Macdeath

This is my spoof on Shakespeare's Macbeth(bits and pieces of it at least). We have the text for English in school, and my friends and I thought it would be really cool to spoof it. :)

ACT I, SCENE IV

Duncan: Macdeath, old boy, I've got a topping idea. I am going to reward you for your wonderful loyalty to me. I'm going to make you, wait for it...

(Drum roll sounds)

Macdeath(Aside): Heir apparent at last! Muahahahaha

Duncan: The Thane of Cawdor! How 'bout that?

(Macdeath's jaw drops)

Duncan continues, pleased: And I've got an even better treat for you!

Macdeath(Aside): Heir apparent! Tell me quickly!

Duncan: I'm going to visit your house as a guest for a few days! How about that for a treat?

(Macdeath faints)

Wordzzle mini-week 131

"Cool whip, mister!" called out a kid as Victor passed him.

Victor grimaced. He was never going to forgive his sister for this. Never. He began planning diverse revenge scenarios in his mind. It took his mind off the agonizingly long walk to the big community hall at the end of the street.

As he walked, he could see he wasn't the only adult in a funny dress. Up ahead him was Old Mr. Roberts, who'd shed his usual casual shorts and tee and was wearing a ridiculous gladiator outfit. Victor debated on whether he should catch up with him and comment on his costume, but decided against it since he could not possibly think of anything good to say about it.

He reached the hall where an urchin dressed all in black was manning the door. "Name, sir?" enquired the stripling.

"Victor Greene" He glanced curiously at the boy's eccentric get-up. "New fad?" he asked, waving towards the clothes.

"No sir, I'm the Ink," the boy answered, sounding shocked.

Victor, who had no idea who or what the Ink was, nodded. He was given a pin-up badge and allowed to enter. The badge said 23 in big, bold numbers. Victor was amazed. Were there 22 other fools who'd actually turned up for this thing? Maybe there were giving free drinks or something. He began to feel more hopeful.

"Vicky, my boy, good to see you!" roared a voice in his ear. Victor winced. He knew that voice. He turned to see Jack Gillingham grinning mischievously at him. Great. Now the news would be all over town that Victor Greene had actually attended a costume competition dressed as Indiana Jones, complete to the whip. Victor thought balefully of his sister again. He wished he were immature enough to put frogs in her bed like he'd done when they were young.

"Hey, Jack."

Jack seemed to catch the palpable lack of enthusiasm in Victor's voice. He bent down near Victor. "I know how you're feeling, my dear fellow. I felt the same when the wife pushed me out here in this fancy get-up. But every cloud has a silver lining, I can tell you. I know this whole thing is for charity, but they're offering free food for whoever turns up. And it's really good, dear chap. Try some." He steered Victor to the banquet table and piled some food on his plate. "And besides," he continued, lowering his voice even further "the winner of this competition gets a cool two-grand prize. How about that? It would be something to win that." His eyes looked dreamy.

Victor glanced at his companion's Viking costume and found it difficult to imagine it winning. It was almost similar to the Old Man Robert's gladiator costume. Why did people with paunches have to choose costumes meant for people twenty years younger?

Victor glanced at his own get-up. Nothing spectacular - just a pair of Khaki trousers and a Khaki jacket, topped off with a fedora hat(it was rather battered-it belonged to his adventure-loving nephew). But the crowning glory was the magnificent whip. It trailed two-feet long on the floor behind him and nearly tripped up anyone walking near it. He'd just considered rolling it up and bundling it away when a loud announcement came over the speakers.

"The Annual Fancy-dress Competition for Adults is now officially begun. A huge thanks to all of you who are participating. The money collected, as you all know, is going to charity..."

Victor didn't bother to listen any more. He was only here because his sister had forced him into it. He just hoped it would finish quickly.

