George shot through the open doorway, fell to his knees, and slid across the slimy wooden deck of the ship.

He lifted his head to catch his bearings and was greeted with the sight of about a dozen, open mouthed, pirates who were stood completely still having immediately stopped whatever task they were in the middle of performing. It was as if he had gate crashed a game of musical statues.

‘Er…hello,’ he said, red faced.

Suddenly the pirates came to their senses and released one conjoined roar into the breezy sea air. They all jumped, to a man, on top of George forming an untidy pile of arms and legs in the middle of the deck.

George managed to find a gap to squirm his way through and crawl from beneath the teeming mass of smelly armpits and greasy limbs. His freedom was short lived though as another pirate, coming to see what all the commotion was about, grabbed him as he took to his feet. The pirate twisted George’s arm around his back and put a cutlass blade to his throat.

‘Going somewhere are we?’ he said, menacingly.

‘Get up you scurvy bag of scum,’ the pirate shouted at the others on the floor. ‘Go and get the Captain.’

One of them, a tall thin man with thick spectacles, peeled himself off the top of the pile and headed up some steps to the side, onto the upper deck, tripping on every third stair.

After several seconds of loud bumps and sounds of ‘Ouch’, ‘Gerrof’ and ‘Who put that there’, the man came back accompanied by the un-mistakable figure of Captain John Ladybird.

‘What have we here then, a stowaway?’ said the Captain.

‘We found him on deck sir, trying to steal our booty he was,’ said the pirate holding George.

His breath stank as he spoke and George tried to pull his face away. He tried to say something but the sharpness of the blade persuaded him otherwise. Luckily the Captain saw through the pirate’s false claims.

‘I hardly think that to be the case,’ he said, calmly, ‘considering we don’t actually have any booty, as you call it, do we?’

All the pirates looked down at the floor together and, in unison, shrugged and grunted.

‘Well I’m sure if we did, he would’ve tried to steal it, sir…..can’t we just get the cat ‘o nine tails out anyway, just to be sure…..please,’ he pleaded.

All of them nodded their heads and a mirage of toothless grins graced the Captain’s eye line.

‘No,’ he shouted with authority. ‘We shall let the boy speak first and see what he has to offer in way of an explanation.’

Captain John looked directly at George. ‘Well, boy. What do you have to say for yourself?’

George desperately wanted to show the gold coin to the Captain.

‘I have something in my pocket that will explain everything, I think,’ he gargled.

George moved his free hand towards his inside pocket but stopped sharply when his other arm was pulled tighter up his back.

‘Aaaaargh,’ he wailed.

The Captain, luckily, sensed he wasn’t a threat and put his hand out to stop any more of the torture.

‘Colin,’ he ordered, ‘see what it is he wants to show us, if you please.’

A gormless looking, short, scruffy haired pirate walked over and reached into the inside of George’s coat. He pulled something out and hoisted it into the air.

‘Look sir, a gold coin,’ exclaimed Colin.

He examined it more closely, fiddling with it between his fingers.

‘Hang on. This isn’t real,’ he said.

He peeled away at the gold with his dirty fingernail to reveal a chocolate coin. George looked up to the sky, exasperated. He couldn’t believe this was happening. That novelty coin had been there since Christmas.

‘The other pocket,’ he shouted desperately. ‘Look in the other pocket.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Colin, taking a bite of the chocolate.

He again slid his hand into the inside of George’s jacket, this time pulling out the Leprechaun gold.

‘Hang on, is this some kind of joke,’ Colin said, trying to scrape the gold away from the coin.

Captain John suddenly grabbed the rail and hurdled over onto the steps and bounded down to the deck below, snatching the coin from Colin’s grasp.

‘Let me see that,’ he said.

He held it up to the light and inspected it more closely. He turned to the pirate holding George.

‘Let him go, immediately,’ he barked.

George twisted and stretched his sore limb, which had now been released.

