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Hamlet's Lost Soliloquy |
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by Siobhan Ciminera
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1:00 |
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It’s retched to be (or not to be) the Prints of Denmark these daze. Ever since my father was sleighed, things just haven’t been write. I begin every day by preying over my mourning coffee while I ride my serfboard to the castle. Before I even reach the gates, I can smell the King’s fowl stench. I know he killed my father and the pane tares through me like a steak through the hart. It’s thyme for gorilla warfare. Of coarse, my mother (that hoarish dame) keeps telling me that I knead to stop looking like a dear caught in headlights. Look, I whale, is anyone hear listening to me? All I want is a peace of the pi. I can’t bare this anymore. Am I weighting in vein? Who’ll stop the reign? Will anyone come to my ade? Will I ever cross the Finnish line that separates the rightful err from his crown?
Siobhan Ciminera Siobhan Ciminera is completing her MFA at The New School. By day she is an editor at Penguin Young Readers Group where she edits, among other things, Mad Libs, Nancy Drew, and Angelina Ballerina.
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