This is a play on A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain and the televised production of Camelot. I was interested in doing something similar to Mr. Twain, but more modern and with a female protagonist.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything relating to the show or the book.
A Coloradan in Camelot
A was a day like most others. School. School. School. Work. This is the life of a college student. I went to classes all morning (American Romanticism, Shakespeare, and Literary Criticism), and then I went to work at the Book Emporium. The B.E.—as I call it—is a used book store located in the downtown district of Colorado Springs. It's quite large for a hole-in-the-wall shop and consists of two levels of dusty, moldy books.
To me, it was paradise. It was a sanctuary against the calamity of life. Here, I reorganized stacks of books, perused the internet for delectable literary finds for the store to buy and resell, and I drank coffee. I did this for eight hours a day from 2pm until closing at 10pm.
Amongst the stacks of books, I have found forgotten lands, lost worlds, and places I could go to escape. In the very back of the store are the books written in dead languages.
This is where my adventure began.
The book was old and quite large. It was leather and looked as though it had been dyed green at one point. It had gold embossing with strange symbols and beautiful patterns that reminded me of the endless knots in old Celtic artwork.
Strangely, I had never noticed it before. I pulled it from the stacks where it nestled between a book of British History (written in Old English) and a book of hand drawn maps of the Isles.
The book was quite heavy and as I opened the book, the smell of old paper was profound. Old parchment paper and hand-mixed inks. It was beautiful.
The words, accented with beautiful drawings and motifs, appeared to be in Latin or some other old language.
I flipped through the pages and stopped on one that had a drawing of an old castle. Beneath the drawing was a word I recognized: Camelot. The scrolling words beneath that looked to be poetic in nature with line breaks similar to a haiku but with an unfamiliar syllable pattern.
I whispered the words on the page to myself.
Haec ego annuntio:
Camelot ubicumque sit,
The words were beautiful, but did not invoke any sort of feeling or emotion in me. However, the air around me felt strange, as though there was an electric energy about me. After I closed the book and put it back in its place, that feeling went away.
It was closing time and time to go home for the night.