Introduction; an abnormally long author's note.
First off, I was never a fan of Shakespeare, and I'm still not entirely sure if I am now. It's one of those things that grows on you rather rapidly and yet still remains an "acquired taste." In other words, I can watch "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and laugh at it, while at the same time shouting to the heavens "WHERE ART THOU TRANSLATION!?"
With that spirit in mind, I'd like to warn you that I didn't stick to the original language, or the Big Man's dramatic format either. I like modern English, so get used to it.
Thirdly (even though I really haven't been numbering so far but what the hell why not start now?)- this isn't exactly dead-on accurate. You'll see why as you read a bit more of the story. I've basically combined what I remember from the last time I tried to process Christian Bale's monologue and what I happen to know about ancient history to create something thoroughly weird and certainly not true to either.
And fourthly (don't worry, I'm almost done), location. I've seen/ heard of the original being set anywhere from the Wild West to the Holocaust (don't ask). I've chosen Ancient Greece. I mean seriously, the town's name is Athens. What better place to run around in the woods and get manipulated by fairies in not-to-terribly convincing costumes?
Fifthly- you've probably already noticed that I don't possess the ability to shut up. Author's notes come with the regularity of tax hikes. My biggest request is that you write a review, good or bad, and to be patient with my absurdly slow rate of updating (would it sound like blatant capitalism if I told you that the best way to keep up with this story is to favorite it? Yes? 'Cuz that's what it is. And yes, I will continue updating Ringbearer).
And without more terribly tedious adieu, I give you something that should have Shakespeare rolling in his grave. What, you ask? I can't tell you. That's why I wrote a book about it.
Happy Reading,
- Neohtan the Wise (Slayer of Dragons, Trolls, and Dust Bunnies)
Athens, Greece, 450 BC.
It was springtime in the little town on the hill. Flowers had, as in every year, taken up root on the sides of the single road that sprawled in winding circlets from the mountains. It was not a well-travelled road, its main use coming from pedestrians, oxcarts, and the occasional messenger on the less-than-occasional eventful day. The road, of course, culminated in the Agora, which, strangely enough, was seated atop the acropolis hill in what could be called the most ridiculous city-planning effort in the history of man. Everyone, old, young, or paralyzed from the waist down, had to make their way up that narrow road (which, by now had become almost absurdly crowded due to the fact that Athens's actual citizens used it) to do their everyday shopping.
Well, people generally agreed, that's what slaves are for.
However, what perplexed travelers the most was a sign. Seated directly in the center of the ill-placed agora, and painted bright red and gold, it read: Athens, 80 miles.
For the average Greek tourist, this left a lot of head-scratching. Until they realized; this wasn't the Athens. It was that Athens. The one most people tended to avoid as only complete imbeciles would turn left on the road that lead to the real city o' sin.
In fact, Athens 2, as they called it, was quite possibly the most un-Athenian city in Greece, with only Sparta taking a possible lead. Most of its people scorned their "big cousin" with its philosopher-infested streets and backroom brothels. Best keep away from all the heretical nonsense and stay home with the sheep. In fact, aside from its strangely Medieval-sounding titles and the confusion of a great deal of horrible map-readers, it was the very picture of ordinary. It could even be called "dull."
Until the day when a fed-up old man picked a fight with a chap called Lysander.
It wasn't exactly unexpected, after all, the man's daughter, Hermia, had been secretly seeing the lad for years. Everyone had known it, aside from her father of course. But still, he was of sufficient station to warrant a petition to the Duke (who looked disturbingly like future U.S. Secretary of State Seward) and a great deal of desk-sitting. Soon it was determined that Hermia should be hanged- it was getting rather stuffy in His Grace's office and everyone was desperate for a tea break. Anyway, people needed a good execution every once and a while.
Of course, this didn't exactly sit well with Lysander, let alone Hermia, and after a few minutes of launching monologues at each other, they made up their minds to flee.
"Where?" Hermia finally thought to ask.
"Well shit, I don't know," Lysander replied, "so long as we get lost in the woods."
You see, Lysander had this thing about getting lost in the woods. He was just one of those people who had an uncanny sense of direction and was always trying to get rid of it. He probably would've been a philosopher if the word had ever failed to cause an effigy-burning fest in our lovely city of Athens 2. Circumstances never conspired more conspiratorially to make a play.
Meanwhile, a group of actors were on the prowl. Despite their tendency for rioting, the laborers of the city were quite determined to put on a play for the Duke's wedding. One of them was Nick Bottom, a weaver, who, at some point in the story, would be turned into an ass. It doesn't really matter how that happened; he just was, so deal with it.
In the meantime, a group of fairies (yes, the woods around Athens had fairies back then; they're extinct now due to habitat loss and their severe allergy to politicians, but in 450 B.C., you could practically walk across Greece on a road paved with their chest hair), had got it in their head to screw around with our little love triangle (or really more like a square since there was this depressed girl named Helena who really loved this chum called Demetrius…). To do this, they'd have to get a flower that grows around the area where Cupid's arrow hit the ground (Cupid misses a lot; which was probably the trouble with Bill Clinton). However, the fairies had forgotten an essential property of the arrow.
It was an arrow. Arrows are pointy. Pointy things hurt.
But, despite this, after a great deal of mucking about in the woods, everyone was happy again. In fact, to the mortals, it had all been but a dream.
Or so they thought. You see, there's a reason why they print the side effects so small…
Nick Bottom woke up. It was a strange feeling, that of suddenly being jarred from one's bed in a mad rush of material and reality, so that one found oneself trying to remember where one was; held in suspension between a dream-filled stupor and the sudden shock of alertness.
That's a lot of "ones."
He yawned, letting his shoulders pop in their particularly painful, morning way, grinning slightly to himself. It had been an amazing performance last night. Pirimus and whatever the hell the girl's name was. All on account of Nick Bottom, actor, weaver, and a man who would've done a much better Lion's Roar that the idiot that got the part.
It was about this time that he noticed his left arm was gone.
He blinked, and rubbed his eyes (with his other arm of course). It was still gone. Funny, he thought, what a strange dream this was. He rolled his shoulder, wincing in pain as it popped in its socket.
It was about this time when he realized you can't feel pain in dreams, and that the arm in question had found itself a comfortable perch on a dresser across the room, where it was busy making rude gestures at its erstwhile master.
Bottom fainted. The Audience laughed. Sometimes, a good night's sleep can cost an arm and a leg.