‘You, come with me,’ he said, pointing at George, before marching into the inner part of the ship.

George picked up the book from the sodden wooden planks and discreetly removed the bookmark, before following the Captain into what was now just a normal doorway.

*

George stood inside the Captain’s quarters, now minus the reading glasses which had been safely put away. In the middle of the room was an old desk set at a strange angle to the walls with various nautical measuring instruments and charts adorning the top of it, and an equally old chair resting to the side. There was also an old pewter tankard, with goodness knows what murkily residing within it, sliding gently back and forth to the rhythm of the swaying ship. In the corner was a bunk, only a foot or so off the ground, with a stained woollen blanket dumped roughly at its base.

Captain John took a swig from the grubby tankard and immediately pulled a face then shook his cheeks from side to side.

‘So, the stories were true then, what my Mother told me when I was young,’ he said, almost to himself, staring blankly out of one of the portholes.

He turned his head towards George. ‘So, what do they call you then….they do still use names in the future, don’t they?’

‘Yes sir, my name is George, sir.’

The captain nodded.

‘Right then, George. I assume you’re here because you need my help in some way,’ he said, coldly. ‘So, while you’re here you can be of help to me too. I need another able seaman to assist with some of the duties on board. One of them went and died on me recently, most rude it was.’

His expression remained serious. It was clear he wasn’t having a joke with George.

‘Yes sir,’ said George, solemnly.

’Right well, go and see the crew and get yourself better attired for the job. Then, when I think you’re on your way to actually being of use to us, I’ll ask you what it is you need my help for, understood.

He looked back out towards the sea.

‘Yes, but I….,’ said George, desperately.

‘Is that understood,’ interrupted the Captain, sternly, without turning back to face him.

‘Yes,’ George agreed meekly. He realised there was no point arguing with the Captain at this stage. He would just have to play ball for the moment and hope that his mood changed for the better, and that he would soon come to terms with the situation unfolding on his ship.

‘Oh,’ said Captain John, with a sly smile creasing up at the corner of his mouth, ‘do leave your bag here for the time being, I will need to do an inventory of its contents, standard ship procedure, I assure you.’

George hesitated for a brief moment. He was obviously very nervous about letting the contents of the satchel from out of his sight, but again the pointlessness of resisting the Captain’s wishes persuaded him it was a risk he would have to take. He pulled it over his head and laid it down onto the table, before excusing himself from the room and going back above decks to go and introduce himself, properly this time, to the crew.

*

The next few days went agonisingly slowly. Every time he was in Captain John’s presence he acted indifferently to George. Most nights he had laid awake on his bunk, staring at the ceiling above, wondering if he should steal his book back and leave the ship, but to his credit he stuck with it.

The crew, on the other hand, had turned out to be fantastic with him and had become very friendly. They taught him all about life on board and the tasks and duties that went with keeping everything ‘ship shape’.

George was now confident when it came to climbing up the rigging to untie ropes and unfurl sails. He had even taken a couple turns up in the crows nest, although after a while this got a bit boring when George sat there for hours with nothing to look at except miles upon miles of rolling ocean.

In return George taught them about the importance of things like hygiene and washing their hands, especially after trips to the toilet and before preparing food. He explained how important it was to keep the drinking water separate and safe from contamination. At first the crew had scoffed at his suggestions, but when he pointed out that these simple steps would prevent them from getting diseases like dysentery, or as they called it ‘the bloody flux’, they were only too eager to adapt his principles.

There were three pirates that George worked with in close proximity on a daily basis, and had become his closest allies on the ship. There was ‘short sighted’ Sid, the scrawny, thick spectacled one who had fetched the Captain when George first appeared on the ship, ‘Clueless’ Colin, the short, scruffy, pirate who had looked for the gold coin in George’s coat and ‘no nickname’ Pete.

