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Shakespearean Walls

A comedic tragedy

By MikMacMeerkatPublished 4 months ago 9 min read
Artwork by Mikmacmeerkat

If walls could talk. Always If. Like you don’t hear us groaning at the end of the day. Like you don’t hear the floorboards gossip about your weight with each step.

It’s just the house settling, the humans say. Yes. Settling arguments, settling scores. We could say more with a creak than a human could with a thousand words.

If walls could talk. We wouldn’t talk to you. We have listened to all your squabbles, seen all your worst moments, and come to one conclusion. You’re all a bunch of idiots. I’d say no offence, but I’d be lying.

But what wisdom would we, the mere four walls of a bedroom in fair Verona, have to impart? A metric tonne more than you that’s what.

The current human occupant of our quarters was the dear, special, Juliet.

And when we say special. .

“No insulation between those ears,” creaked One. One, as always, stands to my left. One has a door and constant headaches from the slamming of said door. Something the dramatic Juliette was oblivious to. Two stayed unusually quiet. Two is directly across from me, bordering the dining room, she hears all the tea.

“One timber beam short of a structure,” grumbled Three to my right. The oldest of us. His stucco worn and in need of repair. Held together only by the lattice and ivy that grew up his side. The equally damaged terracotta Roof slept above us while Floor murmured her discontent.

“What’s she on about now?” Juliette was out on my balcony, sighing dramatically and staring at the moon. She did this a lot.

I am the fourth wall. Pristine plaster, balcony decorated with miniature Corinthian columns. Worthy of Brunelleschi himself. The envy of the rest of the room. Though the stone heads won’t admit it.

“Romeo, Romeo, where for art thou Romeo?” sighed Juliette.

“Who is Romeo?” asked One.

“Romeo Montague!” Squealed Two breaking her uncharacteristic silence, “the only son of our great enemy! Girl goes to one party and is smitten, it’s this new generation I tell yah!”

“What’s so good about him?” asked Three, his voice like the sound of falling stones. “Can he repair grout?”

“Not that I know of,” said Two, “he is pretty, apparently.”

“No skill in masonry at all? Pathetic.”

I turned my attention away from the squabbling wallpaper and back to Juliette.

“That which we call a rose, by any other word would smell as sweet,” she sighed again.

“What’s she talking about now?” asked One, as Two and Three continued to argue.

“Flowers,” I said

“Typical,” creaked One.

“Incoming!” said Three, breaking his argument with Two. “Garden wall just said some prat jumped over her.”

“Romeo, he’s coming!” squealed Two. The roof groaned and Two instantly quietened.

“Quiet you two! You’ll wake Roof!” I hissed.

When Three spoke again it was softer.

“Garden wall said he was talking about wanting to be a glove. Sounds like a right nutter.” He grumbled

“A glove?” asked Two, “odd.”

“The aspirations of humans will always perplex me,” said Three.

“Been sniffing floor polish that one,” said floor from between her marble tiles.

“Get the girl inside, we don’t want her cavorting with that doorknob, she’s already insufferable,” sighed One. Like I could do anything about it.

“Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name! “Juliette cried.

“I wouldn’t worry,” I said, “She’s known him for all of ten minutes and she’s dissing his name.”

“To be fair Romeo sounds rather pretentious,” said Three.

“It’s because of his last name, you knob. Montague. Our enemy!”

“Oh, leave off,” I said, “you’re a wall, your only enemy is a sledgehammer.”

“You don’t know them like I do,” Two sniffed.

“Mores the pity,” I clacked. “Hold on, lover boys here.”

“Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized. Henceforth I never will be Romeo!” Called the young human from the courtyard below.

“What’s he look like?” Asked Two.

“What they all look like, pink, soft,” I said.

“But what kind, strong, classical?” She asked.

“Does he have columns, domes?” asked Three

“He’s not a building, Three,” I sighed, “He does look a bit like a dome head though.”

Romeo disappeared from my view.

“With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,” he called from my side. “For stony limits cannot hold love out!”

“He’s climbing up my face, he’s climbing up my face!” rumbled Three.

“Rude really,” I said as the young boy pulled himself up to my balcony. Because now that he was closer it was clear that’s what he was, a little boy. No more than eighteen.

“What are they saying?” whined Two, unused to being the one out of the loop.

“Hard to say,” I groaned, “the moon, fruit trees, Juliette’s talking about flowers again.”

“Women,” said One.

“Julies barely letting him get a word in, she keeps monologuing,” I said.

If Romeo and Juliette heard the crack, creak and grind of our conversation they didn’t let on. Stuck in their own cow eyed delusions I doubted they heard anyone.

“O blessèd, blessèd night! I am afeard, being in night, all this is but a dream, too flattering sweet to be substantial!” Cried Romeo loud enough for the whole room to hear.

We were silent for a moment.

“Didn’t he just meet her?” asked Three.

“What a Simp,” said One.

It was rare that I wanted to agree with an internal wall, but I couldn’t help but think he had a point.

The two lovers continued their conversation oblivious to our disapproval.

