In Denmark
by David Sydney
“Horatio, look over there.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The Prince pointed with his finger.
“No, Horatio. You’re not looking in the right spot.”
The Prince pointed slightly more to the right.
“Are those two bees, or not two bees?”
“Bees?”
“Yes. Two bees, or not two bees? That is the question.”
The Prince was allergic to insects. Badly so.
Horatio recalled the large, red lesion that blotted the royal nose the last time it was stung.
“They could be flies.”
“FLIES? I HATE FLIES.”
It was true. Hamlet couldn’t stand flies.
Even two bees would be preferable to two flies.
“Do you want us to take arms against them, Sir?”
“Arms?”
“I mean, smash them with a bare bodkin?”
In Denmark, at that time, the term ‘dagger’ was not in popular use.
“A bodkin. Exactly.”
The Prince could easily imagine squashed flies, with their bulbous heads flattened.
“Actually, there seem to be three or four flies. At least four, Your Majesty.”
Neither had good eyesight. Optometry was not yet a profession.
And flies could care less if he were Prince of Denmark or a common grave digger.
“Four, Horatio?”
“There could be five.”
“Something must be rotten in the state of Denmark.”
Horatio didn’t want to mention it. But there was a bad smell in the castle.
“It’s probably just herring, Horatio.”
Of course. Herring. The Prince had figured it out. There were always flies around the herring barrels.
David Sydney is a physician. He has had pieces in Little Old Lady Comedy, 101 Words, Microfiction Monday, 50 Give or Take, Friday Flash Fiction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Disturb the Universe, Pocket Fiction, R U Joking, Entropy Squared, and Rue Scribe.
