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I'm a big Hamlet fan and I just wanted to write my own little interpretation of the Ophelia death scene. I suppose this should technically go under fanfiction, but....XD. I'm not quite happy with it, as it was written a few years ago, so I might revise it when I get a real chance to sit down and look at it. Please do not repost this short story without permission. Comments welcome to Gerald Tarrant at lordofmerentha@yahoo.com.
The Tragedy of Hamlet, Act IV, scene 7 Ophelia, maiden bright in your gown of purity and youth, why do you sit weaving among the tree boughs? When men look at you they see a thousand suns in all their glory, an angel in the plumage of a dove, yet now your long tresses lie tangled about your face and your dress is stained from last night's sleepless wandering. Your broken fingers move with nimble quickness dancing through the strands of posies and as you lift your head your bruised mouth shapes empty words of song. Why do you sing, Ophelia? Is the grief of a daughter for a father so? This mad grief, this grieving madness that has taken you, daughter of the gods, in its grasp, shaken you in its terrible wind and thrown you back upon the bleak fields of mortal existence. Or do you not remember what grief is, and instead lie singing for the childhood you never had, false memories of music and laughter and love playing amongst the scarred and twisted remains of your raw past? Tell me, Ophelia, that you remember. You throw your liquid song into the sky, as liquid as the tears that flow down your face into the wedding garlands that you weave. Do you expect the angels to catch it and send it spiraling gently back, like those games of catch that children play still? Hear their laughter on the breeze. Do you remember laughter, Ophelia? Or have the tears that flow like an ocean covered it in a watery grave? Yes, now you laugh, the laughter of the lost child, the frightened bleat of a cornered lamb. Why do you laugh, Ophelia? The sun is as bright and white as your fair skin and the leaves are lace shadows upon your shoulders. Underneath the river gurgles with soothing anticipation, listening to your sweet voice fall like droplets of wetness into its foamy depths, as soft and tender as a lover's embrace. Do you weep for the lover you never had, Ophelia, as you stand and make your stately way down the length of the wooden aisle to greet your groom in the church of air? For a second you pause in the air, poised like a bird, gown flying, like a statue of Artemis, or perhaps like an angel.
Ophelia, little girl who was woman and yet never could have been, your flowers are scattered over the roaring river and your gown has sunk with the waves. Yet your song hangs glistening like water droplets of a rainbow after a storm, shimmering diamonds that mark the faerie story that was once the spirit of a maiden upon this earth. And perhaps they will fall one day, onto the uplifted shriveling petals of the mortal flowers you left behind, falling like soft rain on a summer night. 29 February 2000 |