Twenty minutes later, he was perspiring as he stepped on the raised platform in response to his name blared out from the speakers. He'd thought they had to just stand in a line while their costumes were inspected and then they would be free to go. But to go on stage and act out the character he was portraying? He'd known this was a bad idea. He pushed away his revenge schemes from his mind as he contemplated what he would do. He hadn't even watched these movies, for God's sake. The man dressed up as James Bond had given a credible imitation of a fight scene. Even Jack had roared out some meaningless gibberish and pretended to attack some enemy Huns(had Vikings ever fought Huns?) What on earth should he do?

With no really coherent thought in his head, he took a deep breath, faced the audience, raised his whip, and cracked it in the air.

The result was overwhelming. There was a sharp CRACK so loud it nearly deafened Victor. There was a buzz of static, and he smelt something burning. More specifically, hair. He reached up and tentatively felt his head. His hair was singed where the whip had caught it. The whip now lay innocuously next to him on the ground. Victor looked at the amused audience and groaned inwardly. He hoped his sister would be happy.

His sister was happy. She gazed at the huge, gold-plated trophy in satisfaction and at the two-grand check in Victor's hand with even more satisfaction. "See? I told you you'd win. And it was all so easy. Yes, I know you said you made a fool of yourself," she said, in a tone which suggested this was to be expected, "but you gave the judges something different, something to laugh about, and I bet that gave you an edge. Now," she said in a kindly tone, "hand over the cash to me and I'll put it for household expenses. And I'll keep some aside to buy you a nice costume for next year. I saw a nice gladiator costume in the thrift shop today."

Wordzzle midi-week 131

"What's marginal utility?" whispered Veena feverishly as she and Sheela flipped through their notes. "I know I learnt it, I know I learnt it..."

"Hey genius, how do open-market operations work?" asked Keerthi, who was standing next to them. Both of them stared at her. "We have open market operations as well? Oh God, I am killed for sure. Please let the question papers be lost, please let them be lost..."

"Maybe it would have been better if we'd taken computers like Minnie and the others. Look at how cool they are," said Sheela, jerking her head towards the batch crowded in front of the next classroom.

Minnie, meanwhile, was cursing anything and everything related to computers. "I swear I'm going to throw my laptop out of the window when I go home. Stupid thing. Who the hell cares anything about lynx or Mosaic? I have Internet explorer and that's more than enough for me."

"Yeah, right. That damn thing is so slow, man. I have Google Chrome, but that hardly works as well. My computer is so useless, dude."

"Honey, if you're not studying those notes, could I have them? I need to go through those codes again."

"Look at the arts group. They're so lucky; I bet they have nothing to study at all. I've seen Shrishti's textbook, and it's so basic. And they have half the stuff omitted anyway."

Shrishti was gazing at the wall and trying to by-heart the definition of a floating population. She still had ten more definitions left to go through. Why, oh why, did sociologists have to define everything? And why, oh why, did she not study all this yesterday? Why did the school have to schedule a surprise test in the middle of the week for all the eleventh classes? The term had barely begun, and they were all pushed back to work like this. It was more than unfair, it was inhumane.

Ramya nearby was revising a paragraph. "The British glutted the Indian market with Manchester imports with which the poor weavers could not compete..."

"Why are you studying history? History is tomorrow!" shrieked Shrishti. Had she mixed up her time-table? Oh no...

"Yeah, I know, but history's my weak point and if I don't study it from now itself, I'm screwed. I'm not bothered for sociology. She'll give marks even if you write rubbish. You just have to include keywords."

"How long until the exam starts? I need to revise a bit more..."

Clang. Great, the exam had officially started. Everyone filed into their classes, stuffing notes haphazardly into random bags and still discussing furiously in undertones. Shrishti caught sight of Veena and Sheela heading into their classroom and gave them a big thumbs-up. Then she took a deep breath and went to her seat.

She was feeling nearly chilled to the bone. This was the important test. The principal wasn't happy with standard eleven's performance in the First term and had roundly told them so. "Just because you had the boards last year does not mean you can slack off completely this year. It was a very poor performance - the absolute worst aggregate I've seen. You need to be studying continuously; not just before the exam..." And so on and on and on. No one had attended to her really. They even ignored the principal's veiled hint about throwing a surprise test some time, the marks of which would be added to the annual exam scores. And she'd thrown a big bomb and gone and done it. It was a huge surprise since they'd got only two days to prepare for it. No class revisions, no extra study holidays... it really was inhumane.

