Another average day in Hive City. Another average afternoon. Another disappointment for William Shakespeare. As was his habit, he had taken to performing in one of the city’s many parks. He spoke aloud, reciting poetry he was all too familiar with. (Trite would have been an unforgivable word, yet still he felt the slightest bit numb to the verses). The words well memorized, he had no need for books or papers in his hands. And so he simply cast about his arms dramatically. His voice strong, and his passions clear.
It had been going... well, about as well as it ever went. Which was to say: not well at all. A few passerbys had thrown coins at his feet... for... some reason, but no one seemed to actually care for his work. For all the pedestrians who passed on by, nary a soul stopped for even a moment.
“No love for the classics, miss?”
Shakespeare called out to the woman, interrupting himself mid-sonnet. For a moment she had seemed interested. Had stopped and stared. But that interest quickly seemed to fade as she turned away and began to head for the park’s entrance.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised...” He began. “So often does that seem to be the case.” It wasn’t a rebuke. Not really. The most clearly conveyed emotion was his own resignation. “Earnestly... what do you people enjoy?”
If some more grandiose plans had begun to form inside his head, methods for bringing culture to this godforsaken city, well... it was still disappointing to fail in such a basic manner. Not for any fault of his own of course, but for the sheer lack of appreciation for the arts the city’s residents seemed to hold. That was going to be a difficult obstacle to overcome.
