Lies. Beautiful, vile, stunning, conniving lies. They were humanity’s greatest accomplishment and its most destructive flaw. Eons of years, countless of specimens, and still, a miniscule mishap on a meddlesome mouth shatters the most impenetrable empire and fractures the most unbreakable love. A single word seals two worlds together and binds the most grievous enemies. Scrutinize the actions and dismiss the words; any simple creature can understand that, but not them.

They were given speech, lent the arts, and taught how to compose, and in all their contemptible pride, they forgot. They forgot how they once were swamp creatures, straining for each next breath. They forgot fear, in all its primeval, heart-stopping glory. They forgot how to survive.

Families, once inseparable, diverged due to a wee babe’s story falling into the wrong ear. With the blood of their own kin upon their graves, they still could not solve the dated feud that they took no part in until both of their own had died. Truly, they were pathetic.

In a blink, infatuations began; in a sigh, quarrels ended. Not by words, of course- nothing as conventional as that, but by a sip of a vial and a slip of a blade.

It was a whimsical fancy to return, a childish, ignorant, human fancy. The citizens of Verona dared not dreamed since the rash lovers and ended dissensions, but that night they did. Beneath the ink of the omnipresent abyss hung the heavy moon, and beneath, the inhabitants reunited with companions long past.

A decrepit man lay in a ramshackle hovel. Liquors and potions sat on shelves around him, and open jars were placed in no discernable order. Ingredients were strewn about the floor; scales, teeth, hemlock. In a small box, yew leaves lay. A pot boiled in a corner, giving off toxic fumes and occasionally spilling onto the dirt floor. The small fortune the man once held had long since vanished, stolen away by thieves while he was in a drunken stupor. This night he sprawled, half dead from yet another day’s starvation. His mind was a whirl of thoughts, of old guilt and new stress, addled beyond repair from the overuse of his “cures”.

Deep within the halls which once held a crucial ball, a woman cried. Regrets weighed down on her soul, of bygones and insistences of loveless marriages, of blind naivety and empty apathy. She did not realize it was not worthy to covet the immobile past, rather than to design the malleable future; this was her hamartia.  A time later, after shuddering sobs and keening moans, she surrendered to the unrelenting grasp of fatigue. In her beautiful home, she dreamt. She dreamt of a time before her daughter’s death, of when she was guileless and superficial and focused on trivial matters, such as a pretty face and a pretty dress. She dreamt of a time before even that, a time where she was young and free and believed in the all-conquering fairy-tale of love. She dreamt of a time before her husband caught the plague and had to be quarantined so soon after the death of her daughter.  She dreamed of her daughter’s closest confidant, who vanished on the ninth anniversary of her daughter’s death, leaving her alone in a world where women were not left alone.  Her dreams shifted. She dreamed of the present day, of insistent pursuers and the town’s pressure for her to become a nun. She dreamt of losing the property she had watched over for almost ten years, and being forced to work on the streets. Finally, she dreamt of overcoming her fears, of meeting them face to face and exterminating them, of striding up to the deplorable excuse of society and  the judgmental public, staring into their cold eyes and daring them to do something drastic, watching their faces drop from her defying glare and finally, after her young marriage and heartbreak, living. She dismissed this last dream as a fool’s fancy and ignored the pounding of her heart and her desire and slid into an empty sleep.

In a simple, elegant cottage on the edges of the city, a couple slept side by side, one previously plagued by grief, the other previously plagued by guilt. The man had renounced his vows a long time past, believing whatever higher being controlled fate was to blame for the tragedies. The woman desired to finally progress past her mourning, past those caught up in reliving previous events and craved a new, peaceful life. Neither loved each other with the devotion their wards had shared, but together, they were balanced. They were similar to two boulders, eroding against each other until one’s flaw became the other’s fortitude. The man was quiet and often reflected in self-loathing, but the woman, often loquacious, drew him out of his brooding. Both lived together, loved together, and overcame grief together. They lived in a dull world, each petrified of rashness and impulsive emotions, and their lives were slow and stale. Their dreams were uncomplicated, focused on growing food or buying gifts. They were already living in a dream state, numb to the world and its many treasures, but content with what they owned and shared.

In a grand mansion, a man spiraled between consciousness and slumber. Beside him, an old bottle lay. His body periodically broke into tremors, and his subconscious begged to be offered the release and freedom that came after hours of drinking, but his conscious mind prevailed. Of all the events in this night, this was perhaps slightly admirable- the war against his yearnings and his obligations, and his obligations- to his servants, to his friends, to his deceased family would win. His dreams were nightmares, chaotic and confusing. Shadows stalked him, as well as ghosts, demons, and any number of beasts. He fought each one of them and conquered all of them. The bottle lay, unopened, a physical representation of the abstract monster he battled in his waking hours, one he would soon triumph over.

As the sun, began to crawl its way from behind the mountains, time, once of no importance, now seemed to be a plight. This city in Italy, ignored by the world, held witness to love and tragedy. To stay would be simple, to flit around on the carriage through the minds of the citizens, to feast on emotion and watch love rise and crumble, as it always did, would be magnificent, but alas, there were burdens, debts, constraints to furnish, to trick into, to pay. There were dreams to give rise to, mischief to be managed, and lives to be mapped. The wagon stalled for a twinkling, before vanishing forever into the night, and the citizens of Verona never dreamed of Queen Mab again.