Veena, in the next class, was wishing she could go under her table and take shelter there till the horrible exam got over. Her head was actually swimming. She'd been staring at the paper in front of her for five minutes and it didn't make any more sense to her now than when she'd first got it. In fact, even less. She didn't know the answer to a single question. This horrible nightmare couldn't be real. She shut her eyes. "Let me pass this test somehow. Let me pass this test..."

A buzz interrupted her thoughts. She looked around. No one else was writing anything either. Uma, who sat in front of her, told her what the problem was. "They've given us the twelfth-standard question paper. Remember, they're supposed to have a cycle test next week? Someone must have mixed them up."

It transpired that the papers were mixed up in all the classes. Students were asked to wait outside till the mess was cleared up. Some made a beeline for their notes, grateful for the extra time. Others chattered about the misplacement, and wondered how it happened.

Around half an hour later, there was an announcement saying the exams were cancelled; and the students could go to their respective classes for their usual lessons. There was general disbelief all around. One student, who could generally be relied on to know everything about everything that happened, recounted what had occurred. Apparently, the school had had a garage sale that Saturday, and someone had put out the box full of question papers instead of one full of toys: they'd just found out their error. However, the school couldn't get the box back, because the person who'd bought it had somehow sent it for recycling instead.

The exams were postponed for a fortnight.

Veena never neglected to pray again after that day.

Wordzzle maxi-week 127

We were having some carrot soup. I was sitting at the table, nose buried in an old Bronte classic; Kriti, living up to her name, was playing beautifully on the piano and Laila, who was sharing the rest of the soup with me, was peeking over my shoulder, trying to understand what interest such a book could possibly hold for anyone.

"Hey," she said loudly, by way of gaining attention and possibly saving me from utter doom by showing my nerdiness too obviously. I was a nerd, Laila accepted that stoically, but it was still a fact to be hidden, like some awful disease. Laila never tired of trying to make me a glam chick like her, for all her stoicism.

"Hey, have you seen that movie, you know, the one with the devil and something about a diary. You know, it's like that weird book which makes every evil thing come true." She waved her hand vaguely. Her voice sounded like wind chimes to my only half-listening ear.

"Hey! Wake up blind girl! Are you listening to me?" She prodded me where she knew it would hurt most, the fleshy part of the arm. Too bad I didn't have any flesh to speak of due to my prolonged illness - her finger nudged only bone. "You know, you really have to put on some weight, you're like a shell, you know?"

"Ow. Yes, I know." I rubbed my arm and glared at Laila; she'd made me lose my page. Just at the most interesting part too.

Kriti stopped her practising and looked up, amused. "That's better than being a polar bear like me, isn't it?" Kriti was very fair, and a little fat. Yet polar bear was completely absurd. It was Laila, of course, who had come up with that moniker. She said that Kriti's bushy eyebrows had made her think of a huge, fierce bear. Laila probably hoped that such 'constructive criticism' as she termed it - blatant insults we termed it - would have the effect of making us try to spruce ourselves a bit more: try to be more presentable. It did earlier, but now we'd gotten used to it.

"Well, I don't know. I wouldn't like to be in either extreme of the weight scale. I mean, those rake-thin models are sooo unhealthy (how do they even balance on those stilts they call heels anyway?) but I wouldn't like to be fat either. You can't wear anything but the most unflattering clothes."

I looked at Kriti's pretty churidhar. "There is evidence to the contrary" I said dramatically, pointing to it. "Would you call that unflattering?"

A doubtful look. "Not exactly"

I thumped her. "Go to the gym today, you need some limbering up. Now look closely, and say with perfect truth, is it not the most wonderful attire you have seen, befitting even a queen, an she were to wear it?"

