Nate Logan

Failure in Shakespeare’s Sonnets

The construction paper letter, full of glued-on words, left an ominous impression. The sender demanded I rank Shakespeare’s sonnets on a scale from Frampton Comes Alive! to dead as a doornail. I was instructed to print out my list and leave it in the little free library at the entrance to the covered bridge festival. My wife must’ve noticed the distress on my face: “Honey, are you involved in another caper?” she asked me. I waved my hand—what else could I do? The family gathering months had arrived again, but I couldn’t attend. Sonnets were my every waking thought. 14 peas / carrots / specks of pepper at a time were all I could handle. My dedication saw me finish by the day after Christmas and I deposited my list as instructed. A few weeks passed. This was the year I made a resolution to stop picking up the phone. My wife promised to spend ten minutes daily being mindful. Soon enough, I received another menacing letter. In an elegant, rollercoaster cursive, the writer said I was a worthless boat made of saucy bark. I’d never thought about it that way before.