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Strange days in Stratford. The Bard, preferring the hustle and bustle of London for inspiration, found it difficult to create; he had writer's block.

He was impossible; irrascible, huffing, puffing, cursing, drinking, belching, farting. His wife took the brunt. Spoiled manuscripts littered their house. Midwinter's Dream (too dark); Elisabeth the Virgin (too dangerous); Archimedes (too difficult). None would see the London light of day.

Something must shock him into action.

"Will hath a way with words, but winning ways with women he hath not!" thought his wife.

"Where's my dinner, woman?" called Will to no response. But Anne hath away!

3 comments add one below

  • avatar

    Drew Martyn over 3 years ago

    Absolutely wonderful, love this!

  • avatar

    D.M. over 3 years ago

    Almost spit out the morning coffee in my laughter. Good way to start the day.

  • avatar

    Melanie over 3 years ago

    Love it! Very clever.

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