Pete was a podgy, but tall, man who owned a pet parrot that often sat on his shoulder while he polished and cleaned his pistols during his free time. Occasionally Pete would offer to do the cooking for the crew, but they often denied him because the last time he did it he accidentally poisoned them all. Pete also had a tendency, when in the face of serious danger, to panic uncontrollably. Despite all of these characteristics, Pete still didn’t have a nickname because the others ‘couldn’t quite think of anything that had a ring to it yet.’

It didn’t come as a shock to George when he found out that the crew had been through a spell of bad luck recently and hadn’t plundered any treasure in over a year. George took it upon himself to work with them, for only about an hour every day, to develop their close combat fighting skills, boarding tactics and pistol shooting.

Despite the massively positive effect he was having with the men, the Captain still continued to look on and say nothing. George decided it was time he had to do something about the situation with the Captain. They had to talk, but not in front of the crew. He would wait until everyone was asleep in their bunks that night and sneak into the Captain’s room to confront him. After all, it should have been his duty to have helped George in the first place, for the sake of the family.

*

Every footstep George gingerly placed in front of the other on the rough wooden timbers appeared to creak even louder than the preceding one. Despite the friendship he’d forged with the crew he knew they still remained steadfastly loyal to the captain, although puzzling to him as it was, and if he was caught sneaking into the Captain’s quarters in the middle of the night they may develop the wrong impression about his intentions.

George was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea, but he was nearly at the Captain’s door. It was now easier to go on than risk turning back and getting caught as he tried to get back into his bunk. As he approached, he noticed the door was slightly ajar and a flicker of candlelight was emanating through the gap. He cautiously peeped into the room, holding his breath, and saw Captain John sat in his chair, facing away from the entrance, staring down at the floor.

‘Come in George, I knew you would come, eventually’ he said.

This startled George but nevertheless he pushed aside the door and slowly crept into the room.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said ‘but I really need to talk with you.’

‘Yes, it’s alright George, I know you do,’ Captain John said, resignedly. ‘I’ve been watching you for several days. The effect you’ve had on the crew is quite exceptional lad, and as for how far you’ve come yourself, well, you would make a very valuable addition to this ship. I suppose I’ve been afraid to talk to you myself because of what it may mean.’

‘Oh…..,’ George mumbled. He was surprised by this. He had thought the Captain was ignoring him because he simply didn’t care about helping him and was only using him for his own ends. He now realised that the Captain actually appreciated what he was doing on board the ship.

George took another step towards the desk, noticing the biography lying in the middle of it.

‘So you’ve looked through the book then I see?’ George hissed. ‘I’m not sure that was the wisest thing to have done, looking into your own future, sir.’

Captain John quickly spun round in the chair, but George could see he wasn’t angry with his comments. On the contrary, he had a sad look in his eyes.

‘I know, you’re right George,’ he said. ‘I realise that now, but looking at the book has helped me to understand some of the many mistakes I’ve made in my life.’

He picked up the book and offered it to George who politely took it from his grasp.

‘Look inside the book George,’ he said, ‘look at the pages from the middle onwards…they’re all blank.’

George flicked through the pages and indeed there was not even the tiniest spot of ink upon them.

‘Of course,’ he proclaimed. ‘From where we are now and onwards none of it has happened yet. The book can’t tell us about events that haven’t occurred because some things may yet change by me being here.’

‘That’s right George. So you see, the book offers me no clues anyway, except to show me how wrong I’ve been in my past.’

They looked straight at each other and for the first time George noticed the anguish and pain etched within the creases of Captain John’s face. He could see the longing for home. The Captain hadn’t chosen to be a pirate; it had been forced upon him, many years previously.

‘Go now, go back to your bed George and get a good nights rest,’ the Captain ordered. ‘In the morning you can tell me all about how we can help you, then we shall hit port and re-supply for the adventure ahead.’

Title: George and the Magic Library – The search for the Phoenix Quill

Genre: Fantasy, Historical Adventure.

