be discovered.