A sulky look. "I don't understand you. Don't talk like someone from the Middle Ages. And it does not look royal." A dignified figure walked out of the room.

Kriti smiled at me :"I am in your debt, milady", said she, bowing deeply "for defending the honour of my poor attire."

I waved an airy hand and picked up my book again. I hoped Laila wouldn't be too cross. I'd miss her carrot soup too much.

Wordzzle maxi-week 120

'I wish I were elsewhere,' thought Krishna with a sigh, as he sat perspiring in the hot living room which was crowded with people. 'I could be practising my latest song, strumming my guitar...'

"What band did you say you were in, dear?" enquired the lady opposite him in a kindly tone. Everyone immediately stopped their flow of small talk and looked at him.

"The Green Fireflies, auntie," he said in a proud tone. He loved that band of his. He continued, enthused, "We're really coming up now. We're playing at Charcoal hall this Sunday. You really should come and check us out."

He could see two aunties in the corner of his eye shooting a glance at each other. Were they looking down on his hobby? Well, they'd be even more shocked if he announced that he meant to take it up as his full-time profession, no matter what his family said. He wasn't deterred by their threats and hints that he wouldn't get married if he continued like this. Marriage wasn't high on his list of things to do. 'Well, atleast till now,' he thought, sneaking a glance at the girl sitting at the opposite end of the room.

He could see she was very pretty. And apparently very shy. She didn't raise her eyes from her floor all the time she was in the room. Krishna wasn't used to girls who behaved like that, like they were in the 19th century instead of the 21st. Yet, he believed that if they were only left alone they would get along well together. 'Instead of which I'm sitting with what looks like every family member she ever has, and trying to convince them that I'm the right man to entrust their darling girl with.' Not that he was really trying anything of that sort.

He glanced at the girl again. He imagined them being left alone. What would he tell her? He smiled as he imagined whipping out a guitar from somewhere, and singing, as Rohan had suggested. "She'll love 'dark chocolate', man. Who wouldn't? That's our best song, dude."

Krishna hummed the tune under his breath. That was their best song, but his favourite was 'Pink Lemonade'. It was a curious song to be composed by a guy band. It was thought of when they'd attended a competition where certain parameters were set up to make it more fun. All the guys were asked to compose a song with the word 'pink' appearing every paragraph. The Green Fireflies had certainly risen to the challenge admirably. Krishna had helped rather a lot with this song, which explained why it was rather a favourite of his. They'd won the competition, which only made him like it all the more.

He hardly had anything to do during the rest of the visit. He listened politely to some elderly relative on the girl's side who talked to him at length about his digestive system and his gastric juices. He listened to another uncle, who apparently owned a large store in the city, ranting bitterly against shop-lifting.

One lanky young lad, apparently a cousin, with a would-be-cool mussed-up hairdo, even asked him for the directions to Charcoal hall so he could attend their concert on Sunday. "It's right opposite the traffic-light," Krishna added, after telling him the rest of the directions. "You might want to get the tickets pretty early. We're not exactly sold out, but we'll probably be getting there soon." he said with a complete lack of modesty. Where his band was concerned, he was more boastful than a mother of her son, though, to be fair, he had more justification than many mothers usually do have.

At the very end of the visit, his mother said she would inform her prospective in-laws of Krishna's decision before the next day. "I'm pretty sure we'll have good news to tell you," she added with a bright smile and a glance at her son. "I'll talk to you soon."

As they got into the car, Krishna whispered in an argumentative tone, "What did you tell that for? What if it's a no?"

His mother spoke in a sharp tone. "Why will it be a no? She's a nice girl: you'll be a fool if having come this far, you just back out for no obvious reason. What is wrong with her that you..."

"I meant what if she says no, ma"

His mother just threw him a look that plainly said that that would never happen. She however said, "Well, if you continue with your band nonsense, they might say no. You can keep your music as a hobby, but if you adopt it as a profession which girl will marry you? You must really think of your future, Krishna. Are you listening to me?" This was due to the fact that he'd just increased the volume of the radio and leant back on the sofa with a sigh. 'Here we go again.'