Age Range: 11+

Word Count: Excerpt – 2,500, Main Book - 60,000+

Author Name: S J Andrews

Why this is a good fit: Although the book is an adventure story, the research has been meticulous, meaning there will be factual elements, but only on a subtle level so that it does not get in the way of the story. I believe the story will appeal to boys and girls alike as, though the central character is a boy, there are several strong female characters within the story. The story has many twists and turns, with cliff-hangers dotted within the story to keep young readers engaged and wanting to see what happens next. There is also a twist at the end which leads to the possibility and promise of more adventures to come.

The Hook: Characters can magically travel into books and have adventures within them.

Synopsis: George’s parents have been missing for several weeks and now his Grandma has died in mysterious circumstances. Sent to live with his uncle in the country George discovers a family secret at his new home – a magic library which allows the readers to enter into the stories within the books. He must use this magic to put together a series of clues and try to find an ancient artefact known as the Phoenix Quill, which ultimately has the power save his parents.

Target Audience: Boys and Girls between the ages of 11 and 16, particularly fans of fantasy, history and other similar genres, such as Narnia and Harry Potter.

Bio: I am 41 years old and live in Lancaster, England. I am educated to a good standard and run my own digital content and marketing business. I lead a wide ranging and healthy social life and am always attempting to gain new life experiences. I enjoy history and have a keen interest in myths and legends, especially the psychology of how many of the tales come about – I like to then take these two elements and combine them into my storytelling, which is written in a way that children can identify with and understand (I have 4 Children of various ages), but without appearing condescending or insulting to their growing intelligence. I am a firm believer that reading is an important aspect of a child’s education, so the stories they are presented with must be kept exciting and engaging as well as giving them access to new words and information.

          At the ages of ten and twelve, our features became more defined. Every time we began walking down to the docks, an elderly woman would be sitting outside her door watching the sun climb through the sky. Adam would approach her and ask her opinion on how we looked. He did this because the woman knew our mother. She would smile and talk about how our hair was black as coal, just like our mother’s when she walked in the sunlight. Adam kept his hair short, but I grew mine out and let it hang down my shoulders. The woman continued, and spoke about other townsfolk believing we carried storms within us whenever they looked into our eyes, a swirl of grey and deep blue staring back at them. It was a trait our mother had, scaring men and women alike because she was strong like an ocean storm. She went on, commenting on how big and handsome we had become. Truthfully, it was harder at night for us to sleep because we had outgrown our beds, so Adam and I slept on the floors of our rooms, laying scraps of linen and wool to keep comfortable and warm. 

          Then she mentioned clothing, and that was when the concern could be heard in her voice. We were wearing Eric’s old clothing, scraps of ratty things he had never taken with him. There were gashes in the pants and stains caused by unknown substances on the shirts. Adam and I hid it as best we could, but our lack of wealth was evident.

          In his fragmented memories of our mother, Adam said she had been kind and caring, things our father no longer was. She would hold him whenever he had a nightmare, and hushed him back to sleep with her melodic singing voice. He described her as an island surrounded by a sea of dangerous waters, the only piece of heaven in a world of deadly sinners. Without her, the world was a darker place and we used stories about the ocean to keep us afloat.

          Hittisleigh had a small library filled with sea maps and chartered paths for merchant ships that had sunk long ago. When not at the docks, our heads were buried in books about famous sailors, ancient treasures lost to the ocean, and the lost city of Atlantis somewhere deep below the water’s surface, the city condemned to remain there for eternity. Books were read and then reread, each word almost memorized before moving to the next on the bank of pages within the leather bindings. Our imaginations got lost in those stories, hardening us into explorers of the sea.