“Shut up, they’re making plans to marry tomorrow!” I laughed, the sound like gravel crunching.

“What drama!” cried Two, “what danger!”

“What Danger?” asked the Roof, pulling out of her slumber. A tile fell and shattered on the floor. Brilliant we woke up Roof. Floor was not impressed.

Two continued, “because Romeo is the only son of –“

“Our great enemy,” Three and I finished. We quietened. Roof settled back to sleep with a few choice cracks. No more tiles fell. Thank the carpenter.

With a sickening kiss, Romeo left.

The next evening Juliette flew into the room and, slamming the door, flung herself on the bed.

“She’s crying again,” One echoed with anger, the door still shuddering in its frame.

“She’ll get mold if she keeps that up,” said Three, “where there’s moisture there’s mold.”

“Humans don’t get mold you empty-headed timber frame,” Snipped Two.

“You take that back,” hissed Three.

“Didn’t she get married?” asked Floor, “Where’s Romeo, isn’t he meant to be here? I wanted to check out his feet.”

“Oi, keep your fetishes to yourself.” I said, “Clearly he didn’t turn up.”

“Flakier than a bad paint job,” said Three, “Teenagers, why do they let them come up with plans? Their mortar has barely set yet.”

“Romeo has murdered Tybalt!” gasped Two, clearly listening to an argument happening on her dining side.

“Who’s Tybalt?” asked Three.

“The cousin, Tybalt, murdered Mercutio, so Romeo murdered Tybalt. The Prince is furious!”

I knew who none of these people were, but that didn’t matter. They were humans. Typical humans. “Romeo the murderer, who’d have thought?” I mused.

“I knew it as soon as I saw him!” said Three, “you know who climbs walls like that? murderers.”

“Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?” Cried Juliette, tossing herself about on the bed.

“Yes!” we all groaned in unison.

But she didn’t. Last night she was all but scolding him for attempting to vow on the moon. But now that her husband was a murderer, he could do no wrong. Humans, idiots, the lot of you.

“Women!” cried One with a loud crack.

“One brick short of a wall,” said Three.

“One brick? Try two and twenty,” I said.

“They want her to marry Paris!” Screeched Two, a grinding of wooden beams.

“What’s wrong with Paris?” asked Three, “He’s nice, versatile, quick drying.”

“Paris the person, not Paris the plaster you rock head!” Two cut back.

At that moment Romeo swung himself over my balcony. Cutting Two and Threes’ argument.

“He’s here!” squealed Two, “But he’s been banished! If her father catches him his life is forfeit!”

“If any eighteen-year-old boy is caught in a Thirteen-year-old girls’ room, his life is forfeit,” I said.

Not being funny, but the way humans make other humans is well weird. Not like walls, we are planned, sculpted, built brick by brick. No vertical dance or wailing involved. But I digress. The night that followed had us all concentrating very hard on our outside walls. When he left, we all sighed in relief.

“Makes you wish you were a garden wall, hell a hallway wall. Anything but a bedroom.” Grumbled One. Silently we all agreed.

After what we had witnessed, I was surprised when the priest arrived.

Juliette was crying. Again.

She started to blubber; it was hard to follow.

“What is she on about?” whiled Floor in a clack of tiles.

“She’d rather die than marry Paris,” said Two, “poor Paris.”

We all waited for the sound wisdom of the only adult in the room.

“If, rather than to marry County Paris, Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself-”

“Did he say slay?” whispered Two, I hushed her as we listened to the priest lay out his plan.

The room went quiet as he finished.

“That is the worst plan I have ever heard!” I said.

“Who is this nonce?” asked Floor, "he's got shifty feet."

“Priest.” I said.

“Well, that explains everything,’ said Three, “Never trust a priest. Some of my stones used to be part of an abbey- the stories I’ve heard!”

The priest continued, “And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death, thou shalt continue two and forty hours, and then awake as from a pleasant sleep.”

“Sounds a lot like actual death to me,” said Three.

“So many things could go wrong,” I said.

“This plan has more holes than we have windows,” said Three.

“Surely she can’t be considering this,” scoffed Two.

The priest held out the death vile and Juliette took it.

Because, of course she did.

“Daft as a bush,” said One in disbelief.

“Don’t take the potion!” I said as the priest took his leave. A cracking of stones.

Juliette lifted the vile.

“Don’t take the potion!” cried Two.

“She’s lost the plot,” said One, “lost the plot, lost the plans, lost the builder!”

“DON’T TAKE THE POTION!” rumbled Three, his face vibrating with the force of his words.

“Don’t take what?” asked Roof, jerking out of her sleep. A tile slipped from her beams and clipped Juliette on the head. The girl slumped to the ground, vile forgotten.

The room sunk into silence again.

Roof settled back into sleep.

“I don’t think she’s waking in two and forty hours,” said Two.

I sighed, a cracking of stones, “this is like that Duncan, Macbeth mess all over again.”

Short StorySatireHumor

About the Creator


I spend so much time daydreaming I figured I should start writing it down.

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