YORICK from Skulls (by Aoise Stratford)

YORICK, fresh from his grave and carrying a shovel, has just locked the doors to the theatre and is settling in to tell the audience his version of Hamlet. Running time is around 2 minutes.

YORICK

Amateurs. The theatre is plagued with them. Why is it nobody seems capable of rising to my level? It was bad enough before Shakespeare reduced me to a skull, albeit the very attractive one you now have before you... (a beat) Have you any idea how many productions of Hamlet there have been?   Hmm? And in every single one I am dismissed as inconsequential, my head gets tossed from actor to actor like a basketball, and then set aside for the stage hands to put in a box at the end of the night.   And the cast parties.   Let me tell you a thing or two about what goes on at those.   Oh yes, I'm everyone's favorite prop once the curtain falls. I've had college students drinking martinis from my eye sockets at 2   a.m.   I've had professional actors, who should know better, using me as a hand puppet. I've had... well, never mind. It's a disgrace, I tell you. And after 400 years, I've had enough. That is why, ladies and gentlemen, I have dragged my weary soul from beyond the grave and traipsed in here tonight in this manifestation of my once oh too solid flesh, to set the record straight. So, let's get tonight's little tete a tete under way, shall we? (Calling up to the booth) Give me some light! (pause) Please? (a beat as a spot comes up)That's better. Now we have all the ingredients of good theatre. A well lit stage, an attentive audience--that's you--a brilliant cast--me--and the nail-biting drama of ...(clears throat) "The Jester's Tale!" [...] It all happened the night of Hamlet's departure for Wittenburg. The old king was still alive then. He and queen Gertrude threw a celebration banquet in honor of their son. I was asked to assemble the players and provide a dumb show pertaining to the event. Naturally, I played the king. The crown fit me very well. I was utterly convincing and the audience was in the palm of my hand, for once, instead of the other way around. In my dumb show the King--me--graciously gave his noble son passage across the foreign seas to seek a higher education. And being of a poetic disposition, I included a wonderful scene in which the King symbolically poured knowledge and advice into Hamlet's ear. Unfortunately, however, it gave Claudius, the king's brother, ideas. Our performance was met with great acclaim, prince Hamlet left for England and I was on a fast-track to being chief coordinator of court entertainment.   And then, a few days later, as I was reclining in the orchard, going over lines for a performance of Pyramus And Thisbe in which I was to star the coming Sunday, Claudius snuck up on me, forced me to the ground, and poured a vial of poison in my ear. Death was slow and painful. An awful experience; one to be avoided if you get the opportunity. And I sincerely regret that you won't. But I succumbed after a valiant struggle and lay lifeless beneath the apple tree. A starring moment, one might think, but no; even in life I was cast as the understudy, my murder at the hands of Claudius nothing more than a dress rehearsal for the event that was to spawn Shakespeare's crowning glory. And let's face it, by the time we get to the end of Hamlet, after stabbings and drownings and envenomed sword fights, who remembers Yorick? Who acknowledges my vital contribution? Who mourns me? Well, ladies and gentlemen, I will be left in the wings no longer. "The Jester's Tale" is nearly complete, and this is where you come in. (he brandishes a shovel at the audience) I am prepared to die for my art and I shall take you with me in a final bloody showdown that will top the last scene of the world's greatest play.  

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