          Adam and I never payed much attention to the time or even the days, so much so that we were soon 15 and 17 years of age. We spent so much of our days at the docks, merchants began to ask us for services. We’d earn some loose coins here and there helping the older gentlemen by stacking crates, or aid the women by convincing passersby to stop and take a look at the linen they had to offer. Adam was definitely the social one between the two of us. Young ladies that were walking always stopped to ask him directions or questions about the goods. Sometimes they just stopped to hear him talk and giggle at all his jokes. Then there was one girl that stood out among all the rest. 

          Adam noticed her while lifting a crate of goods for one of the merchants, his expression turning from focus to utter bafflement. She wore a pale yellow dress, it’s waist tight around hers before launching out like the curve of the sun overhead. Small curls of copper hair poking out from under a small pale yellow hat, the bridge of her nose was littered with freckles, and her eyes shone like emeralds. It was the first time I saw Adam speechless while gawking at a girl. She stared right back at him while approaching, until finally they were a few feet away from each other with nothing between them except the crate in Adam’s arms. For a moment they just looked at each other, her an elegant young lady and Adam covered in sweat and dirt from all the work he’d done. Then, as if in a silent agreement, they both sighed quietly. It was as if they were two stones surrounded by a flowing river of people. The first to speak was the girl.

          “My name is Evelyn,” her mouth moved slowly, the words dripping from her lips like the sweetest honey. “Evelyn Mcnaugt.”

          It was obvious Adam was smitten because of how he stammered over his words. “Bellamy. Uhh, Adam Bellamy. That’s my name.” His usual sly grin had been replaced with beat red cheeks and a smile travelling from ear to ear. I looked in astonishment as she looked at him, her eyes trailing for a second to his forearms, the muscles flexing as he held the crate of goods. Adam’s grin had found it’s way onto Evelyn’s lips, the same glint of mischief in her eyes.

          “It suits you, Adam.”

          Once the initial shock had worn off, Adam wouldn’t stop talking with Evelyn. They walked against the crowd towards one of the ships, then climbed a plank up to the deck where they were greeted by an older gentleman. Adam and this man shook hands, then disappeared from my vision. With work to get done, I got back to the task at hand of moving and organizing crates.

          The skip in his step was so loud, it could be heard from across the country. “Evelyn is stunning,” he said as we walked home that night, obviously still in a trance from this red haired damsel.

          “Sea spirit stole your soul, huh?” I asked him, my steps faster than his only because of his distracted mind. Adam was staring back at the docks, clearly missing his new found love. We were at the base of our property when I turned completely to face my brother as he reached me slowly.

          His voice was wistful and cheery, but a seriousness still riddled its base. “I’m gonna marry that girl,” he quietly spoke at first, then louder for anyone who was willing to listen. “I’m gonna marry her!” Unfortunately, the one person that did listen did not enjoy the news.

          Before we even took a step closer to our house, the door had slammed open and our father came stumbling towards us. His drunken anger and confusion was easily seen, but that didn’t stop our father from speaking his mind. “Love is fruitless boy, stay away from it,” his crackled speech was weak and gargled, a clear attempt at showing who was in charge but with no success. Adam’s joy turned sour, a surge of rage for everything him and I have put up with finally bursting out. He ran up to our father and pushed him back towards the house.

          “My life is my own, you can not control it!” His screams echoed through the town, some figures beginning to emerge into the moonlight.

          “Then leave like Eric did, I don’t want you here,” our father shouted back, then turned to the house and slithered once more into the dark interior of hell. The damage had been done, and Adam began to walk towards the docks once more. His steps were quickened by anger, frustration booming off of him like thunder through the clouds. My mind raced for ways to get him to calm down, but Adam was a cannon waiting for someone to fire at. He didn’t speak a word, just kept walking like his life depended on it. In a way, it had.

          We noticed the smoke once it blocked the light of the moon, a faint glow of orange cresting over the peaks of houses. The smell halted us in our tracks, but the screaming sent us sprinting towards the light. When we came around a corner, the sounds grew a thousandfold. The heat was almost unbearable, and the home was engulfed in flames. A dozen people stood outside the home, wondering if anyone was inside. My brother didn’t hesitate. He darted across the cobble street and passed the onlookers, then was lost in the flames as he entered the front door. I watched in fear for my brother to come back out safely for what felt like years, and then I saw him.

