Thane Of Strife

The latest of my imaginings of objects, or Talismans, in Shakespeare’s plays.


© Tom Tide 2016

I should be burned, dead and buried. God knows, I could have helped them burn. Soap does burn, does it not? I am made of ash and oil. Twas my place to soothe, though. To aid. To cleanse. My current station? To laquer a haunted Thane with fresh layers of guilt, year by year. They were my creators, the Lady and her boy. Fife’s son. The heir of Macduff. Don’t ask me how I was made, I know not, but I became aware of two sets of hands at my moulding. One reddened and fierce, guiding the tender, soft fingers of the other. They made me together, just as together they met their end.  Though I was born to cleanse skin, I wish I could scour my memories. Their screams will torture me forever, until my last grain succumbs to oblivion. Yet I am habitually disturbed. Like many an heirloom…

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