"Yes amma, I am. I'm..." They swerved rather sharply to avoid a dump-truck approaching from the opposite direction; he continued after his mother had finished ranting about ''drivers these days''. "I'm keeping my options open, trust me."

"Well, what should I tell these people if they enquire about your decision? They think your band is merely a harmless hobby. When should I tell them it's not?"

Krishna stared out of the window and sighed again. Inadvertently the pretty, shy girl's face was before him. What should he choose? His band or a girl he'd just met? It was not an easy decision to make.

Ten years later, he faced the same kind of decision as he stood in the adoption centre, with his wife by his side, and gazed at two lovable children as they played with the other kids. Which one should he choose, the boy or the girl? He and his wife - still very much like the shy, pretty bride of eight years ago - had tried for years for children, with no avail. They'd finally decided to adopt. His wife had been quite captivated by the young girl as soon as she'd seen her, and he himself had taken to the engaging boy. Whom should they adopt?

Krishna thought of his decision of ten years ago, and smiled. He was now a member of one of the most famous bands in the country, earning quite substantial royalties. There was also quite a little packet put away for him to retire in comfort. Sometimes, there was no need to choose between two alternatives. Both could be taken - and made a success of.

He stepped up to the adoption authority and said, with a smile, "I'd like to adopt both of them."

wordzzle midi-week 120

"No, they aren't good for your digestive system" said Rob in what he hoped was a firm voice, as he took the tin of chocolate away. "You really have to take care of your health, father, you know you're not as strong as you once were."

His father, from where he lay reclining in his deck-chair, grinned up at him. "You can trust your old father to take care of himself, can't you? Remember I was old when you were a chit of a boy. So hand me over that tin and don't become argumentative about it."

"You weren't old, father. You were 40, at the prime of your life. And now you're nearly 70. You can't just eat whatever takes your fancy" said Rob, still trying to maintain his sharp tone. Unfortunately, the manner which served him so well at his office failed to cut ice here. Yet when Rob felt he was in the right he would become stubborn over it, and no one could make him give way. A few minutes later the conflict still remained unresolved. The two men thrashed out their opinions thoroughly, though neither allowed their voice to rise, or the volume to go up.

Rob knew his father enjoyed this kind of harmless banter and conflict of opinions. Whenever his options for amusing himself through the TV or some book were limited he would wander around the house seeking someone he could cross swords (figuratively) with. He didn't usually settle for Rob because Rob wasn't a good debater - he mostly repeated his same arguments with increasing force. Still, one has to take what one gets, thought his father, as he prepared all his objections to being fussed around like some dying invalid. As a matter of fact, no one fussed over him, realising the complete futility and the superfluity of it. Rob's father hadn't the least need to be fussed over, but, Rob thought severely, someone had to interfere if he was going to ruin his health by gorging on chocolates all day through.

Rob was defending his point with single-minded tenacity, exasperating his father no end, who liked to hear some new points thrown up, but at that moment Rob's son, a lovable, lively young lad ambled up and provided a welcome distraction. He demanded of his grandfather if he hadn't noticed the fireflies flying around in the garden. It was a game between them to go into the garden every evening and try and count the fireflies. There were plenty of them, and they never agreed on the number. Still, it was fun counting and then arguing about it later on. Rob hailed with relief the break-up of the argument and disappeared into the house, carrying the tin of chocolate with him. He wondered where he could dump it so his father wouldn't find it again.

Dump - of course! Half an hour later Rob stood waving the dump truck off, inside which a happy boy was sitting clutching a huge tin of chocolates. He was the son of the truck owner, and he always came on the expedition to Rob's house because he knew there was always some little thing for him there. The truck stopped at the traffic-light and the urchin opened the tin and nibbled on a piece of delightful confectionery. He smiled, content, his eyes alight under his charcoal black hair.