          He was carrying a little girl, no more than eight years old, out of the house with his shirt wrapped around her to stop the flames from licking her young skin. My instincts kicked in as well, and began to order the bystanders to fetch water and cloth, do anything to help save lives and stop the blaze. Adam emerged once more, this time with the elderly woman we always talked to on our way to the docks. He had her on his back, her coughs a racket but nonetheless thankful to be alive. Before I could protest, Adam was running back into the home with flames lunging at his clothes and face. I waited for his silhouette once more, but then the sea of fire started to intensify. It was as if the old lady and little girl were supposed to be its fuel, and was furious that Adam had stolen them away. So the flames took a new sacrifice, and began to break the supports of the house. Ash shot into the sky as beams of wood came crashing down. I stared and waited and hoped, but I never saw my brother again. The fire consumed him, and wouldn’t give him back. He was lost in an inferno, the orange fire climbing high into the sky.

       My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time.

       I was born in Hittisleigh, a small run down town in Devonshire, England. 1689 was known for its cold beginning, and one January night was colder than the rest. Winds were wild outside as my mother screamed in pain, my father at her side. My two older brothers sat in the other room, waiting to be called upon to meet me. When I was finally delivered, my mother wept as she held me. Her name was Elizabeth, my father called Stephen. A single look at my frail body wrapped in wool and my parents chose the name that would one day be placed on my tombstone. From then on, I was named Samuel Bellamy.

       At first it seemed like life would continue in a positive way, but not long after my birth, my mother became ill. Her body could no longer produce milk for me, her arms becoming too weak to carry me. Eventually, her heart gave out and she passed in her sleep. After that, my father turned to whiskey and rum to subdue his emotions. My eldest brother Eric, no older than ten at the time, had to take on a lot more responsibilities than any child should be asked of. My father was in no shape to raise me, so Eric did it instead.

       He would milk the neighbor's Jersey cow and pour it into a leather pouch, putting a slit in the bottom and cover it with linen to create a barrier for my tiny lips to wrap around. He dressed me in his old clothes, too large for my infant body but still better than shivering through the nights with nothing. My other brother, Adam, was merely two years older than myself but still helped out as best he could. He would talk to the cow about how big I was getting, how helpful the cow was being after mommy had gone to a better place. He even held me a couple times while I drank, telling me that he would protect me from anything evil. At least, that were the stories told to me.

       My first memory was the summer of 1693 after Eric met a pretty girl named Amanda who was 15, a year older than him, a few towns over. He and our father were talking about marriage, and of course our father disapproved. He had a bottle of whiskey in his left hand, his right holding Eric’s shoulder either for support or to keep him from walking away. With a swig of his drink, our father looked straight into Eric’s eyes while the eldest stared right back.

       “You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’ll let you marry.” His breath must have smelt like liquor when he spoke, for when he did, Eric’s face convulsed in visible disgust. He brushed his father’s hand off his shoulder before responding, a thing we rarely did while our father was drunk.

       After clearing his throat, he once again met his father’s gaze. “It’s my life, you can’t control it.” A flash of movement happened and our father’s hands were gripping Eric’s collar hard, tightening it around his neck in an uncomfortable way. I felt the urge to intervene, but I knew I would merely get hurt in the process. With fear in my body, I just watched the fight take its course.

      Through clenched teeth, our father gave his reply; “I helped bring you into this world, don’t make me take you back out.” He watched Eric very closely, expecting a very specific response from his eldest son.

       “But-” Another flash and Eric was pinned up against the room wall, his pain shown through his expressions as our father held him there firmly.

       The limited control our father had over his drunken anger finally stopped, and his voice became a thunder directed toward Eric’s face a mere inches away from his. “Do I make myself clear boy?”

       “Yes sir.” Eric’s mumble was barely audible, but it was enough for our father to restrain himself and back away, releasing Eric from the wall. Eric felt his father’s grasp disappear from the collar of his shirt, and corrected the shirt’s position on his body before walking away. He strode with granite features masking his face, a brisk movement in his steps as he went to his room. From then on, our eldest brother rarely spoke to our father. When he did, it was always a “Yes sir,” or a “Right away, sir.” It was like the flame within Eric had been snuffed out, but in reality the fight had ignited an inferno.

       A month after the fight, I had awoken in the middle of the night to the sounds of glass smashing and wood splintering. Wiping my eyes from sleep, I descended the steps of our home to find Adam at the base, staring at our father in disbelief. He had thrown bottles of whiskey around the room, shattering them against the walls and floor. The table that used to sit next to a window was now mere planks of scattered wood throughout the entire house. In the middle of the entire mess sat our father on his knees, a single bottle of rum in his hands, still intact. Beside him laid a perfect piece of parchment, somehow unharmed by the destruction our father had caused. Taking a few steps closer, I noticed it was a letter. A letter addressed to me. Adam must have noticed too, for he crossed towards it through the sea of broken glass lying upon the floor. While wincing in pain, he leaned over and picked up the letter, adamant about not disturbing our father. Once back beside me, he placed the letter in my hands and went to his room, biting back screams of pain with every step he took. For a second I just stared at the letter, wondering what it had said.

       Then my legs began to work again, and I walked towards my room in a sluggish manner. Once on my bed, I scanned the parchment for anything I could make out. Eric, like he did with my other brother when Adam was four, was teaching me how to read. Sadly, I had only learned the alphabet and a few basic words. On the page I saw my name, Samuel Bellamy, written at the top. I could also make out a few scattered words like had to go and goodbye. Frustrated with how little I knew, I decided to hide the letter until I could read better. I removed a board in my bedroom floor that was loose from age. Inside, a small space could be reached. I folded the letter with timidness before placing it within the floor, then replaced the board back to its original position. I told myself I would return to the letter when I could, but for now its mysteries were left alone.

       I could no longer feel the beckoning of sleep. Instead, I dressed myself and went down to Adam’s room. He was sitting on his bed wrapping his foot in linen, the glass that was once piercing his skin now on the floor speckled with blood. “I can’t sleep,” I told him as he looked up at me, noticing the awareness in my face. He nodded once and got dressed, then we both left our home through his window. We traveled down the street to the river, oil lamp posts flickering as they illuminated the cobble streets. The moon and stars shone above us, a cloudless night filled with a soft mid-summer breeze. The calm warmth lowered my alertness, and soon we were lying next to the river, looking at the moon through the ripples of water made by the fish under the surface.

       “I want to see the world Samuel,” Adam said as he turned to me, a look of excitement and the hint of an inferno that was found in Eric. “I want to sail the ocean and be a captain. That’s my dream.”

       I looked at him, trying to think of a good response for my older brother. “Will you take me?” I smiled as he laughed at me, his eyes closing and his feet kicking the ground lightly.

       “Yeah, you can come along. I’m captain though.” he said with a small grin.

       “Promise?” I looked at him, the seriousness and hope in my face clear for him to see. He sat up, looked me in the eyes, and swore an oath to me that our dream would one day come true.

       “I promise, Sam.”

                                                    To Be Continued...

Title: The Prince of Pirates

Genre: Historical Fiction, Science Fiction

Age range: 16 - 45

Target audience: North America, Central America, Europe

Word count: 1111

Author's name: Jefferson House

Synopsis: "My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time." After losing his mother at birth, Samuel Bellamy is set on a path in his life that no one could predict. Filled with loss, blame, and a beloved to return to, Samuel must face the test of time in order to return home.