Rob went back to the garden, alike content. His father and his son were sitting there in the dusk, laughing uproariously and earnestly engaged in counting the fireflies. His wife brought him a cup of steaming tea , freshly brewed, from the kitchen. He could smell it from where he stood. The always serious, grave Rob suddenly smiled and his eyes sparkled with unutterable happiness. He felt glad for his life as he stood drinking in the scene and somehow, that one moment stayed in his mind for all the rest of his life, though he didn't know the importance of it then. He merely commented to his wife that those people who said life was a vale of tears didn't know what they were talking about. And, after reflection, she had to admit he was right.

Wordzzle mini-week 120

Leo gazed, frightened, into the big man's face. He was so big, and so red too. He was currently shouting all manner of dire threats, most of it unintelligible to Leo. There was no coherent thought in his head; he stared at the huge man in front of him and wished someone would rescue him.

His wish was miraculously answered. Another man, also big, but possessing a nice, kind voice, now stepped forward from the side pavement where he'd been standing, and spoke firmly to the apoplectic man who'd been giving Leo his dressing-down. Leo looked up at the tall man's face - he was so tall, much taller than the other man, and not fat at all. His face smiled down at Leo's kindly. After this, he held out his hand to Leo, and said, "Hi there, little fella. What's your name?"

"Leo" said Leo timorously.

"Well, Leo, do you want to go get some lemonade?"

"Yes, please". Leo was starting to lose some of his fear. He could even bear to look straight at the fat man's face as he walked away with his rescuer. The man was muttering something darkly again. Leo wondered what shoplifting was and debated about asking the kind man beside him. Before he could open his mouth to do so, however, they'd reached the huge, extremely cold shop which sold all manner of drinks. Leo loved this place, he'd come here only once before. He ascended his seat shyly and could hardly answer when the waiter kindly asked him what he wanted to drink. However, the kind man answered for him, ordering two lemonades. He then sat back and regarded Leo a little thoughtfully.

"Where are you from, Leo?", he asked after he'd regarded Leo for a while.

Leo remembered the mother from his dorm, saying he should always respond to adults politely and with respect. "One of them might adopt you, Leo," she'd said. Leo had decided that he didn't like that word - adoption. Now as he looked at that kind man in front of him, he thought that being adopted wouldn't be a bad thing, even if he had to leave all his friends behind.

"I'm from Goodman's Orphanage," he responded with alacrity. He'd been taught that very well, so if he ever got lost he could be restored. Leo had a knack for getting lost very easily, despite all efforts by the Mothers in the orphanage to keep him safe. He'd sometimes wander into nearby shops whenever they were taken to town for a treat. The dazzling windows attracted him. He'd pick up some stuff and examine them as well, and put them in his pocket absent-mindedly without paying attention. Usually he would remember to take them out, but this time he'd ambled out with an article still in his pocket, and a loud, shrill alarm had rung out, and that big, fat man had come and snatched away the product and started shouting at him. He'd been bewildered and scared then, but he was neither now.

"Did you run away from there?"

"No, I didn't, I got lost," said Leo, though he felt it would have been more adventurous to have actually run away than merely tagging behind his group and getting mixed up in the crowd." In fact," he added in a burst of confidence "I don't know my way one mile from the parameters of the place!"

This important-sounding phrase had been borrowed from one of Leo's senior Brothers. He thought it sounded very fine. The kind man smiled. "Perimeters, you mean," he said, laughing gently.

Leo nodded, though he didn't have the faintest idea of the meanings of or the difference between either word. His fright at the shop being quite forgotten, Leo asked the question uppermost in his mind, over sips of lemonade, gazing a little shyly at the kind man "Are you going to adopt me?"

The man didn't reply at first, he seemed to be thinking of something else, though he was staring directly at Leo. "Why not?" said Lucas Roxton, the young millionaire, softly. "After all, I have everything in the world but that I want most." Leo glanced at his face and saw the decision there. A smile overspread and he abandoned his lemonade to go over to the kind man. "Thank you, daddy!"